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This One’s for the Girls Masterlist
1. Glamping
2. JENSEN!
3. Bonfires
3.5 Bonfires part 2
4. He’s what?
5 Hillarie
6. A few days
7. Nashville
7.5. Nashville
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Safe and Sound
A/N: This is purely self-indulgent, and I wrote this right after a long ass panic attack. A Dean Winchester hug would solve all my problems
Summary: When the world grows too heavy on your shoulders, Dean helps ease the burden.
Trigger Warnings: non-graphic mentions of sexual assault, non-graphic mentions of violence and gore. Descriptions of a panic attack. Please let me know if I've missed something
dividers by @cursed-carmine <3
The physical toll that a profession like hunting takes on you is barely understated. It's fatal in every way known to, well, every creature. If you're lucky, the best you'll end up with are a few broken limbs, near-death experiences, or post-death revivals (ask Dean, he's had multiple). You never know which one will get to you first, the monsters you hunt or those you hunt them with.
If you're lucky, you get to leave this life behind before it inevitably kills you.
What is, in fact, less acknowledged is that it taints your mind, your very soul. It haunts your very existence in ways that only those cursed with its knowledge understand. Even when the broken limbs heal, when the cuts and bruises clear, when you're back to the mortal world, surrounded by people more alive than you'll ever be, the phantom of that pain follows you everywhere, wherever you go. You were a testament to that.
Existing had become easier ever since Dean. You breathed easier. But every now and then, both of your realities caught up to you. Exactly how it had tonight.
You'd gone to sleep late, with the ghost of a smile still on your lips, when the phantom had snuck up on you. Call it a nightmare, call it a memory, but you were there again. For somebody who hunted monsters for a living, it's funny how your worst stories still centred around men. These particular ones had been worse than demons, hunters, your partners.
You'd gone to sleep on an uncomfortable bed, in a smelly motel room, believing yourself to be safe, with your partners asleep on their respective beds next to you. Still, you'd woken up to the two of them trying to force themselves onto your unconscious form. They'd been unsuccessful in their attempts, and you'd walked out of the room with blood, both yours and theirs, clinging to your skin, leaving two bodies in your wake.
And it did not matter that it was years ago, or that you'd still been able to walk out; agony, from monsters and men alike, mixed and took a devious form that pained your very existence. Their faces had blurred together, morphing into something that just wouldn't let go. You're there, still feeling hands on your skin, and blood and guts on your clothes, nails scratching at your own face, trying to wipe yourself clean somehow.
Because it did not matter that it had been years, you still felt unsafe. You were still backed into a corner, all alone and so uncomfortable that you wanted to crawl out of your own skin.
Dean had woken up to just that; your face already an angry red from your nails scratching into it, and your entire form writhing as if in pain, hoarsely screaming "let me go" over and over again.
Throughout his many years hunting, Dean Winchester hadn't known pain quite like what he felt seeing you hurt like this,
"Sweetheart", he tried wrapping a gentle hand around your wrist to pull it away from your face, "wake up, baby, you're safe"
His voice barely registered in the haze of the nightmare, and the hold on your wrists only made your efforts more persistent, your pleas to be set free becoming louder and more guttural. Dean could see tears flow down your cheeks, and god, this would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Gentler still, he held both your wrists in one hand, shaking you softly and hugging you to him with the other.
"You're home. You're safe. You're not there anymore"
He still doesn't know what registered in your unconscious mind. If it was his voice, the feeling of him speaking wrapped around you, or his touch, or something else, but it seemed to work eventually. Your efforts grew tired in a few minutes, and your hand clung to Dean's shoulder tight enough to bruise.
He'd ask you later to find out you recognised the smell of him, his touch. His very existence, so close to you, grounded you enough to make you feel safe.
"Dean?" Your voice sounded defeated, and he held you closer to him
"I'm here sweetheart, you're not alone"
He felt the tears, the cries, you muffled into his t-shirt and held you through it
"It's okay, you're safe. Won't let anything hurt you ever again"
See, hunting leaves you broken. You're haunted by it for the rest of your life. Your whole damn life was a storm, but Dean Winchester made it easier to weather it, just by being around. So you let yourself sob into his chest, knowing that you'll be okay, because you've got him, and that more importantly, he's got you.
"It's okay, you're safe"
A/N: Dean Winchester to the rescue.
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@winchesterwild78 this hits you right in the heart!
Mine Now
Main Masterlist Mark Meachum Masterlist
Pairings; Mark Meachum x daughter!reader
Genre; family drama, emotional realism, coming of age, tragedy, police procedural elements, slice of life
Warnings; Terminal illness (Glioblastoma Multiforme – brain cancer), Parent death / Loss of a parent, Emotional distress / Grief, mentions of strong pain medication and physical decline, angst-heavy emotional themes (e.g., betrayal, fear of abandonment, watching a loved one deteriorate), crying / Panic / Breakdown moments, Implied medical neglect (withholding diagnosis)
Summary: An unexpected bond turns a broken girl and a guarded cop into family—until a hidden illness threatens to take him away.
4070 words
She wasn’t supposed to stay.
He was just supposed to watch her for a couple of days—maybe weeks. Some off-the-books favor wrapped up in a paycheck and a dead woman’s case file. Her mother had been murdered. No next of kin. No dad in the picture. Just a smart-mouthed, withdrawn fifteen-year-old with eyes too tired for her age and a heavy duffel bag she never unpacked.
But she stayed.
Mark Meachum had faced cartels, traitors, and black-ops messes so twisted he stopped counting the bodies. Yet nothing prepared him for late-night ice cream runs because she couldn’t sleep. Or the way she’d slowly crept out of her room, one sock on, hair a mess, mumbling, “You got anything sweet?”
And he did. He always did.
First it was a few Pop-Tarts in the cabinet. Then it turned into a full mini-fridge and a second pantry shelf—hers. Candy, chips, sodas she wasn't allowed before, and every movie snack known to mankind. Because she liked movie nights. And she never said it, but it was obvious—those nights were her favorite.
They watched everything. Action flicks. Horror. Some stupid romcom where she cried and he pretended not to notice. She fell asleep more times than not, halfway through the movie with her head on his shoulder. He always carried her to bed. Always tucked her in. Never said anything about the way her hand clutched his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear too.
And maybe it was the first time she almost said it—"Dad"—that stuck with him. She choked on it. Blinked hard. Said "Mark" instead, but she looked so sad after that. Like she’d betrayed someone. Like she didn’t think she was allowed to love someone new.
But hell—he already did.
There were fights, sure. She snuck out once. Came home late. Slammed a door. He raised his voice, grounded her, scared the hell out of her and himself. But she cried. He apologized. They ate rocky road from the tub on the kitchen floor in silence until she said, “You yell like a dad.”
He chuckled. “You argue like a teenager.”
Her grin was everything.
Mark did things he never thought he’d do. He scared off teenage boys with just a glare and a badge. Snuck into Target with a hoodie up because she said she liked some pastel bedding set with strawberries on it. Came back with the whole damn collection.
“Why?” she asked, staring at the bags.
He shrugged. “You smiled when you saw it. That’s enough.”
She didn’t hug him. Not then. But the next morning he found a photo of them taped to the fridge, her scrawled handwriting underneath it: Me & the snack guy.
When her friends came over, he was annoying. Dad-level annoying. Poking his head in every hour with new chips, new sodas, extra fuzzy blankets.
“You kids good? Need reinforcements?”
“Mark! We’re fine!”
He grinned every time.
And then came her sixteenth birthday. He made it lowkey because she hated loud. Bought her a cake. Let her sleep in. Took her to the firing range for a private session, just them.
She said she wanted to be a cop. “Like you.”
That broke him a little.
And when they got home, just before she opened her last present—a silver necklace with a little key charm—he handed her a manila folder.
She opened it. Stared at the papers. Her name… with his last name next to it.
Her hand shook. “Is this…?”
“If you want it,” he said quietly, “you’re mine now. Officially.”
She didn’t cry the way he thought she would. Not big, loud sobs. Just quiet tears that slipped down her cheeks as she smiled at him like he built the whole damn world just for her.
“I wanted to call you Dad for months,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I just didn’t want it to hurt.”
He pulled her into a hug—tight, protective, his. "Call me whatever you want, sweetheart. You’re mine either way."
And from that day forward, she was.
His daughter. His kid. The best decision he never planned to make.
And for the first time in a long time, Mark Meachum believed in something again.
Family.
Her first birthday as his.
Officially. Legally. Emotionally? That had happened long before the paperwork.
Mark Meachum had circled the date in his calendar twice, even though she made him swear it wouldn’t be “a big deal.” Which, in teenage girl code, clearly meant “make it a big deal but act chill about it.”
So he did. He ordered her favorite pizza, stocked the house with sour gummies, Takis, and that stupid expensive soda brand she liked. Balloons—black and silver, because she was “too cool” for pink—and a soft birthday crown that she threw at him when he tried to make her wear it.
But she smiled. God, she smiled. That kind of real, unguarded grin she only gave when she was too happy to hide it.
“Seventeen, huh?” he said as she opened gifts, sitting cross-legged in the living room in her flannel pajamas. “Almost legal. Almost grown.”
“Yeah. Almost ready to move out,” she teased, nudging his arm.
He froze. “You shut your mouth.”
She laughed, leaning against him like she used to. “Relax, I’m not going anywhere.”
Except… someone was coming over.
Six someones.
Boys.
One of them had asked if he could bring a few friends by to “celebrate,” which turned into a mini movie night, which turned into Mark seriously reconsidering whether prison time was worth it.
He answered the door like a grim reaper in jeans and a black tee, arms folded, eyes stone-cold. The first boy flinched when Mark didn’t move to let him in.
“You're here for her?”
“Uh… yes, sir. Just friends. Just watching a movie. Very PG. She said you’d be home the whole time?”
Mark blinked once. “Damn right.”
The boy gulped. “Cool, yeah. That’s… cool.”
By the time all six were seated in the living room, looking visibly uncomfortable under Mark’s very present, very armed cop energy, his daughter peeked into the kitchen and whispered, “You’re scaring them.”
“Good.”
“Mark.”
He grunted. “Fine. I’ll be in my office. But I swear to God, if one of them so much as breathes in your direction—”
“I’ll mace them,” she finished. “I got the travel size in my sock drawer.”
He smirked. “Atta girl.”
Still, he checked in every twenty minutes. Came in with fresh popcorn. Brought extra soda. Gave each kid the look again. When one boy offered a slice of cake to her with too much enthusiasm, Mark nearly broke the plate from how hard he set it down beside them.
Eventually, most of them left—except one. The brave one. The tall one with floppy hair and a dimpled smile that made Mark’s chest tighten in warning.
She was walking him to the door when he caught her giggling at something the kid said.
Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It’s past ten.”
The boy’s back straightened like he was in basic training. “Yes, sir. I was just leaving.”
“Good.” Mark stepped forward, towering over him. “Happy you came by. Hope you enjoyed the cake.”
“Y-yeah, it was really good—sir.”
Mark smirked slowly. “You didn’t get any.”
The boy blinked. “Huh?”
“You didn’t eat any. That was a test. You failed.”
The kid made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a yelp and bolted.
She turned on Mark the second the door shut.
“Really?”
“I didn’t like how he looked at you.”
“He blinked.”
“Too slowly. That’s pervy blinking.”
She groaned, but she was smiling.
Later that night, they sat on the couch in the dark, birthday candles long burned out, the movie credits rolling.
“Thanks for today,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “It was really good. The best one.”
He kissed the top of her head gently. “Seventeen years old. Still feel like you’re five sometimes.”
“I still feel like I’m your kid,” she murmured.
“You are my kid.”
She looked up at him with teary eyes. “Even with boys in the picture?”
Mark pulled her into a tight side hug. “Especially then. Because someone’s gotta scare the crap out of ‘em. And I volunteer as tribute.”
She laughed through a sniffle. “God, you’re embarrassing.”
He handed her a second slice of cake. “And you love it.”
“I do,” she whispered. “I really do.”
She didn’t say Dad out loud. But she didn’t need to.
The word was all over the photos on the wall, the snacks in the fridge, the defensive threats issued at the front door, and the quiet way he held her every time she forgot what safe felt like.
She didn’t come home smiling.
That’s how Mark knew.
No “Hey, I’m back!”
No music blasting from her room.
No smell of microwave popcorn she swore helped her “think better.”
Just silence.
And silence? Silence from her was loud.
Mark waited. Gave it ten minutes. Fifteen. Then twenty-five. When she still hadn’t come out of her room, he knocked softly.
“Kid?”
No answer.
He opened the door and found her curled up under the comforter he bought her two birthdays ago—the strawberry one. The same one she’d once said felt like safety.
She was shaking. Quiet tears soaking the pillow.
He didn’t say anything. He just sat on the edge of her bed and waited.
After a few minutes, she whispered, “He dumped me.”
Mark’s jaw clenched.
“I didn’t even see it coming. He just… said I was ‘too much.’ Too emotional. Too serious. Said he didn’t want a relationship with someone who thinks about the future all the time.”
Mark was silent for a long beat. Then:
“What's the little bastard's last name?”
She let out a laugh-sob. “No.”
“I just want to talk. With a bat. Just a friendly bat.”
She rolled over and pushed her face into his side, shoulders still trembling. “You can’t beat up every boy that breaks my heart.”
“I can try.”
She laughed again. This time, it didn’t hurt.
He stayed with her for a long time, rubbing her back while she cried. Didn’t offer dumb platitudes. Didn’t say “you’ll get over it” or “he wasn’t worth it.” Just stayed. Just listened.
When she fell asleep on his lap, tear-streaked but breathing easier, he stayed right there until morning.
Two weeks later, it was her birthday.
Eighteen.
The legal threshold to adulthood.
To the rest of the world, she was grown.
To Mark, she was still the kid who used to steal his hoodies and draw hearts on his paperwork.
But this year felt different.
She sat with him on the back porch, legs tucked under her, staring out into the yard. There were cards on the table, a half-eaten cake, and a new pair of boots that matched his—because she asked for them. Not as a joke. Not for fashion. But because they were what he wore when he was training.
“I want to apply to the academy,” she said quietly.
Mark blinked. “You sure?”
She nodded. “I’ve been sure since I was fifteen. I just… I didn’t want to tell you until I was ready.”
He looked down at her hands—scarred from training, knuckles bruised from the self-defense class he insisted on sending her to. Then he looked at her face. So much of the girl she used to be… and the woman she was becoming. His heart swelled and ached at the same time.
“You’ll kill it,” he said softly. “But it’s not easy.”
“I know.”
“They’ll tear you apart. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.”
“I’ve been through worse.”
He paused, then smiled. “Yeah. You have.”
She was quiet a moment, eyes flickering over to him.
“I’m not moving out,” she said suddenly. “Not yet.”
Mark tilted his head. “You don’t have to explain. You’re still figuring things out.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “I’m not ready because I just got you. I just started calling you Dad out loud. I just got to this life… this safe life. I don’t want to rush away from it.”
He reached over and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly.
“I don’t want you to rush out of it either,” he said, throat thick. “You’re eighteen, sure. But you’re still mine. You’ll always be mine.”
Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time they didn’t fall. She was stronger now. Not unbreakable—but she didn’t have to be. Not with him in her corner.
“So… you’re okay if I don’t go anywhere for a while?”
“I was kinda hoping you’d stay forever,” he smirked. “Make dinner sometimes, pay rent in the form of birthday cake.”
She nudged him playfully. “You’re lucky I like you, old man.”
He smiled. “You called me Dad earlier.”
“Yeah.�� She looked down at their joined hands. “I did.”
He kissed the side of her head. “Best damn thing I’ve ever been called.”
That night, they watched a movie like always. She wore the oversized hoodie he gave her last Christmas. Her legs were curled under her on the couch. The boots were already broken in.
He’d already cleared a drawer in the office for her academy prep. Helped her pick out the good notebooks. Set alarms for early morning training runs.
Mark had her favorite breakfast waiting on the table before sunrise.
Burnt toast (because she weirdly liked it that way), eggs with too much pepper, and coffee she didn’t need but insisted on having “to feel grown.”
She came downstairs wearing gray sweats and a hoodie with “CADET” printed across the chest. Nervous energy radiated off her like static.
“You good?” he asked, pretending not to notice the way her hands were shaking slightly as she held the coffee mug.
She gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Just… you know. First day. Academy. Changing-my-entire-life kind of thing.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave her a look. “You survived the foster system, outlasted half the jerks in high school, and made it through that heartbreak sophomore year without stabbing anyone. You got this.”
She laughed softly, chewing on a piece of toast. “You’re really bad at pep talks.”
He smirked. “You’re still going, aren’t you?”
She nodded, shoulders back. “Yeah. I’m going.”
“Then I did my job.”
He didn’t walk her in—she didn’t need that. But he did follow behind in his truck until she parked, just to make sure she didn’t change her mind. She didn’t even look back when she walked through the academy doors.
But her phone buzzed an hour later.
Text from Dad:
I left a pack of gummy bears in your glovebox. For bravery. And blood sugar.
It had been four months.
Four months of bruises, 6 a.m. runs, shooting drills, debriefs, and yelling—lots of yelling.
Mark had stayed out of the way. Let her find her rhythm. Let her stand on her own.
Until one evening, he heard the garage door open early. The academy wasn’t out yet.
He walked downstairs and saw her standing in the kitchen, still in full academy uniform—boots laced, belt clipped, her last name stitched over the pocket.
His heart stopped.
She looked so real.
Not playing dress-up. Not pretending.
She was becoming this.
“Hey,” she said, cheeks pink. “They let us out early after drills. I… I wanted to show you.”
Mark didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared. Then slowly walked over.
“You look…” He cleared his throat. “You look like you belong.”
She grinned, proud and bashful all at once. “Yeah?”
He nodded, brushing a bit of lint off her shoulder. “Uniform suits you. You stand taller in it.”
“I kinda feel taller in it,” she said, biting her lip. “Also kinda like I might throw up. But still taller.”
He laughed, then pulled her in for a tight hug.
“You’re gonna be better than I ever was,” he said quietly. “Hell… you already are.”
She whispered into his shoulder: “Love you, Dad.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Right back at you, cadet.”
The crowd was bigger than she expected.
Rows of families. Applause echoing off the walls. Flashbulbs. Salutes.
But she only cared about one person in the audience.
Mark was front row, standing in the aisle like he couldn’t sit still, wiping at his face when he thought no one was watching.
When her name was called, she marched forward, boots steady on the floor, shoulders square, and heart pounding.
She shook hands. Took her certificate. But when she turned to the crowd, she only looked at him.
He clapped like hell. Like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.
After the ceremony, she found him waiting by his truck, arms crossed, trying to look calm but failing miserably.
Before he could speak, she launched into his chest, squeezing him tight.
“I did it.”
“You damn right you did,” he said, hugging her back just as tightly. “I’ve never been more proud of anything. Ever.”
“Really?”
“Kid, I’ve busted crime syndicates and jumped out of helicopters. Nothing compares.”
She stepped back and opened the box in her hand—the one that held her academy pin and badge.
Inside, tucked next to hers, was a smaller velvet pouch.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She pulled out a second badge. His old one.
“I found it in your drawer,” she said softly. “Thought it should stay with mine. Side by side.”
Mark stared at her, emotions clogging his throat. “You sure?”
She nodded. “You gave me everything. A name. A home. A future. I don’t get to this badge without yours first.”
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
She slid both into a display frame—one brand new, one seasoned and worn.
Two badges.
Two legacies.
Father and daughter.
“Guess we’re a family of cops now, huh?” she teased.
Mark chuckled. “God help the boys you pull over.”
She grinned. “Good. They’ll need it.”
And with the sun setting behind them and the city stretched out ahead, they walked toward the truck together.
She knew something was wrong.
Not because he said anything—he hadn’t.
Not because of a limp or a dramatic collapse.
But because Mark Meachum—the man who could take a bullet and still grill dinner an hour later—forgot to pick her up.
She waited outside the precinct after her patrol, watching as officers left in pairs, chatting, laughing, tired but steady. But her dad wasn’t there.
She called. No answer.
He texted fifteen minutes later:
"Sorry, kid. Got wrapped up in something. Meet you at home?"
But when she walked through the front door, he wasn’t on the couch. Not in the kitchen. Not in his usual chair reading the paper like some grumpy grandpa.
He was asleep in bed. Fully dressed. Shoes on. Sweat on his neck. Pale.
And that’s when she noticed the pill bottles on his nightstand. Not just pain meds—strong ones. Prescribed under his name, not hers. Some recent. Some nearly empty.
The drawer was slightly open.
She hadn’t meant to snoop, but something deep in her gut screamed.
And when she opened it, everything changed.
Scans.
Medical forms.
Discharge papers.
A folder labeled “Glioblastoma Multiforme – Inoperable.”
And photos—grainy, black and white MRIs with a mass. A massive, sickening thing pressing into the left side of his brain.
She couldn’t breathe.
He woke to the sound of the papers hitting the floor.
Mark’s eyes blinked open slowly. Groggy. He winced like light stabbed into his skull.
And then he saw her.
Standing at the edge of the bed, holding the scan in shaking hands. Tears already pouring down her cheeks.
“…How long?”
His voice was barely above a whisper. “Not long now.”
She gasped like he’d stabbed her. “You—you knew? You’ve known and you didn’t—you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want this to be your last memory of me,” he rasped. “I didn’t want to ruin what time we had left.”
She dropped the photo. “That’s not your choice to make, Dad.”
He flinched at the word. At the way it shattered out of her.
“Do you know how many days I’ve looked at you and thought, ‘God, I hope I’m as strong as him one day’? How many nights I stayed up hoping I made you proud? And you were just—what? Counting down? Letting me go to work while you lay here dying?”
Mark sat up slowly, hand gripping his skull like it might split open.
“I didn’t tell you because I am proud of you,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it. You’re living. You’ve got a future I won’t be around to see—and I didn’t want to weigh it down with this.”
She knelt beside the bed, clutching the edge. “But I want you there. I want you at my promotion. I want you when I fall apart. When I screw up. When I meet someone. When I—” Her voice cracked. “When I get married. When I have kids. I want you to know them.”
His hand found hers, rough and cold. “I wanted that, too.”
“Then why didn’t you let me fight with you?” she whispered. “You taught me how to stand tall. Why didn’t you let me help you do the same?”
Mark’s eyes filled—truly filled—for the first time since she came into his life. “Because I didn’t want to watch you fall apart every time I got worse.”
She buried her head in his chest, sobbing, curling into him like she was fifteen again, hiding from the world in the only place that felt like safety.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“So am I.”
The next few weeks were different.
She stopped staying out late. He stopped pretending he was fine. She picked up more shifts so he wouldn’t have to. He stopped hiding his bad days.
She took over the pill schedule. She handled the groceries. He let her. He let himself be taken care of for once.
And when the really bad days came—when the pain blurred his speech, when his hands shook too much to hold a cup—she was right there.
Reading him her reports. Telling him dumb patrol stories. Talking about the future even when he couldn’t answer.
And one night—when the sky outside was bruised purple and his breathing was shallow—she sat by his bed and whispered:
“Do you remember the first night I called you Dad?”
His lips curled into a faint smile. “Movie night. Ice cream.”
“Yeah.” Her hand clutched his. “That’s how I’ll remember you. Not like this.”
He blinked slowly. “Good.”
“Don’t go yet.”
“I’ll try.”
When he passed, it was quiet. Peaceful. No hospital. No strangers. Just his daughter—his kid��holding his hand, her badge clipped to her chest, his old one resting in the other.
Months later, at her promotion ceremony, the Commissioner handed her a new badge with her new title.
Sergeant.
She gave the speech they asked for. Talked about perseverance. About sacrifice. About legacy.
But when the room cleared, she pulled out a worn display frame.
Two badges. One new. One faded. Side by side.
She set it on the edge of the stage, kissed the glass, and whispered:
“You were right, Dad. I made it.
But I didn’t do it without you.”
And even though he wasn’t there…
She knew he was proud.
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Mine Now
Main Masterlist Mark Meachum Masterlist
Pairings; Mark Meachum x daughter!reader
Genre; family drama, emotional realism, coming of age, tragedy, police procedural elements, slice of life
Warnings; Terminal illness (Glioblastoma Multiforme – brain cancer), Parent death / Loss of a parent, Emotional distress / Grief, mentions of strong pain medication and physical decline, angst-heavy emotional themes (e.g., betrayal, fear of abandonment, watching a loved one deteriorate), crying / Panic / Breakdown moments, Implied medical neglect (withholding diagnosis)
Summary: An unexpected bond turns a broken girl and a guarded cop into family—until a hidden illness threatens to take him away.
4070 words
She wasn’t supposed to stay.
He was just supposed to watch her for a couple of days—maybe weeks. Some off-the-books favor wrapped up in a paycheck and a dead woman’s case file. Her mother had been murdered. No next of kin. No dad in the picture. Just a smart-mouthed, withdrawn fifteen-year-old with eyes too tired for her age and a heavy duffel bag she never unpacked.
But she stayed.
Mark Meachum had faced cartels, traitors, and black-ops messes so twisted he stopped counting the bodies. Yet nothing prepared him for late-night ice cream runs because she couldn’t sleep. Or the way she’d slowly crept out of her room, one sock on, hair a mess, mumbling, “You got anything sweet?”
And he did. He always did.
First it was a few Pop-Tarts in the cabinet. Then it turned into a full mini-fridge and a second pantry shelf—hers. Candy, chips, sodas she wasn't allowed before, and every movie snack known to mankind. Because she liked movie nights. And she never said it, but it was obvious—those nights were her favorite.
They watched everything. Action flicks. Horror. Some stupid romcom where she cried and he pretended not to notice. She fell asleep more times than not, halfway through the movie with her head on his shoulder. He always carried her to bed. Always tucked her in. Never said anything about the way her hand clutched his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear too.
And maybe it was the first time she almost said it—"Dad"—that stuck with him. She choked on it. Blinked hard. Said "Mark" instead, but she looked so sad after that. Like she’d betrayed someone. Like she didn’t think she was allowed to love someone new.
But hell—he already did.
There were fights, sure. She snuck out once. Came home late. Slammed a door. He raised his voice, grounded her, scared the hell out of her and himself. But she cried. He apologized. They ate rocky road from the tub on the kitchen floor in silence until she said, “You yell like a dad.”
He chuckled. “You argue like a teenager.”
Her grin was everything.
Mark did things he never thought he’d do. He scared off teenage boys with just a glare and a badge. Snuck into Target with a hoodie up because she said she liked some pastel bedding set with strawberries on it. Came back with the whole damn collection.
“Why?” she asked, staring at the bags.
He shrugged. “You smiled when you saw it. That’s enough.”
She didn’t hug him. Not then. But the next morning he found a photo of them taped to the fridge, her scrawled handwriting underneath it: Me & the snack guy.
When her friends came over, he was annoying. Dad-level annoying. Poking his head in every hour with new chips, new sodas, extra fuzzy blankets.
“You kids good? Need reinforcements?”
“Mark! We’re fine!”
He grinned every time.
And then came her sixteenth birthday. He made it lowkey because she hated loud. Bought her a cake. Let her sleep in. Took her to the firing range for a private session, just them.
She said she wanted to be a cop. “Like you.”
That broke him a little.
And when they got home, just before she opened her last present—a silver necklace with a little key charm—he handed her a manila folder.
She opened it. Stared at the papers. Her name… with his last name next to it.
Her hand shook. “Is this…?”
“If you want it,” he said quietly, “you’re mine now. Officially.”
She didn’t cry the way he thought she would. Not big, loud sobs. Just quiet tears that slipped down her cheeks as she smiled at him like he built the whole damn world just for her.
“I wanted to call you Dad for months,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I just didn’t want it to hurt.”
He pulled her into a hug—tight, protective, his. "Call me whatever you want, sweetheart. You’re mine either way."
And from that day forward, she was.
His daughter. His kid. The best decision he never planned to make.
And for the first time in a long time, Mark Meachum believed in something again.
Family.
Her first birthday as his.
Officially. Legally. Emotionally? That had happened long before the paperwork.
Mark Meachum had circled the date in his calendar twice, even though she made him swear it wouldn’t be “a big deal.” Which, in teenage girl code, clearly meant “make it a big deal but act chill about it.”
So he did. He ordered her favorite pizza, stocked the house with sour gummies, Takis, and that stupid expensive soda brand she liked. Balloons—black and silver, because she was “too cool” for pink—and a soft birthday crown that she threw at him when he tried to make her wear it.
But she smiled. God, she smiled. That kind of real, unguarded grin she only gave when she was too happy to hide it.
“Seventeen, huh?” he said as she opened gifts, sitting cross-legged in the living room in her flannel pajamas. “Almost legal. Almost grown.”
“Yeah. Almost ready to move out,” she teased, nudging his arm.
He froze. “You shut your mouth.”
She laughed, leaning against him like she used to. “Relax, I’m not going anywhere.”
Except… someone was coming over.
Six someones.
Boys.
One of them had asked if he could bring a few friends by to “celebrate,” which turned into a mini movie night, which turned into Mark seriously reconsidering whether prison time was worth it.
He answered the door like a grim reaper in jeans and a black tee, arms folded, eyes stone-cold. The first boy flinched when Mark didn’t move to let him in.
“You're here for her?”
“Uh… yes, sir. Just friends. Just watching a movie. Very PG. She said you’d be home the whole time?”
Mark blinked once. “Damn right.”
The boy gulped. “Cool, yeah. That’s… cool.”
By the time all six were seated in the living room, looking visibly uncomfortable under Mark’s very present, very armed cop energy, his daughter peeked into the kitchen and whispered, “You’re scaring them.”
“Good.”
“Mark.”
He grunted. “Fine. I’ll be in my office. But I swear to God, if one of them so much as breathes in your direction—”
“I’ll mace them,” she finished. “I got the travel size in my sock drawer.”
He smirked. “Atta girl.”
Still, he checked in every twenty minutes. Came in with fresh popcorn. Brought extra soda. Gave each kid the look again. When one boy offered a slice of cake to her with too much enthusiasm, Mark nearly broke the plate from how hard he set it down beside them.
Eventually, most of them left—except one. The brave one. The tall one with floppy hair and a dimpled smile that made Mark’s chest tighten in warning.
She was walking him to the door when he caught her giggling at something the kid said.
Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It’s past ten.”
The boy’s back straightened like he was in basic training. “Yes, sir. I was just leaving.”
“Good.” Mark stepped forward, towering over him. “Happy you came by. Hope you enjoyed the cake.”
“Y-yeah, it was really good—sir.”
Mark smirked slowly. “You didn’t get any.”
The boy blinked. “Huh?”
“You didn’t eat any. That was a test. You failed.”
The kid made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a yelp and bolted.
She turned on Mark the second the door shut.
“Really?”
“I didn’t like how he looked at you.”
“He blinked.”
“Too slowly. That’s pervy blinking.”
She groaned, but she was smiling.
Later that night, they sat on the couch in the dark, birthday candles long burned out, the movie credits rolling.
“Thanks for today,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “It was really good. The best one.”
He kissed the top of her head gently. “Seventeen years old. Still feel like you’re five sometimes.”
“I still feel like I’m your kid,” she murmured.
“You are my kid.”
She looked up at him with teary eyes. “Even with boys in the picture?”
Mark pulled her into a tight side hug. “Especially then. Because someone’s gotta scare the crap out of ‘em. And I volunteer as tribute.”
She laughed through a sniffle. “God, you’re embarrassing.”
He handed her a second slice of cake. “And you love it.”
“I do,” she whispered. “I really do.”
She didn’t say Dad out loud. But she didn’t need to.
The word was all over the photos on the wall, the snacks in the fridge, the defensive threats issued at the front door, and the quiet way he held her every time she forgot what safe felt like.
She didn’t come home smiling.
That’s how Mark knew.
No “Hey, I’m back!”
No music blasting from her room.
No smell of microwave popcorn she swore helped her “think better.”
Just silence.
And silence? Silence from her was loud.
Mark waited. Gave it ten minutes. Fifteen. Then twenty-five. When she still hadn’t come out of her room, he knocked softly.
“Kid?”
No answer.
He opened the door and found her curled up under the comforter he bought her two birthdays ago—the strawberry one. The same one she’d once said felt like safety.
She was shaking. Quiet tears soaking the pillow.
He didn’t say anything. He just sat on the edge of her bed and waited.
After a few minutes, she whispered, “He dumped me.”
Mark’s jaw clenched.
“I didn’t even see it coming. He just… said I was ‘too much.’ Too emotional. Too serious. Said he didn’t want a relationship with someone who thinks about the future all the time.”
Mark was silent for a long beat. Then:
“What's the little bastard's last name?”
She let out a laugh-sob. “No.”
“I just want to talk. With a bat. Just a friendly bat.”
She rolled over and pushed her face into his side, shoulders still trembling. “You can’t beat up every boy that breaks my heart.”
“I can try.”
She laughed again. This time, it didn’t hurt.
He stayed with her for a long time, rubbing her back while she cried. Didn’t offer dumb platitudes. Didn’t say “you’ll get over it” or “he wasn’t worth it.” Just stayed. Just listened.
When she fell asleep on his lap, tear-streaked but breathing easier, he stayed right there until morning.
Two weeks later, it was her birthday.
Eighteen.
The legal threshold to adulthood.
To the rest of the world, she was grown.
To Mark, she was still the kid who used to steal his hoodies and draw hearts on his paperwork.
But this year felt different.
She sat with him on the back porch, legs tucked under her, staring out into the yard. There were cards on the table, a half-eaten cake, and a new pair of boots that matched his—because she asked for them. Not as a joke. Not for fashion. But because they were what he wore when he was training.
“I want to apply to the academy,” she said quietly.
Mark blinked. “You sure?”
She nodded. “I’ve been sure since I was fifteen. I just… I didn’t want to tell you until I was ready.”
He looked down at her hands—scarred from training, knuckles bruised from the self-defense class he insisted on sending her to. Then he looked at her face. So much of the girl she used to be… and the woman she was becoming. His heart swelled and ached at the same time.
“You’ll kill it,” he said softly. “But it’s not easy.”
“I know.”
“They’ll tear you apart. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.”
“I’ve been through worse.”
He paused, then smiled. “Yeah. You have.”
She was quiet a moment, eyes flickering over to him.
“I’m not moving out,” she said suddenly. “Not yet.”
Mark tilted his head. “You don’t have to explain. You’re still figuring things out.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “I’m not ready because I just got you. I just started calling you Dad out loud. I just got to this life… this safe life. I don’t want to rush away from it.”
He reached over and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly.
“I don’t want you to rush out of it either,” he said, throat thick. “You’re eighteen, sure. But you’re still mine. You’ll always be mine.”
Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time they didn’t fall. She was stronger now. Not unbreakable—but she didn’t have to be. Not with him in her corner.
“So… you’re okay if I don’t go anywhere for a while?”
“I was kinda hoping you’d stay forever,” he smirked. “Make dinner sometimes, pay rent in the form of birthday cake.”
She nudged him playfully. “You’re lucky I like you, old man.”
He smiled. “You called me Dad earlier.”
“Yeah.” She looked down at their joined hands. “I did.”
He kissed the side of her head. “Best damn thing I’ve ever been called.”
That night, they watched a movie like always. She wore the oversized hoodie he gave her last Christmas. Her legs were curled under her on the couch. The boots were already broken in.
He’d already cleared a drawer in the office for her academy prep. Helped her pick out the good notebooks. Set alarms for early morning training runs.
Mark had her favorite breakfast waiting on the table before sunrise.
Burnt toast (because she weirdly liked it that way), eggs with too much pepper, and coffee she didn’t need but insisted on having “to feel grown.”
She came downstairs wearing gray sweats and a hoodie with “CADET” printed across the chest. Nervous energy radiated off her like static.
“You good?” he asked, pretending not to notice the way her hands were shaking slightly as she held the coffee mug.
She gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Just… you know. First day. Academy. Changing-my-entire-life kind of thing.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave her a look. “You survived the foster system, outlasted half the jerks in high school, and made it through that heartbreak sophomore year without stabbing anyone. You got this.”
She laughed softly, chewing on a piece of toast. “You’re really bad at pep talks.”
He smirked. “You’re still going, aren’t you?”
She nodded, shoulders back. “Yeah. I’m going.”
“Then I did my job.”
He didn’t walk her in—she didn’t need that. But he did follow behind in his truck until she parked, just to make sure she didn’t change her mind. She didn’t even look back when she walked through the academy doors.
But her phone buzzed an hour later.
Text from Dad:
I left a pack of gummy bears in your glovebox. For bravery. And blood sugar.
It had been four months.
Four months of bruises, 6 a.m. runs, shooting drills, debriefs, and yelling—lots of yelling.
Mark had stayed out of the way. Let her find her rhythm. Let her stand on her own.
Until one evening, he heard the garage door open early. The academy wasn’t out yet.
He walked downstairs and saw her standing in the kitchen, still in full academy uniform—boots laced, belt clipped, her last name stitched over the pocket.
His heart stopped.
She looked so real.
Not playing dress-up. Not pretending.
She was becoming this.
“Hey,” she said, cheeks pink. “They let us out early after drills. I… I wanted to show you.”
Mark didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared. Then slowly walked over.
“You look…” He cleared his throat. “You look like you belong.”
She grinned, proud and bashful all at once. “Yeah?”
He nodded, brushing a bit of lint off her shoulder. “Uniform suits you. You stand taller in it.”
“I kinda feel taller in it,” she said, biting her lip. “Also kinda like I might throw up. But still taller.”
He laughed, then pulled her in for a tight hug.
“You’re gonna be better than I ever was,” he said quietly. “Hell… you already are.”
She whispered into his shoulder: “Love you, Dad.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Right back at you, cadet.”
The crowd was bigger than she expected.
Rows of families. Applause echoing off the walls. Flashbulbs. Salutes.
But she only cared about one person in the audience.
Mark was front row, standing in the aisle like he couldn’t sit still, wiping at his face when he thought no one was watching.
When her name was called, she marched forward, boots steady on the floor, shoulders square, and heart pounding.
She shook hands. Took her certificate. But when she turned to the crowd, she only looked at him.
He clapped like hell. Like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.
After the ceremony, she found him waiting by his truck, arms crossed, trying to look calm but failing miserably.
Before he could speak, she launched into his chest, squeezing him tight.
“I did it.”
“You damn right you did,” he said, hugging her back just as tightly. “I’ve never been more proud of anything. Ever.”
“Really?”
“Kid, I’ve busted crime syndicates and jumped out of helicopters. Nothing compares.”
She stepped back and opened the box in her hand—the one that held her academy pin and badge.
Inside, tucked next to hers, was a smaller velvet pouch.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She pulled out a second badge. His old one.
“I found it in your drawer,” she said softly. “Thought it should stay with mine. Side by side.”
Mark stared at her, emotions clogging his throat. “You sure?”
She nodded. “You gave me everything. A name. A home. A future. I don’t get to this badge without yours first.”
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
She slid both into a display frame—one brand new, one seasoned and worn.
Two badges.
Two legacies.
Father and daughter.
“Guess we’re a family of cops now, huh?” she teased.
Mark chuckled. “God help the boys you pull over.”
She grinned. “Good. They’ll need it.”
And with the sun setting behind them and the city stretched out ahead, they walked toward the truck together.
She knew something was wrong.
Not because he said anything—he hadn’t.
Not because of a limp or a dramatic collapse.
But because Mark Meachum—the man who could take a bullet and still grill dinner an hour later—forgot to pick her up.
She waited outside the precinct after her patrol, watching as officers left in pairs, chatting, laughing, tired but steady. But her dad wasn’t there.
She called. No answer.
He texted fifteen minutes later:
"Sorry, kid. Got wrapped up in something. Meet you at home?"
But when she walked through the front door, he wasn’t on the couch. Not in the kitchen. Not in his usual chair reading the paper like some grumpy grandpa.
He was asleep in bed. Fully dressed. Shoes on. Sweat on his neck. Pale.
And that’s when she noticed the pill bottles on his nightstand. Not just pain meds—strong ones. Prescribed under his name, not hers. Some recent. Some nearly empty.
The drawer was slightly open.
She hadn’t meant to snoop, but something deep in her gut screamed.
And when she opened it, everything changed.
Scans.
Medical forms.
Discharge papers.
A folder labeled “Glioblastoma Multiforme – Inoperable.”
And photos—grainy, black and white MRIs with a mass. A massive, sickening thing pressing into the left side of his brain.
She couldn’t breathe.
He woke to the sound of the papers hitting the floor.
Mark’s eyes blinked open slowly. Groggy. He winced like light stabbed into his skull.
And then he saw her.
Standing at the edge of the bed, holding the scan in shaking hands. Tears already pouring down her cheeks.
“…How long?”
His voice was barely above a whisper. “Not long now.”
She gasped like he’d stabbed her. “You—you knew? You’ve known and you didn’t—you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want this to be your last memory of me,” he rasped. “I didn’t want to ruin what time we had left.”
She dropped the photo. “That’s not your choice to make, Dad.”
He flinched at the word. At the way it shattered out of her.
“Do you know how many days I’ve looked at you and thought, ‘God, I hope I’m as strong as him one day’? How many nights I stayed up hoping I made you proud? And you were just—what? Counting down? Letting me go to work while you lay here dying?”
Mark sat up slowly, hand gripping his skull like it might split open.
“I didn’t tell you because I am proud of you,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it. You’re living. You’ve got a future I won’t be around to see—and I didn’t want to weigh it down with this.”
She knelt beside the bed, clutching the edge. “But I want you there. I want you at my promotion. I want you when I fall apart. When I screw up. When I meet someone. When I—” Her voice cracked. “When I get married. When I have kids. I want you to know them.”
His hand found hers, rough and cold. “I wanted that, too.”
“Then why didn’t you let me fight with you?” she whispered. “You taught me how to stand tall. Why didn’t you let me help you do the same?”
Mark’s eyes filled—truly filled—for the first time since she came into his life. “Because I didn’t want to watch you fall apart every time I got worse.”
She buried her head in his chest, sobbing, curling into him like she was fifteen again, hiding from the world in the only place that felt like safety.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“So am I.”
The next few weeks were different.
She stopped staying out late. He stopped pretending he was fine. She picked up more shifts so he wouldn’t have to. He stopped hiding his bad days.
She took over the pill schedule. She handled the groceries. He let her. He let himself be taken care of for once.
And when the really bad days came—when the pain blurred his speech, when his hands shook too much to hold a cup—she was right there.
Reading him her reports. Telling him dumb patrol stories. Talking about the future even when he couldn’t answer.
And one night—when the sky outside was bruised purple and his breathing was shallow—she sat by his bed and whispered:
“Do you remember the first night I called you Dad?”
His lips curled into a faint smile. “Movie night. Ice cream.”
“Yeah.” Her hand clutched his. “That’s how I’ll remember you. Not like this.”
He blinked slowly. “Good.”
“Don’t go yet.”
“I’ll try.”
When he passed, it was quiet. Peaceful. No hospital. No strangers. Just his daughter—his kid—holding his hand, her badge clipped to her chest, his old one resting in the other.
Months later, at her promotion ceremony, the Commissioner handed her a new badge with her new title.
Sergeant.
She gave the speech they asked for. Talked about perseverance. About sacrifice. About legacy.
But when the room cleared, she pulled out a worn display frame.
Two badges. One new. One faded. Side by side.
She set it on the edge of the stage, kissed the glass, and whispered:
“You were right, Dad. I made it.
But I didn’t do it without you.”
And even though he wasn’t there…
She knew he was proud.
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Staring Into the Blue
Pairing: Beau Arlen and Surrogate Daughter OC (Andi)
Warnings: self-worth issues, emotional hurt/comfort, andi has daddy issues and is hating life a little
A/N: i made this when i was half delirious/asleep and started thinking of my own relationship with my parents sooooo yeah... have fun with this one lol
Word Count: 2.2k
Jensen Ackles Masterlist
Beau was new to this whole thing. As was Andi.
Andi was a nineteen-year-old girl who, for all intents and purposes, was Beau’s surrogate daughter. Emily still had a place in his heart, and always would, but Andi was… a special case.
They had met when she was eighteen, freshly in college, and had one too many drinks one night which landed her in detainment, and ultimately had a talk with the sheriff. Being intoxicated, Beau’s initial rant about her needing to take better care of herself and how underage drinking was bad was undermined by Andi spilling her guts to him. Metaphorically speaking.
Andi didn't have parents. At least, not ones who cared about her all that much. As soon as she turned eighteen, they promptly threw her out of the house. Sure they had helped her get into college but they didn't care what happened after. Glad to get her out.
So Beau took her in. Gave her a home. Loved her.
It was all so much for Andi. And made her think about her real parents. How happy they were without her. How happy they were not acknowledging they kicked their child out of their house to fend for herself just to be picked up and loved by a stranger. Beau didn't know her parents—he wasn't her honorary uncle or even a real uncle. He was the sheriff of Helena and a pretty good one at that.
It took a while but Beau convinced Andi to live with him instead of the housing on campus. A month or so into Andi’s hopefully permanent stay at Beau’s house—he upgraded from the airstream but it was parked in his yard—it was nearly midnight when he woke up to soft music filtering into his room. Beau ran a hand through his hair and screwed his eyes shut for a moment before he sat up. That had to be Andi. And he felt compelled to check in on her.
Beau left his room and made his way to Andi’s, the music getting louder with each step he took. Which made him more and more concerned.
I waited ages to see you there
I search the party of better bodies
Just to learn that you never cared
You're on your own, kid
You always have been
Just outside her door, Beau heard the faint noise of sniffling. Andi had been crying. His heart sunk in his chest. He knocked on the door. No answer. Beau pursed his lips as he turned the door handle. The sight behind it made his heart ache.
Under the low light of Andi’s blue fairy lights was her, sobbing on the floor as she hugged her knees to her chest. Her glasses were abandoned on her bed with teardrop marks on the lenses.
I see the great escape
So long, Daisy May
I picked the petals, he loves me not
Something different bloomed
Writing in my room
I play my songs in the parking lot
I'll run away
Beau rushed to be by her side, cradling her head as it lay on his chest. He set his chin on top of her head, rubbing her shoulder to try and soothe her. It seemed the tears rushed faster as he did. “I gotcha, I gotcha. It's okay.” He shushed softly.
Andi clung onto Beau like a lifeline, crying into his chest and getting tears on his shirt. He didn't care. He wanted Andi to be okay. And if that meant he had to hold onto her like this then he didn't care.
He petted her hair and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “It's alright. I'm here.” Beau resisted the urge to cry too. He had never seen Andi like this before, even when they met. “Please tell me what's wrong.” Beau insisted softly, pulling Andi away from him for a moment. Her skin felt cold. He didn't like this.
Andi sniffled, rubbing her eyes. “I…” She wanted to. She really did, but it was hard.
“You know me, sweetheart, I'm not gonna judge. Okay?” Beau cupped Andi’s cheek. He could sense she was hesitant. Their relationship was fresh but Andi trusted him enough with other stuff. Enough to live with him.
A new wave of tears rolled down Andi’s cheeks. “I know.” Her voice was small. Her eyes screwed shut as a sad smile crossed her face. “God, I wish my real parents were like you.” She admitted with a harbored breath. “My dad especially. I-I don't understand what I did wrong. What I did to deserve what they did to me. Was I not enough? Was it because I was a girl? He and my brothers were fine. He-He never–” A choked sob escaped her.
Beau frowned, pulling her back into his chest. He closed his eyes as he drew in a deep breath.
“He never told me loved me.” Andi cried into his chest, voice muffled. “Never told me he was proud of me. I-I don't understand. He's my dad, i-isn’t he supposed to love me? That's his job.”
Beau felt a few tears stinging his eyes as well. He couldn't imagine being that type of person. That type of father. He loved Emily so much it hurt sometimes. Andi too. To be the type of father to, quite frankly, never pay attention to his child was an alien concept to him. One that was very much real. And one that saddened Beau.
He squeezed Andi tighter and pulled her into his lap. She was heavier than what he was used to but it didn't matter. What mattered was comforting her as much as possible. He didn't know if he could ever change her mind about her self-worth, at least, not in the moment. But this kind of touch would help. He hoped it would.
After a while, Andi’s tears died down and Beau brushed away the hairs from her face. He even wiped some tears away. “I know I can't… just replace your dad, as unfortunate as that sounds. You had eighteen years with him. That won't just disappear. But I can try to help ease some of that pain, show you what a real parent should be like.” Beau whispered softly. “I love you as I would my own daughter. I'll be so proud of you at your concert next week, I'll clap and cheer so loud they might have to kick me out. I love you.”
Andi sniffled. The words meant so much to her and she knew Beau was telling the truth. He had a record to back it up. He never missed one of her recitals, a soccer game she had, or an event she really wanted to go to.
Before she ever moved in, Beau was Andi’s plus one to a lot of things. A chaperone in some sense but Beau just loved seeing her smile. They went to a few markets around the city with her college friends, saw quite a few movies in his airstream, and—at the end of the day—he would always give her a warm hug and a kiss on the forehead.
“I love you too.” Andi breathed. It was the first time she'd said it back.
Beau had a habit of slipping it behind a sentence or saying it when they said goodbye. Andi didn't mind. She liked hearing it. But she had never said it back or even said it first. Beau was okay with that. He wanted to earn it.
And he did.
It was bittersweet, though. He was glad but his heart still ached. All he wanted was to take all that hurt from Andi and throw it in a locked box somewhere. Maybe throw that into the depths of the ocean. But he couldn’t. And it pained him that he couldn't. Andi didn't deserve those sorry excuses of parents. And maybe she didn't deserve Beau either but he was going to try.
Beau hugged her close, closing his eyes as he rocked her side to side. Andi wrapped her arms around Beau’s torso. Her breathing calmed as she nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck.
It was silent for a while, her music had died down a while ago into a soft instrumental. “Sweetheart?” Beau asked softly. He had a small, but hopefully effective, idea
“Hm?” Andi hummed. She felt a little better hence the crying stopped but there was still an emptiness in her chest.
“Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?” Beau knew it was a tactic mostly used for little kids. Where if he could squeeze her tight enough that would make everything better. But Andi was legally an adult so he wasn't completely sure.
Andi bit the inside of her lip and drew in a small breath. Her parents didn't do this when she was sad. Hell, her parents barely even noticed when she was sad. She simply nodded.
Beau lifted the covers over Andi before he got in bed next to her. She held onto Beau. He quickly did the same.
Andi was an adult. But not really. She was a child who had never felt like she had any real comfort in her life until Beau came along. Andi wasn't even sure she could pinpoint a time she was genuinely happy in a while. Physical comfort didn't fix everything but it sure helped a lot. She didn't get that much as a child but she did now.
Beau was so affectionate that it almost made Andi cry. Small things like a touch on her shoulder as he left or a kiss on her forehead. Hell, a simple thumbs-up while she was on stage made Andi feel so warm. And so loved.
That was part of the reason this whole mess started in the first place. Andi loved Beau and wouldn't trade him for the world but a part of her wondered why her father couldn't be like him so she didn't need to have Beau in the first place. Why couldn't he be the type of father that supported his child? Who made it known that he was proud of her every day even if it could be a little embarrassing? Who hugged her every single time they met after they were apart?
Beau rubbed Andi’s back, playing with her hair. He found that it calmed her after a while. “I can stay home tomorrow. We can watch Book of Life, make fresh brownies, and have ‘em with ice cream.” He suggested softly.
Book of Life was her favorite movie. And warm brownies with vanilla ice cream was one of her comfort foods. She didn't eat it often.
“Okay,” Andi mumbled, a soft smile making its way onto her lips. “I would be a sorry excuse for an older sister.”
Beau’s eyebrows furrowed. “What makes you say that?”
Emily and Andi knew of each other but they hadn't quite met yet since Emily still lived with Carla in Texas and she hadn't made her way up to Montana to see her father in a while. He knew adoption was off the table but he was as close to a father as Andi could have, ultimately making her family. And making her and Emily sisters.
Andi shook her head. “Forget I said that.” Beau pursed his lips, glancing down at her. She let out a breath through her nose. “I just… I'm the youngest in my family anyway and—I dunno—I don't feel right. I guess. I'm not a role model. I'm not–”
“I think you are.” Beau cut in. He hated when Andi talked bad about herself which unfortunately happened a lot. “You have your hands in a lot of different clubs, you excel in your classes, and you fight for what's right.” Beau hugged Andi close. “We can work on it feeling right but… You're a far better role model than me.”
Andi scoffed. Beau may not have been open about everything that happened in his life but, for a middle-aged man, it was far better than any other man Andi had ever encountered before. He was affectionate with just about everyone in his life, co-workers, friends, Andi’s friends, Carla, and Emily. Maybe Beau wasn't perfect but he was already doing better than Andi’s father.
Beau thought Andi drifted off to sleep until she said, “I'm glad you're in my life.” He could tell she was trying to starve off sleep by the sound of her voice.
“Me too.” Beau admitted softly, an absentminded smile on his face.
Beau thought Emily was the limit to his love. But then Andi came along and suddenly there was more love to give. There was no rationing of his heart, it only grew. And he couldn't fathom it for a while. Andi wasn't his child, not biologically, but he loved her as if she was.
With Emily away, it was hard for Beau to function properly. That was his daughter and she was hours and hours away. Of course, it still was but it was a little easier with Andi. He thought the world of her and couldn't comprehend how she didn't think the same.
If Beau ever did meet Andi's parents, he couldn't imagine it'd go well. He'd likely end up in a detainment cell while Andi's father ended up in the ICU.
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Christmas always finds me
Info: The younger kids may be the ones who steal Jensen’s attention, but their father can always tell when their sister is having a tough time
Warning: Depression, sadness, loneliness
Relationship: Jensen Ackles x daughter reader
December rolled by quicker than expected. The Ackles house had quickly been dawned with tinsel and decorations, and when school finished, the celebrations were in full swing. Daneel was busy with the youngsters, trying to keep them busy while they waited on their father to come back from filming for the year. Jensen was wrapping up filming this weekend, leaving a whole week before Christmas for the family to prepare and finish traditions.
But while the three youngest Ackles bounded up to the door to greet their father, the oldest stayed behind with their mother. Y/n was now a 17 year old, high school graduate, who was currently studying music and dynamics. She took after her father in the music industry, which meant she had infinite possibilities when it came to her career path. She had always been close with her father, and being only one when her father met Daneel, the woman had become y/n’s mom pretty quickly. Seeing her oldest standing to the side, Daneel wrapped an arm around her waist, leaning her head on y/n’s shoulder.
“Aren’t you going to go see your dad y/n?” Daneel asked. “In a minute. The sooner the kids see him the sooner they get to bed.” Y/n spoke lightly, pointing at the clock that’s arm was near 11pm. “I don’t think they’ll be sleeping much tonight. Not with them going to see Santa tomorrow.” Daneel noted, and y/n groaned inwardly “Do I have to go tomorrow?” “Y/n, you know we always do it as a family.” Daneel scolded her, and y/n sighed. “I don’t really feel like doing it this year.” Y/n spoke. “What you talking about, you love Christmas.” Daneel frowned before the kids came running to them, Jensen in tow.
“Y/n love.” Jensen sighed, pulling his oldest into a tight hug. “Hi Dad.” Y/n sighed, burying her head in his shoulder and they hugged each other tightly. “How are you? I feel we haven’t talked in ages.” Jensen sighed, frowning a little as he felt her squeeze him tightly. “Yea, been busy with music. We’re writing music at the minute which is cool.” Y/n shrugged, looking down as the father daughter duo pulled away. “Well I would love to hear it.” Jensen smiled, proud of his daughter. “Maybe.” Y/n shrugged again, looking down at her siblings as Daneel tried to wound them up to bed. “Hey kids, why don’t we head to bed, leave mum and dad alone.” Y/n spoke out, trying to help Daneel. “I thought you and your father could spend time together.” “That’s okay. I’m tired so I’m gonna hit the bed myself. But maybe tomorrow night, yea?” Y/n asked, looking from her father to her mother.
“Sounds good.” Jensen smiles, ruffling Zep’s hair as y/n pushed JJ to mae her way up, the twings following.
Through the years I've moved a lot Different doors with different locks But somehow Christmas always finds me It's been a while since I wished For roller blades and pixie sticks But somehow Christmas always finds me
Y/n groaned as she flipped over on the bed, trying to avoid the morning light that was threatening the shine through the curtains. Sheets littered her bed, and her guitar was leaning against her locker, her piano set up at the bottom of the bed. Sleep was hard to find these days, so most of her night consumed with her degree. With her new assignment, she was glad her father had set her room to be noise cancelling. She had always loved music, and when babies were around her practice sessions weren’t always perfectly timed, so Jensen had decided to sound proof her room, both for their sanity and hers.
A knock on the door caused her to look up, and she sighed when she seen Jensen pop his head in before the door was pushed open by JJ, who ran to jump onto her older sisters bed. Y/n gasped as the young girl jumped all over her sheets, and she glared at her as she grabbed all the papers, moving them to her locker.
“JJ be careful.” Y/n snapped, causing JJ to look at her. “Mommy told us to come get you up for Santa today.” JJ squealed, before stopping when she seen her sisters glare. “I’m not going.” Y/n stated, and JJ rolled her eyes. “But you have to. We always go.” The young girl stated, pointing her hands at her sister. “I have more important things than Santa JJ.” Y/n snapped again, causing JJ’s eyes to widen. “JJ, go tell mommy y/n and I will be down in a minute.” Jensen spoke, trying to avoid a screaming math between the sisters.
Y/n watched JJ leave with a sigh before moving to sort out the papers that JJ had crumpled from her jumping. Jensen sighed and rubbed his face as he sat down at the edge of the bed, playing a key on the piano before clearing his throat when y/n looked at him from the side of her eye.
“Look, you didn’t have to be so short with your sister.” Jensen started, giving y/n a pointed look when she turned to him. “She crumpled up my sheets.” Y/n stated, still flattening them out. “She was excited, so were you at her age.” “Not any more.” Y/n deadpanned, causing Jensen to sigh and look around. “This part of your song your working on?” Jensen asked, catching sight of some sheets on the keyboard. “Part of it.” Y/n sighed, looking to see what he was looking at. “Can you play it for me?” Jensen asked, loving a chance to listen his daughters talent. “It’s not finished yet, I haven’t even found the right words.” “We all start somewhere.” Jensen implied, placing a hand around y/n’s shoulder, “Please?” He asked again, placing his chin on her shoulder.
Y/n sighed and placed the sheets in her hand on the locker before scooting behind Jensen to get to her keyboard. Jensen watched her with a smile, moving to lean against her pillows as she prepared to play. He watched her fingers move effortlessly as the tune came to life. Closing his eyes, he smiled as he heard her begin to hum to the keys. As she came to a stop, she refused to look at her father, flinching a little as she felt his arms wrap around her from behind.
“That was great love.” Jensen smiled, pecking her cheek gently. “It’s only the start, still have away to go.” Y/n tried to justify. “It’s a great start. Do you need help with the lyrics.” Jensen asked, always wiling to help his kids. “No that’s okay. I know what I want to say, just not sure how.” Y/n shoot him down, and Jensen frowned, knowing she always liked when he helped her with her music. “Alright, well don’t be afraid to ask if you need me.” Jensen offered. “I know dad.” Y/n smiled slightly, trying to ease her fathers worry. “Come on, get ready to go before mum comes up after us.” Jensen spoke, moving off the bed. “Do I really have to go?” Y/n sighed. “Come on, you always enjoy it.” Jensen sighed, placing a hand on y/n’s shoulder. “I don’t feel like it today. Why don’t we go tomorrow?” Y/ asked, trying to put it off. “You and I both know the kids won’t take too kindly to that. And they certainly won’t be happy if you don’t go. It’s tradition we all go.” Jensen stated, kissing y/n’s head. “I’ll see you down there.”
Y/n sighed as her father closed her bedroom door before moving to start getting ready. Throwing on a Christmas cardigan over a black dress, y/n sighed as she looked herself in the mirror before heading down to where her family were waiting by the Christmas tree. Daneel smiled as she seen her daughter, opting to take a photo of her descending the stairs before moving to get the kids into the car, while Jensen watched their oldest from behind, a frown etched on his face.
When silver bells and silent night And mistletoe's nowhere in sight With no chance of snow falling down Another year older Little harder to believe But somehow Christmas always finds me
Y/n stayed behind her parents and siblings as Jensen held onto the twins to prevent them running too far. JJ skipped in front of the group, singing along to the Christmas tunes that were heard over the speakers through the mall. Hearing the chatter of people around her, all cheerful as they waited to visit Santa, y/n couldn’t help but look down, trying to avoid conversation. Daneel looked back to her oldest daughter and seeing her keeping to herself, she eyes her husband before placing a hand on his arm, taking the twins hands.
“Hey y/n, you okay?” Jensen asked, rubbing his eldest back gently. “Yeah just tired. Didn’t sleep much last night. Guess it was the excitement of going here with the kids.” Y/n stated, trying to avoid confrontation. “Well if you want an early night that’s fine. Can leave films for another night.” Jensen suggested, trying to ease her daughter’s tiredness. “Yea, maybe.” Y/n agreed, shrugging a little before looking down at JJ who was jumping at her excitedly. “We’re next.” JJ stated, trying to take her sisters hand. “Sure are JJ.” Y/n smiled at the girl before moving with her to Santa.
Jensen sighed in slight disappointment as he eyed his oldest daughter help Zepplin and Arrow onto Santa’s lap. JJ positioned herself on the arm of Santas chair while y/n opted to stand to the side, leaning against the back of the chair with her arms crossed. Daneel gave y/n a look causing y/n to sigh before moving to crouch down beside Arrow, taking the young girls hand while wrapping her arm around her shoulders. Once the photo was taken y/n instantly moved away from the kids, allowing them to speak to Santa on their own. Daneel wrapped an arm around her eldest waist, smiling slightly as the girl leaned into her touch.
“What you say we go grab some Nando’s after here?” Daneel asked, looking at y/n with a smile. “Mom, you know I’m trying to cut out fast foods. Being in College you rely on them heavily when you get too lazy to cook.” Y/n joked, and her father eyed her warily. “I’m concerned for your heart love.” Jensen stated, causing y/n to roll her eyes. “I’m kidding dad, I got takeaway max once a week. With mum’s amazing cooking I got away lightly with pre made meals.” Y/n smiled at her parents, causing Daneel to blush slightly. “Well it’s the least I can do for my talented daughter.” Daneel stated, squeezing her slightly. “Yeah, well I think I’m going to drive home after this, work more on my assignments.” Y/n shrugged, wanting to get away from the festivities for a while. “That’s not like you.” Daneel frowned. “Well college changes people.” Y/n shrugged, causing Jensen to narrow his eyes at her. “Why don’t I accompany you home, you can handle the kids on your own right hun?” Jensen asked Daneel, looking down at his wife who eyes her. “I mean yea I guess I could.” Daneel agreed, causing y/n to look at her unconvinced. “Dad it’s fine. Help mum with the kids, the twins especially are gonna be very hyper after that lolly.” Y/n pointed at the big lollypops the elves gave the kids as their visit finished. “No I’ll be fine. You go with your dad, spend some time together.” Daneel suggested to y/n, causing Jensen to smile widely. “It’ll be fun.” Jensen nodded, looking at y/n as she looked down. “I suppose so.” Y/n stated, moving away from her parents as the kids returned.
In traffic jams and shopping malls I lose the magic of it all But somehow Christmas always finds me
Jensen leaned his arm against the passenger window, his head resting on his hand as y/n drove her car back to the house. Sitting in the passenger sit with his daughter driving always brought memories of when he thought her to drive. Daneel refused to do it as it was always lead to screaming matches between the two, so Jensen was given the task to teach her. Beams of lights shone as they passed cars, and Jensen smiled as he remembered what y/n used to describe the stream of cars.
“The lights kind of remind you of the Christmas lights right?” Jensen smiled, knowing y/n would agree. “I guess.” Y/n sighed, keeping her eyes on the road. “Why don’t we put on some Christmas music, going to get caught in some traffic.” Jensen suggested, moving to turn on the Bluetooth. “I think I’d rather the radio to be honest.” Y/n sighed, switching off the music as ���merry Christmas everyone’ began to play. “You always love listening to Christmas music while we’re in the car. Some karaoke.” Jensen spoke, confused on why she shut it off so quickly. “Not this year dad, I’d rather concentrate on the road.” Y/n blinked, squinting her eyes slightly. “If your too tired to drive I can take over.” Jensen spoke, concerned she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the road. “No, I’ll be okay. We’re nearly home anyway.” Y/n spoke as she turned off the main road, sighing as they meet traffic. “You were saying.” Jensen smirked slightly, chucking at his daughters frustrations. “Why is it so busy this time of year?” Y/n muttered, slowing down quickly. “You never were one for patience.” Jensen laughed, and y/n rolled her eyes quickly. “I just want to get home to finish my assignment.” Y/n groaned, tapping her fingers in frustration. “Why don’t I help you when we get back. Can make it go by quicker?” Jensen suggested, seeing the stress presenting his daughters body. “No that’s okay” Y/n replied quickly, causing Jensen to turn to her. “That was a quick answer.” Jensen stated. “Everything okay?” “Maybe we should listen to some Christmas songs to pass the time.” Y/n tried to avoid the conversation, and Jensen could tell. “Y/n, you know you can talk to me.” Jensen spoke softly, squeezing the top of y/n’s hand as it lay on the gear stick. “I was thinking, maybe tonight we could watch a movie in my room, sleepover vibes, just like when I was young.” Y/n suggested, trying to get away from feelings. “I think that’s a great idea.” Jensen smiled softly, knowing she would come to him when she needed to. “You sort out the snacks while I work on my assignment.” Y/n suggested, and Jensen sighed. “Your really dead set on doing your assignment aren’t you.” Jensen stated. “It’s Christmas dad.” Y/n shrugged, slight disappointment in her tone. “Yeah, it’s Christmas.” Jensen agreed, just glad she wanted to spend time with him.
When silver bells and silent night And mistletoe's nowhere in sight With no chance of snow falling down Another year older Little harder to believe But somehow Christmas always finds me
Y/n rubbed her eyes as she attempted to finish writing the last verse of her song. She sniffed slightly as she hummed the tune, reading over the words before nodding in approval. She had opted to write what she was feelings, and with this Christmas season feeling upside down, she opted to write on how she felt with her family still celebrating Christmas. With kids around it meant that she had to at least pretend she was enjoying the festivities, but it was hard. This year brought nothing but stress and struggles for y/n, and with it flying by so fast it just felt like another day to her.
Jensen sang ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas’ quietly as he prepared the snack tray for his and y/n’s movie night. Daneel had finished getting the kids ready for the night, and was going to have a girls night in with Gen in the living room. It was rare that Jensen got to spend one on one time with his oldest. With three kids significantly younger than her, majority of his time was split between them. During filming, he’d often call her to check on her, with her first year away from home on campus he was determined to make sure she was okay.
Humming happily to himself, he made his way up the stairs, watching his feet on the steps before walking towards y/n’s bedroom door. Knocking slightly, he waited for her to call or open the door, but he frowned when he seen her.
“Hey, you okay?” He asked, seeing her watery eyes. “Yea, just finished my song so, all ready for tonight.” Y/n stated, wiping her eyes. “Was it a sad song or something?” Jensen asked, placing the tray on her bed to face her. “I guess.” Y/n shrugged, and Jensen frowned, “Just wrote how I felt.” “That’s a good way to let go of emotions.” Jensen nodded, “Wanna talk about it?” “Actually, I think I’d rather just watch the film.” Y/n stated, and Jensen smiled. “That’s okay. Once you know you can come to me about anything.” Jensen smiled at his daughter, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know dad.” Y/n smiled, moving in for a hug, “Now, what treats did you bring?” “Well I tried to make it a little festive, so majority are either shaped Christmassy or green and red.” Jensen spoke, happy with himself. “Looks amazing.” Y/n smiled, moving to pick a Christmas hat from the tray. “Now, what are we watching?” Jensen asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
It takes me back to younger days Of stockings on the fireplace And presents stacked And waiting by the tree And even if I'm all alone A million miles away from home It shows up in warm memory
The Christmas period went by fast, and soon it was Christmas eve. Daneel had been busy all day prepping for the Christmas dinner, and y/n had baked some cookies to be left out for Santa this evening with the kids. It was a rare time for y/n to be out of her room, she had spent most of it lounging around, avoiding the festive activities. Jensen was sorting out the front of the tree so the kids had somewhere to place the carrot, milk and cookies for Santa.
Y/n pursed her lip as she lay the tray of cookies to the side to rest. She wasn’t really feeling the festivities, but she decided to go help her father none the less. Seeing him standing at the front of the tree with his hands on his hips made her laugh lightly, and she sneaked a picture before moving to wrap an arm around.
“Hey there.” Jensen smiled, looking down at his eldest as she latched onto him. “Hi.” Y/n spoke, leaning into his embrace. “You finished the cookies?” “Yea, they’re cooling now. The task now is to prevent little hands getting at them.” Y/n stated, and Jensen nodded in agreement. “Gonna be tough.” Jensen spoke, pretending to shake her. The father daughter duo stood in silence, y/n looking down in thought. “You okay?” Jensen asked, seeing his daughters spaced off look. “Do you maybe, wanna hear my song?” Y/ blurted out quickly before she changed her mind. “I would love to.” Jensen smiled, glad she was letting him in. “It’s not an upbeat song, just to warn you.” Y/n stated as she walked slowly up the stairs. “I’m sure it’s amazing.” Jensen smiled reassuringly, following behind her.
Y/n walked in silence as they entered her room, and she sat by her keyboard, Jensen taking a seat on her bed. Breathing in deeply she glanced up to her father to see him smiling reassuringly. Seeing her shaking hands he winked at her to assure her it was okay. Tapping the keys to ensure it was on, She cleared her throat as she began to sing.
“Through the years….”
Jensen watched y/n with a sad smile as she sung, her confidence growing as she got into it. Realizing that she was actually singing how she felt this Christmas, his heart pulled as tears filled his eyes. This year had been a big change for the Ackles, with y/n no longer being home the house felt more empty. The family were used to Jensen being away for long periods of time, but when the eldest child left, a hole was felt. But for y/n, her first year of college was hard. The stress of continuous assignments being due, lead to her falling into a hole, a hole that was hard to get out of.
As she finished her song, y/n looked down with tears in er eyes, before jumping when she felt arms wrap around her. She closed her eyes as her father tightened his grip on her, and she sighed as he kissed her head from behind.
“Y/n love, you are one talented person.” Jensen sighed, rocking her gently. “I’m sorry I haven’t been excited this year.” Y/n spoke, moving to hold Jensen’s arms in her hands. “It’s okay, it is definitely ok not to feel festive.” Jensen sighed, moving to crouch in front of his daughter, “What your feeling is okay. There are others out there feeling the same for numerous reasons. You don’t have to feel anything if you don’t want to.” “I tried dad I really tried.” Y/n cried, moving to hug Jensen tightly. “Hey shush now, your okay. I’m here. You don’t have to try anything.” Jensen comforted her, rubbing her back gently. “I tried to hide it, I really did.” “You don’t have to hide anything. You can always come to me, I’m here for you alright.” Jensen spoke, moving to hold y/n’s face in his hands. “I love you dad.” Y/n sighed as Jensen brushed the tears away. “I love you too.” Jensen smiled, glad her daughter opened up.
Another year older Getting harder to believe But somehow Christmas always find me
Christmas morning was chaus in the Ackles household. JJ, Arrow and Zepplin were running wild though their parents rooms and their sisters, wanting to go downstairs and see what Santa had brought. Y/n groaned at being woken up, but allowed her brother to tug her out of bed. Deciding to sit away from the madness, she opted to sit on the stairs, leaning her head in her hand as she watched her siblings sort out the presents. She looked up when she felt a hand on her head and her father smiled down at her before moving to sit with her mother.
Christmas isn’t always a joyful time, and y/n was okay with that. She was okay with staying away from festivities this year, once she had her dad by her side.
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That’s Not in the Script
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x you // Established relationship
Summary: When a co-star crosses the line with an unexpected kiss on set, Jensen pulls you away to remind you both what real connection feels like.
Warnings: On-set tension, unwanted physical contact (non-consensual kiss), emotional distress/jealousy, sexual tension/intimate kiss
The set was colder than you expected, but Jensen’s jacket wrapped around your shoulders helped.
You loved watching him work.
There was something magnetic about seeing Jensen slip into character—charming, charismatic, completely in control. You’d visited the set a few times before, always staying out of the way, tucked behind the monitors or perched quietly in a director’s chair with a headset. Today was supposed to be more of the same: a quick lunch date on his break, maybe sneak in a few kisses in his trailer before he had to jump back into costume.
But that plan derailed fast.
You were watching the scene unfold through a monitor off-set. A flirty exchange between Jensen’s character and his female co-star—some actress they’d just brought in for a few episodes. You didn’t know her well, only that she was new and tried a little too hard every time you crossed paths. Flashing too-white smiles. Laughing too loud. Giving Jensen touches on the arm that lasted a beat too long—like she didn’t know the difference between flirting for the scene and flirting for real.
You tried not to care.
They were mid-scene. A little banter, some scripted chemistry, and then—bam. Her hands were in his hair, she stepped in close, and kissed him.
Full-on, open-mouthed, tongue.
Your stomach flipped.
Jensen stiffened immediately. You saw it in the tension in his shoulders, the way his arm didn’t touch her waist the way the script said it should. He didn’t kiss her back—not really—but the cameras were rolling. He had to get through the take.
The director yelled cut.
You expected him to laugh it off. To shake it off and move on.
But Jensen pulled back from her slowly, jaw tight.
“That wasn’t in the script,” he said, voice clipped.
She just smiled, all charm and faux innocence. “Oh no, did we overshoot it a little? It just felt like the characters were in it, y’know?”
Jensen’s jaw twitched.
“There’s a rule,” he said, voice low—calm, but cold. “No tongue. You know that.”
She blinked. “Oh, come on. It’s not like—”
“You pulled that shit on camera,” he cut in, sharp enough to draw blood. “With my girl standing right there.”
The silence that followed was instant. Crew members froze. The lighting guy shifted uncomfortably. She opened her mouth—maybe to argue—but Jensen was already looking past her.
His eyes found you through the haze of crew and cables—and the second they did, something in him snapped.
He didn’t say a word. Just moved.
Straight toward you, cutting through the set like nothing else existed. His hand found your waist the second he reached you.
“Come with me,” he muttered.
You followed him down the hallway, around a corner, into his trailer. The door slammed shut behind you.
You barely had time to turn before he was in front of you—hands on your face, eyes scanning yours like he needed to make sure you were okay.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, low and rough. “I didn’t know she was gonna do that.”
“I know.” You placed your hands on his chest. “I saw the whole thing. You didn’t kiss her back.”
His jaw ticked. “She knows the rules. Everyone knows the rules. No tongue, ever. That’s not acting, that’s crossing a line.”
“She crossed it.”
“Yeah. And I didn’t stop it fast enough.”
You saw it then—the guilt underneath his anger. The way his brows pulled together like he was mad at himself for not shoving her off sooner.
You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “It wasn’t your fault, Jensen. You were on camera. You handled it.”
His hands slipped down to your hips, gripping tighter than usual. “I didn’t like the way she touched me. Didn’t like her hands in my hair. I wanted to pull away the second it happened.”
You tilted your head, hand resting on his shoulder, thumb brushing his neck softly. “It’s okay, baby. The take would’ve been ruined. You had to handle it professionally.”
He exhaled slowly, voice lower now. “All I could think about was getting through it so I could get to you.”
Your heart twisted. “Baby…”
“I swear to God, if she ever tries that again—” He broke off, growling under his breath. “I’ve had some forward co-stars, but that? That was disrespectful.”
His hands slid lower, fingers curling behind your thighs. With one smooth motion, he lifted you—your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, like your body already knew exactly where it belonged. His grip tightened as he tugged you closer, crowding you gently against the wall. He held you there, secure against him, like letting go wasn’t even an option.
“I hate that she touched me like that with you right there. Hate that you had to see it.”
You cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I don’t really care. She doesn’t get you. I do.”
He kissed you then—slow and deep, nothing like what you’d just seen. His mouth moved with reverence, like he was trying to erase the memory, rewrite it with something real. His tongue teased gently into your mouth, barely there. His hand fisted in your hair as he tilted your head, deepening the kiss further, tongue sliding slow and sure against yours, pulling a soft, broken sound from the back of your throat.
He groaned low at the way you melted into him, pressing you harder against the wall, his mouth devouring yours with something hotter than anger, deeper than jealousy. His tongue moved with purpose—exploring, teasing, tasting you like he never wanted to stop.
When he finally broke the kiss, he stayed close, his breath ragged against your lips.
“You feel that?” he murmured against your lips. “That’s what it’s supposed to be.”
“Yeah, I feel it.” You murmured quietly, fingers slowly carding through the hair on the nape of his neck.
His thumb swept softly over your cheek, eyes locked with yours. “She doesn’t get that. Not a second of it,” he said. “Only ever want it to be like that—with you.”
“I’m yours,” you whispered. “Only yours.”
And just like that, the tension eased. You weren’t thinking about the scene anymore.
Just him. Just this.
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It’s Been Hell Without You
Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC/Reader (First-person POV; a name will be introduced later in the chapter—feel free to insert your own as you read, hehehe)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Themes: Post-hell Dean. Established relationship (kinda)
Word Count: 2180
Warnings: Emotional turmoil, themes of PTSD and trauma recovery, language, references to Hell and its aftermath, potential triggers for anxiety/depression
A/N: This is my first ever one-shot. I wasn't sure if I should add smut to this, but we can do a pt.2 if you guys like it ;)
Read on Ao3
The sun blazed down upon the ground, illuminating an old cemetery in Pontiac, IL. Miles of barren land stretched outward, with no sign of life in sight. Yet, the soil was shifting. The crackling of gravel was the only sound that could be heard, until suddenly, a pair of hands pierced through the earth, reaching out as if to grasp another’s.
—-
Sam has been gone for hours. He does this sometimes, but never without checking in first. Ever since the hellhounds got to Dean, we’ve both been on edge. It’s only been a few months, and we’re extra careful, protective of each other—never leaving without letting the other know where we’re going.
Should I go look for him?
I shake my head, trying his cell one more time.
“Hi, you’ve reached Sam. I can’t—”
I snap the phone shut, frustration flaring. How could he do this to me?
I grabbed my keys and was just about to head out the door when it swung open. Sam stepped inside… and I wasn’t going to let him off the hook this time.
“What the hell, Sam? I’ve been calling you for hours! I swear to God, if—”
“Hey,” a gruff voice cut in from behind him.
I froze, my frustration slipping into confusion. Sam stepped aside, revealing the man standing just behind him.
There he was. Tall, strong, and looking healthier than I’d last seen him. Like he hadn’t just been dead in a pine box a few minutes ago. Like the hellhounds hadn’t torn him to shreds a few months ago.
I stared, waiting for the illusion to crack, for my mind to catch up and tell me it wasn’t really him. Just someone who looked a little too much like him.
Then… he smiled at me.
And I lunged at him.
My silver knife was already in my hand. I kicked him hard in the stomach, driving the air out of his lungs and knocking him off balance. As he doubled over, I raised the blade, ready to drive it into his neck.
But another pair of hands grabbed me, pulling me back.
“Let me go!” I screamed, my voice hoarse from trying to choke back tears.
“No… no! Zoey! Stop!” Sam’s voice broke through, but I couldn’t. It was one thing to try to fool a hunter, but this? This was a sick, twisted game.
“It’s really him! It’s Dean. I checked! Bobby checked!” Sam’s words finally got through the haze of my panic and fury.
I froze, my blade trembling in my hand.
Dean stepped forward until he was just a foot away from me. His eyes were filled with relief, surprise… and love.
As he leaned in, I instinctively took a step back, heading for the kitchen. “Well, you must be hungry. Back from the dead and all,” I said over my shoulder, busying myself with preparing a grilled cheese.
I couldn’t possibly let him get close right now. Not with the shock of the past four months still raw and fresh in my mind.
When Dean Winchester made a deal with the devil—exchanging his soul for Sam’s life—he chose not to tell anyone.
Then Bobby knew. Then Sam knew.
The only one left in the dark? The girl who was in love with him. That’s me, by the way, in case you hadn’t figured that out.
When I saw the hellhounds coming for us, I was in shock. That shock deepened as I watched Sam’s panicked reaction—violent, desperate—and realized the hounds weren’t just here by chance. Or because Crowley was playing some game.
My shock reached unmeasurable amounts and then disappeared when I discovered that the hounds were here for Dean. My Dean.
Just like that—before we could confess our feelings, before I could tell him how much I loved him—he was gone.
It wasn’t like we hadn’t been aware of our feelings for each other. We were. We were practically together in every way, except for actually saying the words out loud.
So yeah… Losing Dean, it kinda sucked.
Seeing him here now, in the flesh, felt like a punch to the gut. After months of mourning, trying to make sense of it all, I was finally beginning to find some peace. And then—there he was.
At first, I felt relief. And joy. The love of my life wasn’t dead! He was right here in front of me.
For me to touch, to hold, to kiss.
But then, the joy was soon replaced by anger. Anger at him for not telling me. Anger at him for abandoning me like that without even giving me so much as a heads-up.
So that’s what I clung to after the rush of emotions faded. I clung to the rage. And it looked like it was here to stay.
Dinner was an awkward affair. I didn’t say a word. Neither did Sam or Dean. However, Dean kept looking at me, as if expecting me to say something—anything at all. But I kept my guard up.
I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear to trust him again.
I know he kept this from me to protect me. I know he did it because he didn’t want me to worry. But I. Just. Couldn’t. Let. It. Go.
After dinner, I all but ran to my room, wanting to be on my own, alone with my thoughts. I couldn’t be within two feet of him and deal with these mixed emotions.
I wanted to run into his arms.
I wanted to slap him across the face.
I wanted to kiss him senseless.
I wanted to kill him.
Having him in the same room as me only made it worse.
But the universe could never see me doing well… and I heard a knock on my door.
Great. Maybe if I ignore it, he’ll go away.
“Zoey,” I heard him grunt from the other side of the door, followed by some more knocking.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
I sighed and finally opened the door. There he was.
His beautiful, candy-apple green eyes looked back into mine with hope. And longing. His lips were curled into a soft pout like they always did when his mind was working in overdrive, the little dimple at the corner of his lips making me want to lose my mind.
I felt my heart skip a few beats.
Get it together, Zoey.
I took a few steps back, trying to create some distance before I lost myself again. He cleared his throat. “Mind if I come in?”
I stepped aside, letting him step through the door, before shutting it again.
“What’s up?” I asked, shoving my hands in my pockets. If they were out, I couldn’t trust them to keep to themselves.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a few steps towards me until my face was level with his chest. I instinctively tried to step back, but he placed his hand on my waist, ruining my escape plan.
“Dean. Don’t.”
“Zoey, I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, his head dropping so that his forehead was almost touching mine.
I cleared my throat, trying to keep the tears at bay.
I can not break now. Not now.
“Sorry about what?” I asked bitterly, pushing his hand off my waist and walking around him, to the desk in the corner of my room. It was such a mess. I should clean this up.
Dean stepped toward me again. I felt the soft brush of his fingers on my shoulders as he gently turned me to face him. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I caused you so much pain.” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with emotion, and it thawed a small corner of my heart. Very small.
“But I’m not sorry I didn’t tell you.”
And with that, the rage came rushing back. I shoved him and walked away again, already growing tired of this.
“Why would you be?” I muttered, gathering the pile of washed clothes and starting to fold them, my hands trembling. “You had no obligation to tell me. It’s not like we were actually together or anything.”
I had to keep my mind busy. I had to stop myself from falling for him, again.
“You can’t be serious, Zoey. Do you really believe that’s what I thought of you? Of us?” he asked, turning to face me. His hands rose in frustration, then dropped helplessly to his sides.
I said nothing. I couldn’t meet his eyes.
I heard the soft steps of his leather boots against the hardwood floor as he closed the distance between us.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want our time together to be clouded by it. I wanted to make the most of every second I had left with you,” he said, each word a step closer. “To live with you. To laugh with you. To hold you like I’d never have to let go.”
A sharp pang struck my chest. I clenched the shirt in my hands, trying to channel my swirling emotions into something, anything, to keep from breaking.
“You could’ve given me a chance to fight for you,” I whispered, my voice raw and trembling despite my effort to stay strong.
Dean took another hesitant step forward. His eyes, brimming with guilt and something deeper, locked onto mine. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t let our final days be filled with fear of the impending grief,” he murmured. He was so close now, his presence washing over me like a wave.
His hand lifted gently, his fingers brushing my chin, tilting my face up. I couldn’t fight it anymore. I met his gaze, my own brimming with the tears I’d been holding back for months.
His calloused fingers traced the curve of my cheek, soft and familiar, sending a shiver across my skin. “I didn’t want you to look at me and see the countdown in my eyes,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I wanted us to just… live. To be happy. Even if it was only for a little while.”
And just like that, my mind spun back to those months before the end—before the hellhounds, before everything. Back when Dean had suddenly become more spontaneous, more daring. When he’d take me on long midnight drives down deserted back roads, blasting classic rock and singing along, his hand tangled with mine over the gear shift. When he’d pull me into diners at odd hours just to split a slice of pie and listen to me rant about my day. When we stayed up too late watching old movies in dingy motel rooms, tangled in scratchy blankets, his laughter rumbling softly against my neck. When he kissed me under flickering neon motel signs—kissed me like it was the last time, every time.
The tears were running freely down my cheeks now, hot and unstoppable, but I still couldn’t bring myself to speak.
“I just wanted to love you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye. “For as long as I could.”
That chipped away at the last of my walls, and I started to cry—for all the time we had, for all the time we lost, and for all the time we now had ahead of us, waiting to be filled with new memories.
“I missed you so much,” I sobbed, brushing my hands over his arms and wrapping them around his shoulders.
He closed the distance between us in an instant, his lips crashing onto mine.
His lips were desperate against mine, pouring months of longing and into the kiss, like a man who had been denied what he’d been aching for, for far too long. My hands clung tighter to his shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no space left between us, until I could feel the frantic beat of his heart mirroring my own.
“I missed you too, baby.” He said, in between kisses, his hands now roaming everywhere. From my back to the nape of my neck and into my hair. “Every single day, in that hellhole. There wasn’t one day when I didn’t think of you.”
When we finally broke apart, breathless and clinging to each other, I rested my forehead against his. “Don’t ever leave me again,” I whispered, my voice barely audible through my tears.
His fingers threaded through my hair, pulling me even closer. “Never,” he promised, his breath warm against my lips. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”
We stood there, holding onto each other as if the world outside the four walls of my room didn’t exist. For the first time since his return, I allowed myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—we could have a future.
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safe and sound was absolutely beautiful 🥹 dad!dean is one of my faves, and for every story i read about him as a dad, i truly believe it’s like he would have had been if he would have had a child of his own 🩵 could you write sth with dean and his bby about she having her first sleepover ever? baby winchester can have the age you prefer, but i know sth for a fact, dean wouldn’t sleep that night, he would miss his girl until he picks her up, but he would also very sooo happy that she has a relatively more normal childhood than he did ✨
no one can change my mind, dean winchester deserved the world 😭
₊˚⊹♡ first night, forever girl,
summary. dean's gone through a lot, but dropping his little girl at her first sleepover? that's the hardest thing he's ever had to do in his entire life
pairing. dad!dean winchester x 8yo daughter!reader genre. fluffy fluff
wordcount. 645
notes / warnings. dean winchester being the world's most emotionally repressed softie: no actual sadness—just man vs. sleepover-induced heartbreak
Dean’s standing by the Impala like he’s witnessing the end of the world.
His daughter—his baby, his tiny tornado of a human—is halfway up the walkway of her friend’s house, backpack bouncing and braid swaying, when she turns and beams at him with her whole face.
And Dean Winchester melts.
She waves. “BYE, DADDY! LOVE YOU!”
“Love you more,” he calls back, voice caught somewhere between proud and panicked.
She vanishes inside. The door shuts.
And Dean stands there, alone on the porch, looking like he just got dumped by the love of his life. Which, technically, he kind of did.
“She’ll be fine,” Sam says gently from the passenger seat when Dean climbs back into the Impala, still staring at the house like it might explode. “It’s a sleepover, not the end of the world.”
“You don’t know that,” Dean mutters. “What if they give her the wrong kind of mac and cheese?”
Sam blinks. “That’s your concern?”
“It matters, Sam.” Dean grips the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline. “She likes the spiral kind. Shells are a betrayal.”
Sam snorts and pats his shoulder. “You’re a wreck.”
“She's never been away for the night,” Dean mumbles, eyes on the rearview like she might suddenly sprint back out and change her mind. “Not once. She still can’t reach the top cabinet without a chair.”
“She’s eight.”
“Exactly.”
Sam doesn’t argue. Because he gets it—they never had this. A childhood with birthday parties and glittery backpacks and sleepovers. Dean made sure she did.
It’s 11:37 PM when Dean finally stops pacing.
She would’ve been tucked in by now. Maybe they’re watching movies. Maybe she’s cold and too polite to ask for an extra blanket. What if she forgot her toothbrush? What if—
BZZZT.
Dean’s phone lights up.
[Photo attachment] It’s her. Wearing a fluffy headband and a pink face mask, making peace signs with two other girls and grinning so wide her eyes are little crescents.
Dean stares at the picture like it’s a sacred text.
Text from: Cece's Mom
"Face masks + Barbie movie night = best time ever! She’s glowing! 🩷
Sam leans over the couch. “That her?”
Dean flips the phone so he can stare at it alone.
“…She’s having fun,” he says, and there’s something weird and wet behind his voice.
Sam smiles softly. “Like she should.”
It’s well past 1 AM when Dean gives up on sleep.
He’s lying on the couch, fully dressed, one arm draped over his eyes. The baby monitor he hasn't used in years is weirdly back on his nightstand. The light in the hall is still on. Just in case.
He keeps looking at her bed like she might appear there by magic.
He misses the soft shuffle of her socks in the hallway. The way she always comes in three times before bed—to ask for water, for a hug, for just one last chapter of her favorite book.
She’s fine. He knows she’s fine. But Dean Winchester doesn’t know what to do when the most important person in his universe isn’t under the same roof.
When he picks her up the next morning, she runs out the door, messy-haired and still in her unicorn pajamas, and barrels into his chest like she never left.
“Hi Daddy,” she says, half-yawn, half-giggle.
Dean holds her tight—just a little longer than usual.
“Did you have fun?”
She nods against his neck. “So much fun. But I missed you.”
Dean’s chest tightens.
He pulls back and smiles down at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, baby. I missed you too.”
He ruffles her head, helps her into the Impala, and gives the other girl's mom a grateful nod and a small wave.
The door shuts.
And this time, when he drives away, she’s in the backseat—home, safe, sleepy—and humming along to the radio.
Dean exhales. Finally.
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The Arrangement pt 6
Part 5
Characters: Jensen x Reader
Warnings: fluffy, child birth
A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one.
This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family.
Minors DNI 18+
Returning home from our anniversary getaway, the world felt vibrantly new. The secret of our impending parenthood hummed between Jensen and me, a shared joy that seemed to radiate from us both. Jensen, usually so guarded in public, simply couldn't stop smiling. His face was lit with an unbridled happiness I'd rarely seen, a stark contrast to the weary celebrity who had entered that hospital months ago.
The airport was, predictably, a gauntlet of flashing cameras and shouting paparazzi. But for the first time, their presence didn't feel like an intrusion. We moved through the terminal hand-in-hand, a tangible connection flowing between us. Jensen's smile was genuine, wide and utterly carefree, and his eyes, when they met mine, were full of a love that was impossible to hide. I found myself smiling back, a soft, joyful curve of my lips that wasn't for the cameras, but for him, and for the tiny life growing inside me.
The next morning, the internet was ablaze. Photos from the airport had gone viral, not for scandal or drama, but for pure, undeniable affection. Headlines screamed: "Jensen Ackles and Y/N Ackles– True Love Revealed!" and "Unstoppable Romance! Jensen Ackles Beaming with Wife Y/N at Airport!" Fans buzzed with excitement, captivated by the raw emotion etched on our faces. The captions beneath the candid shots spoke of our "deep connection" and how "in love" we looked. No one mentioned PR, no one questioned the sincerity. The world, finally, was seeing the truth of our newly forged love.
The viral airport photos had been a revelation, a public affirmation of the private love we were cultivating. Jensen’s phone rang almost immediately upon our return, and it was Evelyn, her voice unusually bright. "Those photos, Jensen! They're absolutely brilliant. The public loves it. The narrative has completely flipped."
Jensen just smiled, a private, joyous smile that was solely for me. He walked away a few steps, his voice lowering, though I could still hear him. "That's good, Evelyn. And there's more. Y/N is pregnant." There was a beat of stunned silence on Evelyn’s end, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "But," Jensen quickly added, "we're keeping it to ourselves for now. We'll make a statement when we're ready." To my surprise, Evelyn, perhaps sensing the depth of his conviction or simply recognizing a new, even more potent PR opportunity, agreed. "Understood. My lips are sealed."
As the weeks turned into months, our love deepened with each passing day. The house truly felt like home now, filled with laughter, whispered secrets, and the quiet joy of our shared future. Jensen was utterly devoted, showering me with affection and care. He’d leave my favorite snacks by the bed, surprise me with prenatal massages, and spend hours just talking to my growing belly. Our nights were a sanctuary of passion and profound connection, reinforcing the miracle unfolding within me.
My body began to change, slowly at first, then more rapidly. The morning sickness eventually subsided, replaced by a radiant glow and a blossoming bump that became impossible to hide. Our public appearances became less frequent, a deliberate choice to savor our privacy, but when we did step out, the cameras captured a profound shift. Jensen’s hand was always on my back, his eyes constantly seeking mine, his smile unwavering. The fans and media, already convinced of our "rekindled" romance, began to speculate, attributing my changing figure to a newfound happiness.
By the time I was visibly showing, there was an unspoken agreement between us: it was time. We wanted to share our news, not as a PR move, but as a joyful declaration of our real, unconventional love story. This baby wasn't a scandal to be contained; it was a blessing to be celebrated.
We decided on a simple, heartfelt announcement. Jensen posted a candid photo on his social media – a picture taken by him in our garden, bathed in golden afternoon light. In it, I was laughing, my hands gently cradling my noticeable baby bump, and Jensen's arm was wrapped around me, his head leaning on mine, a look of pure adoration on his face. The caption was short, personal, and utterly sincere:
"Six months ago, we found our way back to each other in the most unexpected way. Today, we're thrilled to share that our love story is about to get even bigger. Baby Ackles coming soon! ❤️"
The internet, once a source of bitter headlines, exploded with an outpouring of genuine joy and congratulations. The journey had been long, painful, and public, but our love, forged in the fires of adversity, had finally given us the truest gift of all.
The day arrived with a flurry of anticipation and a thrilling rush of panic. Labor began swiftly, dramatically, pulling us from the quiet sanctity of our home into the bright, urgent hum of the hospital delivery room. Jensen, who had been an image of calm reassurance throughout my pregnancy, was now a bundle of nervous energy, pacing, wringing his hands, but never, not for a single second, leaving my side.
His celebrity persona was completely absent. Here, he was just Jensen, my husband, a man whose face was etched with a mixture of terror and overwhelming love. He held my hand through every contraction, his grip firm and unwavering, offering whispered words of encouragement, wiping the sweat from my brow, and enduring my occasional, pain-fueled snappiness with infinite patience. He watched, utterly mesmerized and a little horrified, as my body worked its miracle.
Hours blurred into an eternity of effort and exhaustion. And then, finally, after one last, powerful push, a cry filled the room. A tiny, indignant, perfect sound that cut through the pain and pierced straight to our hearts.
"It's a girl!" the doctor announced, her voice warm with triumph.
Jensen's head snapped up, his eyes already red-rimmed from lack of sleep, filled with tears. He watched, transfixed, as the nurses whisked our daughter away for a quick clean. When they finally placed her, a tiny, squalling bundle, on my chest, my arms instinctively wrapped around her. She was impossibly small, warm, and perfect, with a shock of dark hair and green eyes that were still unfocused but already held the promise of endless wonder.
Jensen leaned over me, his face alight with an emotion so profound it brought fresh tears to my eyes. He gently touched her cheek, his fingers trembling. "Our daughter," he whispered, his voice thick with awe, a sound I had never heard him make before. He kissed my forehead, then kissed our baby's tiny head, tears now freely streaming down his face. In that moment, holding our daughter, the journey from a loveless, arranged marriage to this boundless, overwhelming love felt complete. She was the tangible proof that from brokenness, something incredibly beautiful could truly grow.
The first few days with our daughter were a blur of sleepless nights and overwhelming love. We spent hours just gazing at her, mesmerized by her tiny fingers and toes, her perfect little sighs. The world outside the hospital room, with its lingering headlines and public scrutiny, felt a million miles away. All that mattered was this tiny, miraculous life we had created together.
Deciding on a name felt monumental, a first shared decision for our new, real family. We considered many, whispering possibilities to her in the quiet of the night, but one kept coming back to us, resonating with the improbable journey we had taken.
A week after her birth, nestled safely back in our home, we decided it was time to share our joy with the world. We wanted to announce her name, to let everyone know the incredible gift we had received. Jensen, with a soft smile, drafted the post himself, ensuring it captured the essence of our unique story.
He chose a beautiful, candid photo taken just yesterday: me, propped up in bed, looking tired but radiant, holding our daughter close, her tiny hand clutching my finger. Jensen was leaning over us, his eyes, so often guarded in the past, now overflowing with a profound, tender love as he gazed at our baby girl.
The post went live across his social media channels, reaching millions in an instant:
"From an unexpected beginning, our love found its true path. Today, our journey of falling for each other has led us to our greatest blessing. Welcome to the world, our beautiful daughter, Aurora June Ackles. Born June 12th, weighing 7 lbs, 3 oz. Every day with her is a new dawn. Our hearts are full. ❤️"
The internet, which had once been a source of such pain and public judgment, now overflowed with an outpouring of genuine warmth. Fans, colleagues, and even the media, seemed genuinely touched by the raw honesty and overwhelming joy radiating from the announcement. Aurora June Ackles, our little miracle, was not just a testament to our love, but a symbol that even from the most broken beginnings, something truly beautiful and real could blossom.
The announcement of Aurora's birth sent ripples of joy across the internet, a stark contrast to the scandals that had once defined our public narrative. But for Jensen and me, she was more than just a public relations triumph; she was the tangible embodiment of our hard-won, genuine love.
Life settled into a rhythm dictated by tiny yawns and urgent cries. The house, once filled with the ghosts of a loveless marriage, now echoed with the sounds of lullabies and cooing. Jensen, the celebrated actor, transformed effortlessly into a doting father. He was endlessly patient, whether it was changing diapers with surprising dexterity or spending hours rocking Aurora to sleep, singing melodies with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes. We learned to navigate sleepless nights with shared laughter and a deeper appreciation for each other’s presence.
Our love, forged in the crucible of public scrutiny and private heartbreak, continued to deepen. Aurora was a constant reminder of the incredible journey we’d taken. Every time Jensen looked at her, then at me, there was a profound understanding in his eyes – a silent acknowledgment of the path that led us from a desperate, arranged marriage to this boundless, real love. Our family was small, imperfect, and wonderfully ours, a testament to the fact that even from the most broken beginnings, something incredibly beautiful and true could blossom.
The End
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The Arrangement pt 5
Part 4
Characters: Jensen x Reader
Warnings: fluff (finally), surprises await them
A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one.
This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family.
Minors DNI 18+
Months of careful, quiet rebuilding had reshaped the very foundations of our relationship. The house, once a cold stage for our public performance, now held the echoes of shared laughter and hushed confessions. The pretense had dissolved, replaced by a tentative, then growing, genuine affection. Jensen's eyes no longer held distant politeness when they met mine; they held warmth, understanding, and a deepening desire.
One crisp autumn evening, after a long conversation about our childhoods – a topic we'd never dared to touch before – a comfortable silence settled between us. We were in the living room, the fire casting dancing shadows on the walls, a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. He reached for my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. His thumb stroked my skin, a gesture that had become second nature, filled with an easy intimacy.
He turned to me, his gaze intense, vulnerable, and utterly sincere. "I..." he began, his voice low, "I never thought... I never imagined I could feel this with you."
My heart pounded in response, acknowledging the truth in his words, for I felt it too. The air thickened, charged with unspoken emotions that had been building, layer by careful layer, over the past weeks. I leaned in, drawn by an undeniable pull, and he met me halfway.
This kiss was different from others we had shared. It began softly, tentatively, a question and an answer, but quickly deepened into something fervent, urgent, and deeply desired. It was a kiss born of shared history, of pain overcome, and of a profound, blossoming connection. It was filled with need – a need for closeness, for intimacy, for the physical expression of everything that had been painstakingly rebuilt between us. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him, and I clung to him, pouring all my unspoken feelings into the embrace.
The night unfolded with a tender inevitability. We moved from the living room to his bedroom, the room that had once housed his infidelity, but now felt like a space of profound redemption. Every touch was deliberate, every caress infused with a raw honesty and a reverence for the intimacy we had finally found. There was no rush, only a deep, mutual exploration, a confirmation of the emotional bonds that had formed.
Finally, as dawn painted the sky in soft hues, I drifted off to sleep, my head nestled against his chest, his arm securely wrapped around me. The rhythmic beat of his heart beneath my ear was the most comforting sound I had ever known. We had finally made love, not out of obligation or pretense, but from a place of genuine, burgeoning affection. And as I lay there, safe in his arms, the weight of a lonely marriage finally lifted, I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was irrevocably, truly falling for him.
That night of shared passion was a turning point, a silent agreement to discard the old pretenses and build something real from the shattered pieces. The very next day, I moved my things into Jensen's room. My clothes mingled with his in the closet, my books found a home on his nightstand, and my presence became a comforting constant in his personal space.
Every night became a new discovery. We explored each other's bodies with a tender curiosity, each touch and kiss deepening the profound connection that had blossomed between us. We made love not just with our bodies, but with our souls, whispering confessions and dreams in the quiet intimacy of the darkness. The physical closeness mirrored the emotional vulnerability we had finally found, solidifying the love that had emerged from the ashes of a forced union.
As the weeks stretched into months, our relationship solidified into something beautiful and undeniable. We started venturing out in public together again, but this time, the dynamic was entirely different. We no longer cared about the cameras in the same way; we were simply being ourselves. He’d still flash his famous smile, but now, his eyes would always seek mine, a silent testament to the genuine happiness he found by my side.
Jensen, who had once been so guarded, now delighted in sharing glimpses of our authentic life. His social media, once a carefully curated feed of red carpet events and professional triumphs, began to feature candid photos of us. There were snapshots of me with a messy bun, absorbed in a book on the sofa; us laughing over a burnt dinner in the kitchen; or a tender shot of him kissing the top of my head, or my lips, completely unposed. These weren't PR stunts; they were moments of true bliss, shared freely, without the need for explanation or justification. His fans, initially shocked by the paternity scandal, slowly began to embrace this new, more human Jensen, and by extension, our unconventional love story.
As our first wedding anniversary approached, a date that once symbolized the beginning of my despair now represented a triumphant turning point. Jensen, ever the grand gesture enthusiast, planned something truly significant. "It's not just about a year of being married," he'd said, pulling me into a hug, his eyes shining with a familiar intensity, "it's about the past few months of actually falling in love. And we deserve to celebrate that. Big."
The anticipation buzzed between us. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that whatever he had planned, it would be a celebration of our hard-won happiness, a testament to the real, undeniable love that had blossomed where only loneliness had once resided.
The grand celebration Jensen had planned for our anniversary turned out to be the most intimate gesture of all. He booked a private getaway, a secluded villa nestled on a sun-drenched coast, eerily similar to the Tuscan villa where our loveless honeymoon had unfolded. But this time, everything was different. There were no camera flashes, no forced smiles, just the two of us. It was a deliberate act of reclaiming that painful memory, imbuing it with the burgeoning love we now shared.
We spent our days exploring hidden coves, laughing as we cooked meals together in the sun-drenched kitchen, and simply existing in the blissful quiet of each other's company. The nights were filled with whispered secrets and tender touches, each moment a testament to the journey we had embarked on. This was our real honeymoon, a testament to a love forged in the fires of scandal and personal reckoning.
One morning, a few days into our serene escape, a subtle wave of nausea washed over me. I dismissed it at first, attributing it to the rich food or the change of scenery. But as the days passed, the feeling persisted, accompanied by an unfamiliar fatigue that settled deep in my bones. I started noticing things—a heightened sense of smell, a strange aversion to my favorite coffee, a tenderness I couldn't explain.
A quiet suspicion began to form, growing stronger with each passing hour. My period was late. More than late. My mind reeled, doing quick calculations, connecting the dots between the tender nights we had shared and these unexpected symptoms. It was too soon, too impossible, given the history of our beginning.
My heart began to pound with a frantic, hopeful rhythm. Later that day, while Jensen was out arranging a private boat trip, I slipped away to a small pharmacy in the nearby town. My hands trembled as I bought a pregnancy test, the box feeling impossibly heavy in my palm.
Back at the villa, I locked myself in the bathroom, my breath catching in my throat. I followed the instructions, my eyes fixed on the small window. The wait felt like an eternity.
Then, slowly, almost miraculously, two clear lines appeared.
I was pregnant.
An audible gasp escaped my lips, but this time, it was one of pure, unadulterated shock and overwhelming joy. A wave of emotions crashed over me: disbelief, fear, but most profoundly, an immense, blossoming love. A secret of my own, a tiny, precious life, growing inside me, a true symbol of the real, unexpected love that had blossomed between Jensen and me. This wasn't a PR baby; this was our baby, a testament to a love that had defied all odds.
The little plastic stick with its undeniable two lines lay hidden in my travel bag, a monumental secret pulsing between Jensen and me. I spent the rest of the day in a haze, the beauty of the private villa, the warmth of the sun, and Jensen's easy laughter all magnified by the incredible news. I knew I couldn't keep it from him, not after everything we'd built.
That evening, as twilight painted the sky in soft mauves and oranges, we lay tangled in the crisp sheets of our bed, the quiet stillness of the villa wrapped around us. His arm was draped over me, his hand resting gently on my hip, a familiar weight of comfort and intimacy.
"Jensen?" I whispered, my voice a little shaky.
He hummed, pressing a soft kiss to my hair. "Hm? Everything okay, love?"
I took a deep breath, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was it. "I was just thinking," I began, trying to keep my voice casual, though it trembled slightly, "about... about children."
His body tensed imperceptibly against mine. The topic, loaded with the pain of Isabella's false claim, was still a sensitive one. "What about them?" he asked, his voice cautious.
"I mean," I continued, gathering my courage, "do you... do you still want them? Someday? A family?" I turned slightly in his arms, looking up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction in the dim light.
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, processing the question. Then, his eyes met mine, softening. "After everything with Isabella, it's been hard to even think about it," he admitted, his voice low. "But yeah. Someday, with the right person... more than anything, I want a family. A real one. A family built on truth and love." He paused, his thumb gently caressing my arm. "Why do you ask?"
My breath hitched. This was my moment. The words tumbled out, a mix of fear and overwhelming joy. "Because, Jensen," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes, "that day in the hospital, when you thought you'd lost me... you changed my life. And our love... our love has grown into something so real." My voice broke slightly. "And now... now we're going to have a baby."
He froze. His arm stiffened around me. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, searched my face in the fading light. "A... a baby?" he whispered, the words barely audible.
I nodded, tears now freely flowing down my cheeks, tears of relief and burgeoning happiness. "Yes," I confirmed, a soft, joyful sob escaping me. "Our baby. I'm pregnant."
My whispered confession hung in the stillness of the villa, "I'm pregnant." Jensen's eyes, wide with disbelief, searched my face, trying to reconcile the impossible with the miraculous. He lay motionless for a long moment, his arm still around me, but his body rigid with shock. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves outside and the frantic beat of my own heart.
Then, slowly, a tremor started in his arm. His breath hitched, a soft, disbelieving laugh bubbling from his chest. It wasn't the cynical, public laugh, but a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that deepened into a joyful sob.
"Pregnant?" he whispered again, the word tasting new and sacred on his tongue. He pulled back slightly, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs brushing away the lingering tears on my cheeks. His eyes, though still swimming with surprise, were now alight with overwhelming happiness. "Our baby?"
I nodded, a watery smile spreading across my face.
And then, the dam broke. He pulled me into a fierce, joyous embrace, burying his face in my hair. His entire body shook with silent laughter and profound emotion. "Oh, my God," he murmured against my temple, his voice thick with tears. "Oh, my God, Y/N. This is... this is incredible."
He pulled back again, his hands moving to cup my stomach, a gesture of awe and tenderness. A radiant smile, so genuine and unburdened, stretched across his face, lighting up his eyes. "A baby," he repeated, his voice filled with wonder. "A real family. With you." The joy radiating from him was palpable, a stark contrast to the despair that had once defined our marriage. In that moment, surrounded by the quiet love we had built, a new chapter, one filled with the promise of a truly loving family, began.
Part 6
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The Arrangement pt 5
Part 4
Characters: Jensen x Reader
Warnings: fluff (finally), surprises await them
A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one.
This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family.
Minors DNI 18+
Months of careful, quiet rebuilding had reshaped the very foundations of our relationship. The house, once a cold stage for our public performance, now held the echoes of shared laughter and hushed confessions. The pretense had dissolved, replaced by a tentative, then growing, genuine affection. Jensen's eyes no longer held distant politeness when they met mine; they held warmth, understanding, and a deepening desire.
One crisp autumn evening, after a long conversation about our childhoods – a topic we'd never dared to touch before – a comfortable silence settled between us. We were in the living room, the fire casting dancing shadows on the walls, a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. He reached for my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. His thumb stroked my skin, a gesture that had become second nature, filled with an easy intimacy.
He turned to me, his gaze intense, vulnerable, and utterly sincere. "I..." he began, his voice low, "I never thought... I never imagined I could feel this with you."
My heart pounded in response, acknowledging the truth in his words, for I felt it too. The air thickened, charged with unspoken emotions that had been building, layer by careful layer, over the past weeks. I leaned in, drawn by an undeniable pull, and he met me halfway.
This kiss was different from others we had shared. It began softly, tentatively, a question and an answer, but quickly deepened into something fervent, urgent, and deeply desired. It was a kiss born of shared history, of pain overcome, and of a profound, blossoming connection. It was filled with need – a need for closeness, for intimacy, for the physical expression of everything that had been painstakingly rebuilt between us. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him, and I clung to him, pouring all my unspoken feelings into the embrace.
The night unfolded with a tender inevitability. We moved from the living room to his bedroom, the room that had once housed his infidelity, but now felt like a space of profound redemption. Every touch was deliberate, every caress infused with a raw honesty and a reverence for the intimacy we had finally found. There was no rush, only a deep, mutual exploration, a confirmation of the emotional bonds that had formed.
Finally, as dawn painted the sky in soft hues, I drifted off to sleep, my head nestled against his chest, his arm securely wrapped around me. The rhythmic beat of his heart beneath my ear was the most comforting sound I had ever known. We had finally made love, not out of obligation or pretense, but from a place of genuine, burgeoning affection. And as I lay there, safe in his arms, the weight of a lonely marriage finally lifted, I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was irrevocably, truly falling for him.
That night of shared passion was a turning point, a silent agreement to discard the old pretenses and build something real from the shattered pieces. The very next day, I moved my things into Jensen's room. My clothes mingled with his in the closet, my books found a home on his nightstand, and my presence became a comforting constant in his personal space.
Every night became a new discovery. We explored each other's bodies with a tender curiosity, each touch and kiss deepening the profound connection that had blossomed between us. We made love not just with our bodies, but with our souls, whispering confessions and dreams in the quiet intimacy of the darkness. The physical closeness mirrored the emotional vulnerability we had finally found, solidifying the love that had emerged from the ashes of a forced union.
As the weeks stretched into months, our relationship solidified into something beautiful and undeniable. We started venturing out in public together again, but this time, the dynamic was entirely different. We no longer cared about the cameras in the same way; we were simply being ourselves. He’d still flash his famous smile, but now, his eyes would always seek mine, a silent testament to the genuine happiness he found by my side.
Jensen, who had once been so guarded, now delighted in sharing glimpses of our authentic life. His social media, once a carefully curated feed of red carpet events and professional triumphs, began to feature candid photos of us. There were snapshots of me with a messy bun, absorbed in a book on the sofa; us laughing over a burnt dinner in the kitchen; or a tender shot of him kissing the top of my head, or my lips, completely unposed. These weren't PR stunts; they were moments of true bliss, shared freely, without the need for explanation or justification. His fans, initially shocked by the paternity scandal, slowly began to embrace this new, more human Jensen, and by extension, our unconventional love story.
As our first wedding anniversary approached, a date that once symbolized the beginning of my despair now represented a triumphant turning point. Jensen, ever the grand gesture enthusiast, planned something truly significant. "It's not just about a year of being married," he'd said, pulling me into a hug, his eyes shining with a familiar intensity, "it's about the past few months of actually falling in love. And we deserve to celebrate that. Big."
The anticipation buzzed between us. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that whatever he had planned, it would be a celebration of our hard-won happiness, a testament to the real, undeniable love that had blossomed where only loneliness had once resided.
The grand celebration Jensen had planned for our anniversary turned out to be the most intimate gesture of all. He booked a private getaway, a secluded villa nestled on a sun-drenched coast, eerily similar to the Tuscan villa where our loveless honeymoon had unfolded. But this time, everything was different. There were no camera flashes, no forced smiles, just the two of us. It was a deliberate act of reclaiming that painful memory, imbuing it with the burgeoning love we now shared.
We spent our days exploring hidden coves, laughing as we cooked meals together in the sun-drenched kitchen, and simply existing in the blissful quiet of each other's company. The nights were filled with whispered secrets and tender touches, each moment a testament to the journey we had embarked on. This was our real honeymoon, a testament to a love forged in the fires of scandal and personal reckoning.
One morning, a few days into our serene escape, a subtle wave of nausea washed over me. I dismissed it at first, attributing it to the rich food or the change of scenery. But as the days passed, the feeling persisted, accompanied by an unfamiliar fatigue that settled deep in my bones. I started noticing things—a heightened sense of smell, a strange aversion to my favorite coffee, a tenderness I couldn't explain.
A quiet suspicion began to form, growing stronger with each passing hour. My period was late. More than late. My mind reeled, doing quick calculations, connecting the dots between the tender nights we had shared and these unexpected symptoms. It was too soon, too impossible, given the history of our beginning.
My heart began to pound with a frantic, hopeful rhythm. Later that day, while Jensen was out arranging a private boat trip, I slipped away to a small pharmacy in the nearby town. My hands trembled as I bought a pregnancy test, the box feeling impossibly heavy in my palm.
Back at the villa, I locked myself in the bathroom, my breath catching in my throat. I followed the instructions, my eyes fixed on the small window. The wait felt like an eternity.
Then, slowly, almost miraculously, two clear lines appeared.
I was pregnant.
An audible gasp escaped my lips, but this time, it was one of pure, unadulterated shock and overwhelming joy. A wave of emotions crashed over me: disbelief, fear, but most profoundly, an immense, blossoming love. A secret of my own, a tiny, precious life, growing inside me, a true symbol of the real, unexpected love that had blossomed between Jensen and me. This wasn't a PR baby; this was our baby, a testament to a love that had defied all odds.
The little plastic stick with its undeniable two lines lay hidden in my travel bag, a monumental secret pulsing between Jensen and me. I spent the rest of the day in a haze, the beauty of the private villa, the warmth of the sun, and Jensen's easy laughter all magnified by the incredible news. I knew I couldn't keep it from him, not after everything we'd built.
That evening, as twilight painted the sky in soft mauves and oranges, we lay tangled in the crisp sheets of our bed, the quiet stillness of the villa wrapped around us. His arm was draped over me, his hand resting gently on my hip, a familiar weight of comfort and intimacy.
"Jensen?" I whispered, my voice a little shaky.
He hummed, pressing a soft kiss to my hair. "Hm? Everything okay, love?"
I took a deep breath, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was it. "I was just thinking," I began, trying to keep my voice casual, though it trembled slightly, "about... about children."
His body tensed imperceptibly against mine. The topic, loaded with the pain of Isabella's false claim, was still a sensitive one. "What about them?" he asked, his voice cautious.
"I mean," I continued, gathering my courage, "do you... do you still want them? Someday? A family?" I turned slightly in his arms, looking up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction in the dim light.
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, processing the question. Then, his eyes met mine, softening. "After everything with Isabella, it's been hard to even think about it," he admitted, his voice low. "But yeah. Someday, with the right person... more than anything, I want a family. A real one. A family built on truth and love." He paused, his thumb gently caressing my arm. "Why do you ask?"
My breath hitched. This was my moment. The words tumbled out, a mix of fear and overwhelming joy. "Because, Jensen," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes, "that day in the hospital, when you thought you'd lost me... you changed my life. And our love... our love has grown into something so real." My voice broke slightly. "And now... now we're going to have a baby."
He froze. His arm stiffened around me. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, searched my face in the fading light. "A... a baby?" he whispered, the words barely audible.
I nodded, tears now freely flowing down my cheeks, tears of relief and burgeoning happiness. "Yes," I confirmed, a soft, joyful sob escaping me. "Our baby. I'm pregnant."
My whispered confession hung in the stillness of the villa, "I'm pregnant." Jensen's eyes, wide with disbelief, searched my face, trying to reconcile the impossible with the miraculous. He lay motionless for a long moment, his arm still around me, but his body rigid with shock. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves outside and the frantic beat of my own heart.
Then, slowly, a tremor started in his arm. His breath hitched, a soft, disbelieving laugh bubbling from his chest. It wasn't the cynical, public laugh, but a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that deepened into a joyful sob.
"Pregnant?" he whispered again, the word tasting new and sacred on his tongue. He pulled back slightly, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs brushing away the lingering tears on my cheeks. His eyes, though still swimming with surprise, were now alight with overwhelming happiness. "Our baby?"
I nodded, a watery smile spreading across my face.
And then, the dam broke. He pulled me into a fierce, joyous embrace, burying his face in my hair. His entire body shook with silent laughter and profound emotion. "Oh, my God," he murmured against my temple, his voice thick with tears. "Oh, my God, Y/N. This is... this is incredible."
He pulled back again, his hands moving to cup my stomach, a gesture of awe and tenderness. A radiant smile, so genuine and unburdened, stretched across his face, lighting up his eyes. "A baby," he repeated, his voice filled with wonder. "A real family. With you." The joy radiating from him was palpable, a stark contrast to the despair that had once defined our marriage. In that moment, surrounded by the quiet love we had built, a new chapter, one filled with the promise of a truly loving family, began.
Part 6
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The Arrangement pt 4
Part 3
Characters: Jensen x Reader
Warnings: mention of accident and injury, tension, paternity is established
A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one.
This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family.
Minors DNI 18+
Days blurred into an agonizing continuum. The hospital room, with its hushed beeps and sterile air, became Jensen's entire world. He didn't leave your side, not for a moment. He slept fitfully in the uncomfortable chair, his hand never straying far from yours. He watched the subtle rise and fall of your chest, memorized the rhythm of the heart monitor, and prayed with a desperation he hadn't known he possessed.
In those long, quiet hours, his mind became a relentless, brutal reel of their shared past. He replayed every cold glance, every dismissive word, every night he’d spent in the master bedroom while you, his wife, lay alone in the guest room. He remembered your dignified silence, your forced smiles for the cameras, the quiet strength with which you'd endured his emotional abandonment. The raw, desperate plea you'd uttered in the driveway – "You have her and I have no one" – echoed in his ears, a damning indictment.
His heart, once so calloused by fame and self-preservation, began to crack, then shatter, under the weight of his own cruelty. He saw now, with horrifying clarity, the quiet grace with which you had handled everything. You never publicly lashed out, never sabotaged his image, never played the victim despite being cruelly cast in that role. You simply endured, until you couldn't anymore.
The world outside the hospital room continued its frantic spin. His phone, which he kept on silent, still buzzed with calls and texts from Evelyn, from publicists, from concerned colleagues. And then there was Isabella. She called repeatedly, her messages growing increasingly agitated, demanding his presence, his explanation for abandoning her just when she needed him most.
He finally answered one of her calls, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I can't talk right now, Isabella," he'd said, cutting off her impending tirade. "I'm at the hospital. Y/N was in an accident."
"An accident? Jensen, what about me? What about the baby?" her voice had risen, indignant.
Jensen's gaze flickered to your still face, your quiet vulnerability. "My place is here," he stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "With her." He hung up, the finality of the click a stark period to that chapter of his life.
In the terrifying stillness of your unconsciousness, Jensen finally, truly, understood the depth of what he had lost. It wasn't just a convenient partner, a PR shield; it was a woman of immense quiet strength, a connection he had carelessly discarded, and a love he had never deserved. He had chosen fame, image, and fleeting passion over true companionship, and now, he might pay the ultimate price.
A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes, a constant, low hum that permeated my entire being. Sounds were muffled, distant, like whispers through water. I felt heavy, as if submerged, and the air against my skin was cool, unfamiliar. Slowly, painstakingly, my senses began to re-emerge. The scent of antiseptic, faint but distinct. The rhythmic beep... beep... beep that seemed to pulse through my very bones.
My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, glued shut, but a sliver of light, diffused and soft, registered behind them. I tried to move, a futile attempt that sent a sharp pain through my side. A small groan escaped my lips, barely a sound.
Then, a sudden shift in the air beside me. A warmth against my hand, a subtle pressure. My eyes fluttered, resisting, then slowly, painstakingly, forced themselves open.
The first thing I registered was the sterile white ceiling. Then, slowly, my gaze drifted to the side. There, slumped in a chair beside my bed, his head resting on his hand, was Jensen. His usually impeccably styled hair was a mess, his face shadowed with stubble, lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes. He looked utterly disheveled, completely unlike the polished celebrity I knew.
His hand was clasped gently around mine, his thumb resting on my knuckles. His eyes were closed, but even in sleep, there was a tension to his jaw, a weariness that permeated his entire being.
My breath hitched. Jensen. Here. By my side. The last time I saw him, I was driving away, leaving him standing in the driveway, breaking free from the very prison he now occupied with me. A wave of confusion, then a ripple of something akin to fear, washed over me. What had happened? Why was he here? And why did he look so utterly broken?
My vision cleared slightly, the sterile outlines of the hospital room coming into sharper focus. The dull ache behind my eyes was still there, but now, a new sensation superseded it: the warmth of Jensen's hand holding mine. I studied his face, the unfamiliar lines of exhaustion, the shadow of stubble. He looked nothing like the composed, distant husband I knew. He looked… vulnerable.
A quiet sound escaped my lips before I even realized I was forming it. "Jensen?" My voice was a dry, raw whisper, barely audible, as if it belonged to someone else.
His head snapped up instantly, his eyes flying open. The glazed exhaustion in them cleared in a flash, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated shock, then an overwhelming rush of relief. His grip on my hand tightened, almost painfully.
He blinked once, twice, as if checking that I was real. His lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out. Then, a ragged breath escaped him. "Y/N?" His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion, unlike anything I had ever heard from him. He leaned closer, his face inches from mine, his eyes searching, desperate. "You're... you're awake."
The room was still hazy, the beeping monitors a dull rhythm. My body ached, a deep, pervasive soreness. The confusion was overwhelming. My last clear memory was driving away from the house, from him, from that suffocating life. Now, here he was, looking utterly wrecked, yet undeniably present.
My throat felt like sandpaper, but the question pushed its way out. "What happened?" I croaked, my voice a barely audible whisper, a testament to my weakness.
Jensen flinched, as if the question were a physical blow. His hand, still holding mine, trembled slightly. He averted his gaze for a moment, staring at the sterile wall opposite us, before slowly turning back to me, his eyes filled with a fresh wave of pain and regret.
My whispered question, "What happened?" hung in the sterile air, and Jensen flinched, as if the words were a physical blow. His hand, still clasping mine, trembled, and he averted his gaze for a moment, staring at the sterile wall opposite us before slowly turning back to me, his eyes filled with a fresh wave of pain and regret.
He took a shaky breath, his voice low and raspy. "You... you were in an accident. A few days ago." He paused, his gaze fixed on my bandaged head. "You hit a deer. The car... it was pretty bad. They found your emergency contact. They called me."
His eyes met mine, raw and exposed. "When I got here," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "they told me... they told me they weren't sure if you were going to make it." A shudder ran through him, and his grip on my hand tightened almost painfully. "God, Y/N, I was so scared. I've never been so scared in my life."
He closed his eyes for a moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I thought... I thought I'd lost you. For good. After everything." He opened his eyes again, and the depth of his remorse was palpable. "I haven't left your side since. I couldn't."
His explanation of the accident, coupled with the raw admission of his fear, left me stunned. The image of the deer, the crunch of metal, the possibility of not making it – it was all a terrifying blur. But it was his confession of fear, the genuine terror in his eyes, that truly reached me. It was so unlike the detached man I had known.
My hand, still cradled in his, instinctively tightened. I looked at his exhausted face, at the stubble on his jaw, at the deep lines of worry etched around his eyes. He had stayed. He had been here, by my side, while I was lost to the world.
"Thank you," I rasped, the words barely more than a whisper. My voice was still weak, but the gratitude was immense, a profound surge in my battered heart.
Without a moment of conscious thought, without hesitation, he leaned down. His lips, rough from what felt like days without proper care, pressed softly, chastely, against my forehead, right above the bandage.
A soft gasp escaped my lips, a sound of surprise and something else entirely. This kiss was different. It wasn't the performative kiss for cameras, or the distant peck exchanged in passing. This kiss held no pretense, no obligation. It was simply… warm. Gentle. Filled with a tenderness I hadn't felt from him, a genuine emotion that reached deep inside me and settled in the broken spaces. It felt different. Completely different.
The gentle pressure of Jensen's lips on my forehead lingered, a soft warmth that seemed to spread through my bruised and aching body. My quiet gasp hadn't been one of pain, but of profound, unexpected shock. This kiss was unlike any he had given me since our early, pre-arranged days. It held no pretense, no performance. It felt... real.
He pulled back slowly, his eyes, still heavy with exhaustion, searching mine. The question was implicit in his gaze: Did I overstep? Did I hurt you?
"The baby," I rasped, the word coming out before I could censor it. It felt like the elephant in the room, the undeniable truth that had shattered everything. My voice was still weak, a dry whisper, but the question was firm. "Isabella's pregnant. What... what about that?"
Jensen flinched, his jaw tightening. He looked away, staring at the sterile white wall for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. The silence in the room stretched, punctuated only by the steady beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor.
"She... she's pregnant, yes," he finally confirmed, his voice low and tight. "I spoke to her after I got the call from the hospital. I told her I couldn't be there. That I had to be here." He turned his gaze back to me, his eyes filled with a raw honesty I'd never seen before. "She's... not happy. She understands I'll be there for the child, of course. But... what we had... it's over."
He paused, then continued, his voice heavy with a self-reproach that was startling. "I told her, Y/N. I told her my place was here. With you. I told her because it was the truth. It is the truth." He ran a hand through his already messy hair. "I know that doesn't excuse anything. It doesn't excuse months of... of what I put you through. Of being so utterly blind to it all."
He squeezed my hand gently. "This marriage," he began, his voice barely a whisper, "it was always supposed to be for show. For PR. I knew that. But I never stopped to think about what that meant for you. For what it would feel like to actually live it, every single day, with no... no real connection. I saw your grief in the driveway that night, Y/N. I saw it. And I was too much of a coward to address it then." He looked away again, his gaze fixed on the IV drip. "And then this happened. And the thought of losing you... it made me see everything with a clarity I never had before."
He finally turned back to me, his eyes pleading. "It was a loveless marriage, Y/N, because I made it one. I was cruel. I was selfish. And I am so profoundly sorry for that. For all of it. For putting you through that hell." He swallowed hard. "I took you for granted. I took your grace for granted. And I took the peace of mind you quietly provided for granted. Until it was all almost gone."
The raw honesty of his confession hung in the air. This wasn't the man playing a part; this was a man laid bare by fear and regret, finally articulating the pain he had inflicted.
His raw confession hung in the air, thick with unspoken pain and regret. He had finally seen it, finally admitted to the cruelty of our situation. My hand, still clasped in his, tightened instinctively, a surge of unexpected emotion swelling within me.
"Jensen," I whispered, my voice still weak but laced with a newfound understanding.
Our eyes met, and in that shared gaze, something shifted. The barriers that had stood between us for so long seemed to falter, if only for a moment. He leaned in slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, the stubble on his jaw just inches from my face. I could feel his breath, warm and soft, on my lips. My heart quickened, a fragile butterfly fluttering in my chest. He stopped, just before closing the distance, leaving the air between us charged with unspoken questions and a hesitant, undeniable pull.
My breath hitched, waiting.
Then, slowly, almost reverently, he closed the final inch. His lips, soft and tentative, met mine.
This was not the practiced, public kiss of our wedding photos. It wasn't the distant, polite brush of our rare, forced appearances. This kiss was fragile, a feather-light touch that spoke of vulnerability and aching tenderness. There was no demand, no expectation, just a profound gentleness that seemed to acknowledge every tear I had shed, every lonely night I had endured.
It was a kiss of apology, of understanding, of a silent plea for forgiveness. It was a kiss that tasted of hospital antiseptic and Jensen's desperate fear, but also, surprisingly, of a nascent hope. My own lips parted slightly, a soft, involuntary response, and I felt a tear slip from the corner of my eye, not of pain, but of a complex, overwhelming emotion I couldn't yet name. It truly felt different. It felt like the beginning of something, or perhaps, the mending of something that had been profoundly broken.
Weeks turned into a quiet, determined recovery. The hospital, once a place of dread, became a symbol of a fragile new beginning. When the doctors finally cleared me to leave, it wasn't to the anonymous hotel, but back to the house, with Jensen by my side. The house, however, felt different now. The vast spaces still echoed, but there was a nascent warmth, a tentative understanding growing between us.
We started over, slowly, deliberately. The media frenzy continued outside our gates, but inside, we built a fragile sanctuary. We had real conversations, long into the night, stripped of pretense. We talked about the cruelty of the arranged marriage, the crushing loneliness I had felt, and his admitted blindness to my pain. Jensen confessed the suffocating weight of his own public persona, and the fear that had truly gripped him when he thought he'd lost me. It wasn't always easy; there were still awkward silences, residual hurts, and thoughts of neglect to overcome. But the conversations were genuine, marked by a quiet vulnerability from Jensen I had never thought possible.
Crucially, this delicate rebuilding happened away from the public eye and, most importantly, away from Isabella. She called, sometimes even showed up at the gates, demanding to speak with Jensen. But he remained steadfast. He explained, patiently but firmly, that his focus was entirely on me and that his relationship with her was over, save for the impending co-parenting of their child.
As Isabella’s pregnancy progressed, the public speculation escalated. Evelyn, despite her initial fury, was still Jensen's agent, and the situation was spiraling beyond control. One afternoon, she arrived at the house, her face grim.
"The studio, the endorsements, my professional reputation... this can't drag on, Jensen," she stated, her voice tight with exasperation. "The whispers are killing us. For everyone's sake, we need a definitive answer." She turned to me, her expression softening infinitesimally, a silent acknowledgment of my return and our apparent truce. "They're demanding a paternity test, Jensen. It's the only way to put an end to this speculation. To clear your name, and by extension, hers."
Jensen looked at me, a silent question in his eyes. He knew what this meant, not just for his career, but for our fragile, nascent peace. He knew the confirmation of paternity would forever link him to Isabella in a way he was trying to distance himself from. But he also knew Evelyn was right; the public needed an answer.
"Do it," I said, my voice quiet but firm. I had watched him, truly watched him, over these past weeks. His remorse felt genuine, his presence by my side unwavering. Whatever the results, I knew where I stood with him now, a place far more real than any public facade.
So, the arrangements were made. Jensen went, alone, to provide the sample. I stayed behind, pacing the quiet halls of the house, my heart a knot of anxious anticipation. I stood by his side silently, waiting for the results, knowing that this single piece of paper held the power to either clarify our future or plunge us back into chaos.
The day the results were due to arrive was excruciating. The air in the house was heavy, thick with unspoken anticipation. We sat in the study, a room we now often used for our quiet conversations, away from the prying eyes of staff. Jensen's laptop sat on the polished mahogany desk, a silent, ominous presence.
At precisely 3:00 PM, an email notification popped up. "Paternity Test Results - Case Ref. #..."
Jensen's hand hovered over the trackpad, his jaw tight. He looked at me, his eyes reflecting a mixture of dread and grim acceptance. I reached across the desk and took his hand, my fingers intertwining with his. My own heart hammered against my ribs, a nervous tremor running through me. This wasn't just about his image anymore; it was about our fragile, new reality.
He took a deep breath, squeezing my hand once, then clicked. The email opened, a plain document with a few lines of text. His eyes scanned it, moving quickly, then stopping. His pupils dilated, and his face, already pale, drained of all color.
Then, an audible gasp, sharp and disbelieving, left both our lips simultaneously.
His grip on my hand tightened, almost painfully. My eyes, still fixed on his stunned face, slowly drifted to the screen.
"The probability of paternity is 0%."
The baby isn't his.
The words shimmered on the screen, impossibly clear, impossibly real. Isabella's public confession, the media storm, the shattered marriage, my departure, his desperate fear – it had all been built on a lie. A profound, shocking silence fell over the room, broken only by our ragged breaths. We stared at the screen, then at each other, a dizzying mix of disbelief, relief, and a dawning, complex understanding washing over us.
The words on the screen, "The probability of paternity is 0%," seemed to leap out, hitting us both with the force of a physical blow. An audible gasp had escaped both our lips, a shared expulsion of disbelief and sudden, profound shock.
Before I could even process the magnitude of the revelation, before my rational mind could catch up, my body reacted. My hand, still clasped tightly in Jensen's, pulled him forward, and before he could register what was happening, my lips found his.
It wasn't a gentle, exploring kiss like the one in the hospital. This was a kiss born of raw need and desperation. It was fierce and messy, a desperate claiming, a release of weeks of agonizing tension and months of unspoken pain. Tears, hot and blinding, streamed down my face as a tidal wave of pure relief washed over me, so potent it left me shaking. The threat of the other woman's child, the final, crushing weight on our fractured life, had been lifted.
I pulled back slightly, my forehead resting against his, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My eyes, swimming with tears, met his stunned gaze. He was silent, motionless, clearly reeling from the double shock of the paternity results and my impulsive kiss.
"I'm so sorry," I choked out, the words tumbling over each other, "I'm so sorry the baby isn't yours." My voice was thick with emotion, but the meaning was clear. "Because... because she cheated on you."
His eyes widened, reflecting a complex mix of surprise, confusion, and a dawning understanding. He was stunned by my apology, an expression of genuine bewilderment crossing his face. He'd likely expected anger, vindication, even a triumphant relief. But not sorrow for him. Not for the man who had been so blind, so cruel. It was a moment of profound revelation, stripping away another layer of the carefully constructed walls between us.
The aftermath of the paternity test revelation was swift and brutal for Isabella, but for us, it felt like the first breath of clean air in years. Evelyn, quickly seizing the narrative, issued a cold, concise statement to the press: "Mr. Ackles confirms that DNA testing has conclusively shown he is not the biological father of Ms. Isabella Johnson's child. Mr. Ackles wishes Ms. Johnson and her family well during this time and requests privacy." It was a masterclass in PR, painting Jensen as the wronged party, subtly implying Isabella's deception, and shutting down further discussion. The media went into a new frenzy, shifting their focus from Jensen's supposed infidelity to Isabella's dramatic betrayal.
While the storm raged outside, inside the house, a fragile, beautiful quiet began to settle. The shared shock, the desperate kiss, and my unexpected apology had shattered the last remnants of our pretense. We were finally free to just be.
We began to build our relationship, brick by painful, exhilarating brick. There were no grand gestures for the cameras, no forced smiles for the public. Instead, it was in the small, quiet moments that a genuine connection, a true affection, started to bloom. Jensen started leaving little notes for me, tucked into the book I was reading or beside my morning coffee. He cooked surprisingly well, and we'd eat together in the quiet kitchen, talking about everything and nothing. He listened, truly listened, with an attentiveness that had been absent for so long. He'd ask about my day, about my thoughts, about the books I was reading, and he'd remember the answers.
I, in turn, found myself opening up, sharing vulnerabilities I hadn't dared to expose before. I learned about the immense pressures of his fame, the loneliness that came with constant scrutiny, the way he'd often felt like a product rather than a person. We started taking long, aimless drives again, but this time, he was beside me, his hand sometimes resting on my knee, a comforting, unforced presence. We discovered a shared love for old movies, spending evenings curled on the sofa, simply existing in comfortable silence, or laughing softly at ridiculous dialogue.
He would often find me reading in the sunroom, and just sit, sometimes reaching for my hand, tracing patterns on my skin. One evening, he found me crying softly while watching a particularly sad movie. Instead of turning away or offering a platitude, he simply held me, his arms a strong, safe embrace, letting me lean into his warmth until the tears subsided.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the initial gratitude and relief began to deepen into something profound. The touch of his hand, once a mere prop, became a source of comfort. His laughter, once a public performance, became a genuine joy to hear. We were actually putting in effort, not to maintain an image, but to genuinely understand and connect with each other.
And then, one quiet morning, as I watched him from across the breakfast table, a soft smile playing on his lips as he read the newspaper, it hit me. A warmth spread through my chest, a sense of belonging I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't just gratitude, or even friendship. I was falling for him. And in the way his eyes would seek mine across a room, in the gentle way he touched my arm, in the newfound openness of his conversation, I began to see that, somehow, against all odds, he was falling for me too. The loveless marriage, born of PR, was slowly, miraculously, transforming into something real.
Part 5
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The Arrangement pt 3
Part 2
Characters: Jensen x Reader
Warnings: heartbreak, regret, injury
A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one.
This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family.
Minors DNI 18+
He stood his ground, unmoving, a statue of defiance in the glare of the headlights. His jaw was set, eyes fixed on mine, the fear still there, but now mingled with a stubborn resolve.
"Jensen, move," I repeated, my voice cracking slightly. I turned off the engine, plunging the immediate area into a sudden, jarring quiet, broken only by the distant hum of the city. Then, I pushed open the car door and stepped out, facing him fully. Evelyn was still a few feet behind him, looking like she might combust.
"You're free," I pleaded, my voice rising, stripped bare of pretense. The raw pain I had held captive for so long finally spilled out. "I can't do this anymore. You have no idea how hard this has been for me." My arms swept out, encompassing the house, the PR nightmare, the entire suffocating charade. "I'm in a lonely marriage. You have her, and I have no one." My voice broke, hot tears finally overflowing and streaming down my face. "I have to pretend to be in love with you and have your love in return. This is just so cruel. I can't do it anymore."
My chest heaved, each breath a painful gasp. All the silent suffering, all the nights spent crying in the guest room, all the humiliation of their blatant intimacy—it all poured out in those desperate words. I looked at him, truly looked at him, not the celebrity, but the man standing before me, the father of another woman's child, the man who had inadvertently destroyed my life. I was done.
My words hung in the cool night air, raw and exposed, laying bare the profound desolation of my existence. Jensen, bathed in the soft glow of the porch lights, seemed to shrink slightly under the weight of them. His rigid stance softened, and his eyes, which had been so unreadable just moments before, flickered with a genuine, undeniable remorse. It was a brief, potent flash – a recognition of the pain he had caused, a glimpse of the man beneath the polished facade.
He took a hesitant step towards me, his hand reaching out, then dropping. "Please," he murmured, his voice rough, a stark contrast to his usual smooth demeanor. It wasn't the voice of America's most eligible bachelor, but of a man caught in a terrible trap of his own making. "Please, don't go. Don't leave like this."
Evelyn, who had been listening with a mixture of horror and strategic assessment, looked like she was about to intervene, to remind him of the PR implications, but he held her gaze with a silent, almost imperceptible command. His eyes returned to mine, filled with a newfound, aching sincerity.
"I... I know," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know this has been incredibly hard on you. Harder than I ever truly considered." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before meeting my tear-filled eyes again. "And if this is truly what you want... if you truly can't do this anymore... then I won't stop you." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'll let you go."
The words hung in the air, a fragile offering amidst the wreckage. He was giving me the choice, the freedom I craved, but the plea in his eyes, the sudden, raw vulnerability, made the decision feel infinitely more complicated.
His words, "I'll let you go," hung in the air, a fragile offering amidst the wreckage. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something almost hopeful sparked within me. His raw vulnerability was unexpected, a chink in the polished armor he usually wore.
I hesitated. The thought of true freedom, of a life unburdened by this charade, was intoxicating. But then, another thought, colder and sharper, pierced through the sudden haze of his remorse. If he truly felt this remorse, this understanding of my pain, wouldn't he have seen it months ago? Wouldn't he have stopped this slow, agonizing heartbreak before it reached this point?
His words, while seemingly genuine now, were too little, too late. They were born of crisis, not of a deep-seated empathy that had been absent for so long. The image of Isabella, pregnant with his child, seared itself back into my mind, obliterating any fleeting softness I might have felt.
My gaze hardened. "No," I said, my voice quiet but firm, devoid of the earlier tremor. "If you truly understood, you would have seen this cruelty months ago. You would have seen it before it broke me completely."
I turned from him, the last vestiges of my hope dissolving like mist. My hand closed around the cold metal of the car door handle, and I pulled it open. Without another word, without a backward glance, I slid into the driver's seat. The engine purred to life with a comforting familiarity, a promise of escape. I put the car in reverse, the headlights cutting through the darkness, and began to back down the long driveway, leaving the gilded cage, the shattered dreams, and the broken pieces of my heart behind.
The glow of the dashboard lights was my only company as I drove, the rearview mirror showing only the shrinking silhouette of the house, then nothing but the dark, winding road. Each mile I put between myself and that life felt like a breath of fresh air, a small reclamation of the self I had lost. I kept driving until the familiar landscape faded, until I was just a nameless car on a nameless road.
I finally pulled into the parking lot of a modest hotel a few towns over, a place anonymous enough that no one would recognize me. The check-in was blessedly uneventful, the night clerk barely glancing up. Once inside the sterile quiet of my room, I sank onto the edge of the bed, the duffel bag dropping with a soft thud beside me.
My phone, a constant buzzing presence since I'd left, was now a source of immense anxiety. I knew who it would be: Jensen, Evelyn, my parents. Their calls, a frantic symphony of crisis management and desperate pleas, were the last vestiges of the life I was fleeing. With a decisive breath, I pressed the power button. The screen went dark, and a profound silence, deeper and more liberating than any I had known in months, settled over me. For the first time in a very long time, I was truly, utterly alone.
Back at the house, Jensen was left to deal with the immediate and brutal repercussions of my departure and Isabella's bombshell. Evelyn, no doubt, was already in full damage control mode, her voice likely a whip of fury as she strategized with publicists and lawyers. The initial plan of "denying, denying, denying" would now be exponentially harder to sell.
The carefully constructed image of his "unshakable love" for me, the perfect PR marriage, had just shattered on live television and with my very public exit. He wasn't just facing a paternity scandal; he was facing a scandal of deception, of a public facade crumbling in the most spectacular way possible. The media storm would be unprecedented, the whispers of his personal life no longer just whispers but a deafening roar. For the first time, he was truly on his own, the consequences of his choices landing squarely on his shoulders, with no convenient wife to hide behind.
Weeks bled into each other, marked by the quiet rhythm of my new, solitary life. The hotel room became a temporary cocoon. I found a small coffee shop with good Wi-Fi, started exploring the town's local library, and took long, aimless walks by a nearby lake. Slowly, meticulously, I began the arduous task of piecing myself back together. Each quiet morning, each anonymous interaction, was a tiny stitch in the fabric of my healing. The constant hum of my disconnected phone was a distant memory, a freedom I savored.
The fallout of Isabella's confession, as glimpsed through the occasional, furtive glances at news headlines on public screens, was indeed colossal. "Ackles Baby Scandal," "PR Marriage Exposed," "Hollywood's Biggest Lie Unveiled." The headlines screamed, the entertainment world in a frenzy. Requests for interviews, no doubt, were pouring in, but I wasn't there to answer them. I was simply gone.
Back in the house that now felt truly empty, Jensen was living a different kind of silence. The relentless media storm had indeed been unprecedented. Paparazzi camped outside the gates, entertainment news channels ran non-stop specials, and social media exploded with outrage and speculation. Evelyn, a whirlwind of furious damage control, had put a strict lockdown on his public appearances.
Jensen barely left the house. The sprawling rooms, once a symbol of his success, now felt like a gilded cage. He saw the headlines, heard the frenzied chatter on the news. His carefully constructed image, the one he had worked his entire life to build, was crumbling, replaced by unflattering whispers of deceit and betrayal.
The initial shock of Isabella's revelation, and my abrupt departure, had given way to a chilling emptiness. The public condemnation, the relentless scrutiny, it was all overwhelming. But beneath the chaos, a quieter, more insidious realization began to dawn. The quiet hum of my presence, the polite smiles, the public charade we had maintained – they had, in their own strange way, been a constant. Now, that constant was gone.
He walked through the silent halls, sat in the vast, empty living room, and looked at the space on the sofa where I used to sit. He remembered the brief, unreadable flicker in my eyes when I scoffed, the raw pain in my voice as I confessed my loneliness. He remembered the quiet, lonely figure in the kitchen that night.
He had always had Isabella, the passionate, tangible love. But he had also always had me, the stable, if loveless, partner, handling the PR, the public face, the domestic facade. I had been the silent, unflappable anchor in his chaotic life, absorbing the collateral damage of his choices without complaint.
Now, with the house echoing with an unfamiliar quiet, with the public turning on him, and with Isabella's demands for attention and support mounting, Jensen started to realize what he had lost. Not just a convenient wife, not just a PR shield, but the quiet, unassuming woman who had borne the brunt of his choices with a dignity he had never truly appreciated. He was alone with the wreckage, and the weight of it, the true depth of his loss, was just beginning to settle in. The absence of my silent presence was a gaping hole, colder and more profound than he had ever imagined.
The open road had become my solace, the hum of the engine a lullaby to my mending soul. Weeks into my self-imposed exile, I found a fragile peace in anonymity, in the mundane rhythm of a life lived for myself. On this particular afternoon, I was just driving, aimlessly following a backroad that promised nothing but quiet solitude. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. My thoughts drifted, somewhere between the painful past and an uncertain future.
I didn't see the deer. It darted out from the treeline, a fleeting shadow against the fading light. There was a screech of tires, a violent swerve, and then the sickening crunch of metal. The world spun, glass shattered, and then… nothing.
The sterile white walls, the faint smell of antiseptic, the rhythmic beep of machines – these were the sounds and sights Jensen had come to associate with hospitals for PR events, for visiting ailing co-stars. But this time, it was different. This time, the call had been for him.
His phone, which had been a constant source of calls from Evelyn and increasingly frantic reporters, rang with an unfamiliar number. He answered, his voice weary. "Mr. Ackles?" a calm, professional voice had asked. "This is St. Jude's Hospital. We have a patient here, a Y/N Ackles. She was in an accident. We found your number listed as her emergency contact, she has you listed as her husband."
Jensen's blood ran cold. Accident? Y/N? The world outside the house, the chaos of his career, faded into insignificance. "Is she... is she okay?" he'd managed to stammer.
There was a pause, a breath drawn on the other end of the line. "Mr. Ackles, she's sustained significant injuries. She's currently unconscious, and we've moved her to intensive care. We're doing everything we can, but... we're not sure if she's going to make it."
The words were a physical blow, sharper and more devastating than any headline. The detached professional who had handled the PR fallout for weeks was replaced by a man utterly undone. The realization of what he truly stood to lose, of the quiet, dignified woman he had taken for granted, crashed down on him with brutal force. He had lost her once, by his own neglect. Now, he might lose her forever.
He didn't call Evelyn. He didn't grab a bag. He didn't even remember to put on a fresh shirt. The only thought in his mind was getting to her. He stumbled out of the house, ignoring the lurking paparazzi, and fumbled for his car keys. The drive was a blur, his foot heavy on the accelerator, every traffic light a personal affront. His phone buzzed relentlessly with calls from Evelyn, but he ignored them all. Nothing mattered but reaching the hospital. The name St. Jude's Hospital echoed in his mind, a place he barely knew, a place miles from their home, the anonymous haven she had sought. He had to get there. Now.
He burst through the automatic doors of St. Jude's Hospital, the sterile air hitting him like a physical shock. The hushed efficiency of the emergency room, usually a chaotic hub, seemed unnervingly calm. He strode to the reception desk, his voice hoarse. "I'm here for Y/N Ackles," he choked out. "Jensen Ackles. I got a call."
The receptionist, a kind-faced woman, recognized his name instantly, her eyes widening with a flicker of concern. She made a quick call, and within moments, a doctor, a man with tired but gentle eyes, appeared.
"Mr. Ackles? Thank you for coming. She's in the ICU."
The doctor led him through a maze of quiet corridors, the muffled beeping of machines and hushed whispers creating an atmosphere of profound solemnity. Each step felt heavy, a growing dread churning in Jensen's gut. The image of her, vibrant and defiant even in her pain, flashed in his mind.
They stopped before a door marked "ICU." The doctor pushed it open, and Jensen stepped inside.
The room was bathed in a soft, artificial light. There, on the bed, was you. So still. So fragile. Wires snaked from beneath the blanket, connecting you to monitors that displayed an array of fluctuating numbers and rhythmic lines. A bandage, stark white, was wrapped around your head, and your face, usually so expressive, was pale and unnaturally still. The silence in the room was punctuated only by the soft, steady beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor.
Jensen felt a sharp, agonizing pang in his chest. This wasn't the strong, resilient woman he had seen walk out of his life. This was someone broken, vulnerable, clinging to life by a thread. He walked to the bedside, his legs feeling like lead. He reached out a trembling hand, hovering just inches above your arm, not daring to touch, as if afraid he might shatter you further. He saw the bruises, the slight swell of injury, and the raw, undeniable truth of what his neglect had wrought.
The doctor's voice, soft and grave, broke the silence. "She's stable for now, Mr. Ackles, but it's touch and go. We're monitoring her closely."
Jensen could only nod, his throat tight, his eyes fixed on your still form. The weight of his loss, of his monumental failure, pressed down on him, suffocating him. He had never truly understood the depth of your pain until now, faced with the terrifying possibility of forever.
His breath hitched, a silent, ragged gasp escaping his lips as he gazed at your still form. The sterile beeping of the machines was a chilling counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of his own heart. He pulled a chair closer to the bedside, its plastic squeak echoing in the quiet room. He wouldn't leave. He couldn't leave. This wasn't a PR event; this was a raw, terrifying reality.
He slowly, carefully, reached out and took your hand, his fingers dwarfing yours. Your skin felt cool, almost translucent. He ran his thumb gently over your knuckles, a silent apology for every cold touch, every absent glance, every moment he had taken you for granted. The image of you, crying silently in the kitchen, then defying him in the driveway, flashed behind his eyes. The words you’d hurled at him – lonely marriage, you have her and I have no one, this is just so cruel – now echoed with a crushing weight of truth. He saw it now, truly saw it, the depth of the pain he had inflicted. Remorse, sharp and agonizing, twisted in his gut.
After a long moment, he pulled out his phone, his hand still clasped around yours. He had to make calls, but this time, not for damage control.
First, his parents. He dialed, his voice thick with unshed tears when his mother answered. "Mom," he choked out, "it's Y/N. She's... she's in the hospital. An accident. It's bad." He relayed the sparse details the doctor had given him, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Next, his fingers hovered over the number for your parents. He dreaded this call more than anything. He, the man who had supposedly loved their daughter, had allowed her to suffer in silence and now, she was fighting for her life alone, miles from home. He swallowed hard, then pressed call. His voice, when he spoke to your father, was a strained whisper of apology and grave news. "Mr. Smith, it's Jensen. I... I'm so sorry. Y/N was in an accident. She's at St. Jude's. She's... unconscious."
Finally, Evelyn. He knew the call would be met with a barrage of questions about his whereabouts, about the PR nightmare. He didn't care. "Evelyn," he said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual power. "I'm at St. Jude's Hospital. Y/N is here. Critical condition. I'm staying. Handle everything else." He didn't wait for her inevitable explosion, simply hung up, his gaze returning to your still form.
He tightened his grip on your hand, a silent vow passing between them. He wouldn't leave. Not now. Not ever again.
Part 4
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The Arrangement pt 2
Part 1
Characters: Jensen x Reader
Warnings: angst, loneliness, pregnancy
A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one.
This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family.
Minors DNI 18+
The bright lights of the studio were a familiar torment. Jensen and I sat side-by-side on a plush sofa, a picture of marital bliss for the cameras. My smile was plastered on, a practiced, aching curve of my lips. Jensen, ever the professional, had slipped seamlessly into the role of devoted husband, his hand resting casually on my knee, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at me. It was a performance so convincing, it almost made me forget the cold reality of our mornings.
The interviewer, a perky woman with an overly enthusiastic demeanor, beamed at us. "Six months in! It's simply wonderful to see you two so happy." She gestured grandly between us. "You’ve truly become a fan favorite couple. Everyone wants to know... what's next for the Ackles-Smith union?"
Jensen chuckled, a warm, inviting sound that made my stomach clench. "Well, we're just enjoying this chapter, really," he began, launching into a well-rehearsed spiel about busy schedules and cherishing quiet moments. I nodded along, chiming in with pre-approved anecdotes about our 'shared love' for obscure documentaries and early morning hikes.
Then, the interviewer leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Speaking of the future," she paused, her gaze sweeping between us, "the fans are absolutely buzzing with speculation. With such a strong, loving bond, is there a pitter-patter of tiny feet in your near future? Are we going to see a little Ackles running around soon?"
The question hung in the air, a sudden, jarring note in our carefully composed symphony. My heart leaped into my throat. Tiny feet? A baby? The thought was absurd, cruel even, given the desolate landscape of our actual marriage. I could feel Jensen's hand still on my knee, but it felt like a lead weight. I dared a glance at him. His smile had stiffened, his eyes betraying a flicker of something unreadable – panic? Discomfort?
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. How were we supposed to answer this? How could we even pretend such a possibility existed when our bed was shared by another woman, and my heart was already crumbling into dust?
The interviewer’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "So, a little Ackles running around soon?"
My breath hitched, my eyes darting to Jensen. His hand, still on my knee, remained perfectly still. I felt a subtle tension ripple through him, a tightening of the muscles that only someone as intimately close as a stage-managed spouse might notice. For a split second, I saw a flash of something akin to panic in his eyes, quickly masked.
Then, Jensen’s famous PR training kicked in. He let out a soft, low chuckle, the kind that always charmed audiences. It was a practiced sound, warm and endearing, but it didn't quite reach the deeper notes of genuine amusement. He squeezed my knee, a gesture of faux affection that was purely for the cameras, and turned his gaze to the interviewer.
"Well, you know," he began, his voice smooth and confident, "we're both incredibly blessed with our careers right now. And, of course, with each other." He offered me a quick, fleeting smile that was all surface, no depth. "We're focusing on enjoying this amazing journey we're on, building our foundation, and cherishing every moment." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air, then added with a charming wink, "We'll definitely keep everyone updated if there's any big news on that front. But for now, we're just soaking it all in."
It was a perfectly crafted non-answer, deflecting the question without actually denying anything. It hinted at a future possibility without committing to it, maintaining the illusion of a blissful, thriving marriage. I forced myself to nod along, a silent accomplice in the charade, even as my stomach churned with the bitter irony of his words.
Jensen's perfectly PR-polished answer about "building our foundation" and "cherishing every moment" had successfully navigated the child question, but my stomach remained in knots. I kept my expression neutral, nodding as if in agreement, even as the words felt like ash in my mouth.
Then, the interviewer’s bright gaze swiveled to me, her smile unwavering. "And for you," she began, her voice brimming with a performative empathy, "how has it been, being married to America's most eligible bachelor? And," she leaned in slightly, as if sharing a delightful secret, "the thought of having his children?"
The question hit me like a physical blow, stripping away my carefully constructed composure. America's most eligible bachelor. The title, so celebrated, felt like a brand on my skin, marking me as the woman who'd been chosen for convenience, not desire. The irony was suffocating. His children? The thought was a grotesque mockery. How could I even conceive of a child with a man who shared his bed with another woman, a man whose touch was a performance, whose presence in my life was a constant reminder of my own profound emptiness?
My mind raced, frantically searching for a socially acceptable answer, a way to deflect without shattering the carefully constructed facade. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. I could feel Jensen's subtle shift beside me, a barely perceptible tension that told me he, too, was waiting for my response. The cameras seemed to magnify every flicker of emotion on my face, every slight tremor in my hands.
"It's... it's certainly been an experience," I managed, my voice a little breathless, a little too tight. I forced a weak, wavering smile. "Jensen is, of course, incredibly charming, and dedicated to his work. And to our..." I hesitated, searching for the right word, "partnership." The word tasted like dust.
"As for children," I continued, forcing myself to meet the interviewer's expectant gaze, "it's... it's a big step. A truly profound commitment." I gripped my hands in my lap, trying to project a serene thoughtfulness rather than the swirling chaos within. "And like Jensen said, we're really focusing on building that strong foundation first. Making sure we're truly ready for such a monumental responsibility, both as individuals and as a couple." It was another non-answer, a polite evasion, but it felt like a gargantuan effort to even string the sentences together. My palms were sweating, and I could feel a tremor starting in my fingers. The thought of bearing his child, a child that would be part of a family so fractured and fake, was a suffocating weight.
My evasive answer about "building that strong foundation" seemed to satisfy the interviewer. She offered a bright, approving smile and smoothly shifted the conversation, directing questions towards Jensen about his upcoming filming schedule and then to me about managing public appearances alongside my own work. The tension in my shoulders eased infinitesimally as we navigated the safer waters of professional commitments.
We were deep into a discussion about balancing demanding careers with a "newlywed" life when the interviewer's eyes suddenly widened. She reached up, touching her earpiece, her expression morphing from genial interest to stunned surprise. She nodded, listening intently, her gaze flicking between Jensen and me with an unreadable mix of shock and… something else. Almost pity.
"Hold on a moment," she murmured into her mic, then pulled her hand away from her ear. Her smile was gone, replaced by a look of profound awkwardness. She cleared her throat, her voice dropping, losing its usual perky lilt.
She looked directly at Jensen, then at me, her eyes clouded with an almost apologetic glint. "Jensen, Y/N," she began, her voice hesitant, "I'm just being told... there's a story that has just gone viral on the internet. It's... quite significant, and we need your response immediately."
My blood ran cold. A viral story? Now? My heart began to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I saw Jensen's brow furrow, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his face for the first time in the entire interview.
The interviewer took a deep breath, her gaze settling squarely on Jensen. "Isabella just gave an interview," she announced, her voice flat with a sort of morbid disbelief. "And she told everyone... she's pregnant. With your baby."
The words hung in the air, a grotesque echo in the brightly lit studio. The comfortable hum of the cameras suddenly felt like a roar. My breath hitched, a gasp trapped in my throat. The room spun. Pregnant. With his baby. My vision blurred at the edges, the carefully constructed world of our fake marriage shattering into a million sharp, undeniable pieces.
The interviewer's words hung in the air, a cruel, undeniable truth. "Isabella just gave an interview... she's pregnant. With your baby."
My head snapped towards Jensen. His eyes, usually so carefully guarded, were wide with a raw, unadulterated shock that mirrored my own. For the first time, I saw genuine fear in them, not just the practiced discomfort of a celebrity caught off-guard. His carefully constructed facade had crumbled, revealing the man beneath, trapped and exposed.
My throat went bone dry, every muscle in my body seizing. The air in the studio seemed to thicken, making it impossible to breathe. The bright lights felt like a spotlight on my sudden, brutal agony. The distant hum of the cameras suddenly sounded like a roaring judgment.
The interviewer, her face now etched with professional urgency, leaned forward. "Jensen, Y/N," she pressed, her voice unwavering despite the palpable tension. "We need a response. Immediately."
The world tilted, the air thick with the unspoken truth. Isabella was pregnant. With Jensen's baby. My eyes were locked on his, seeing the raw panic mirroring my own, before the interviewer's demand for a response snapped us back to the searing reality of the studio.
Just as the interviewer opened her mouth to press us again, a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the stunned silence. "That's enough for today."
Jensen's manager, a stern woman named Evelyn, strode into the frame from off-camera, her face a mask of controlled fury. She didn't spare a glance for the interviewer, her focus entirely on us. "We will look into this matter and issue an official statement later today," she announced, her voice leaving no room for argument. "The interview is over."
She didn't wait for a reply. Her hand was suddenly on Jensen's arm, tugging him firmly to his feet. Before I could even fully register the sudden shift, her other hand was on my back, ushering me off the sofa with surprising force. The lights of the studio seemed to glare even brighter as Evelyn practically herded us away, past the stunned interviewer and the silent crew.
The last thing I heard before the door swung shut behind us was the interviewer's voice, barely a whisper: "Cut the feed."
We were practically shoved into the waiting black SUV, the leather seats cold against my trembling legs. The door slammed shut with a definitive thud, cutting off the lingering chaos of the studio. Evelyn slid into the front passenger seat, her posture rigid, a phone already pressed to her ear, speaking in hushed, urgent tones.
The driver, a discreet man named Frank, pulled away from the curb smoothly, the city traffic a blur outside the tinted windows. Inside the car, the air was thick, suffocatingly so, with a silence that screamed louder than any argument. Jensen was beside me, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitching. Not once did he look at me. Not once did he acknowledge the shattered remains of my composure. I stared straight ahead, a hollow ache where my heart used to be, the reality of Isabella's pregnancy a relentless hammer against my temples.
The drive home was a blur of quiet dread. Each mile brought us closer to the house that had become my gilded cage, a place where a woman I was forced to call my husband openly loved another.
When Frank finally pulled up to the imposing gates of the estate, the familiar ironwork seemed to mock me. Evelyn was out of the car almost before it stopped, already on a new call, her voice a low, furious murmur. Jensen followed her, his stride long and purposeful, still not looking at me. I lingered for a moment, gathering what little dignity I had left, before stepping out into the cool evening air.
We gathered in the sprawling, impersonal living room, a space that felt more like a hotel lobby than a home. Evelyn hung up her phone, her face grim, her eyes like chips of ice. She didn't mince words.
"This is a disaster," Evelyn stated, her voice sharp and precise, cutting through the heavy silence. She looked directly at Jensen, her gaze unwavering. "Jensen, what the hell happened? You assured me she was discreet, that this was handled." Her voice dropped to a furious whisper. "A live interview? Announcing a pregnancy? Do you have any idea what kind of damage control this is going to require?"
Then her gaze flickered to me, a momentary pause, before returning to Jensen. "We have less than an hour before every major news outlet has this as their lead story. Our legal team is already drafting statements. We're going to deny, deny, deny. Call it a malicious rumor, a desperate attempt for attention on her part. But this is going to be messy. Very, very messy."
She ran a hand through her short, practical hair. "Your image is paramount. We need a solid, impenetrable front. That means you two," she gestured between Jensen and me, "need to be seen together, looking united, devastated by this 'slanderous accusation.'" Her eyes were cold, calculating. "We need to sell the world on your unshakable love more than ever. And I mean ever."
Evelyn's words, "We need to sell the world on your unshakable love more than ever. And I mean ever," hung in the air, a grotesque echo of the lie we lived. My heart, already shattered into a million pieces by Isabella's brutal announcement, felt the full, crushing weight of this loveless marriage. All the carefully constructed walls I'd built around my pain crumbled.
A scoff escaped my lips before I could stop it. It was a raw, involuntary sound, laced with a bitter mix of disbelief and utter despair. It wasn't meant for Evelyn, not really. It was a reaction to the sheer absurdity of the situation, to the cruel cosmic joke that was my life. The sound was small, but in the suffocating silence of the room, it felt like a thunderclap.
Evelyn's sharp gaze immediately snapped to me, her eyes narrowing. Jensen, who had been staring blankly at a spot on the wall, finally turned his head, his own eyes now fixed on my face. The weight of their combined stares was almost unbearable.
Evelyn's sharp gaze immediately snapped to me, her eyes narrowing at my involuntary scoff. For a fleeting second, I thought she might tear into me, demand an explanation for my insubordination. But her focus was too laser-sharp on the crisis at hand, her fury reserved for the monumental mess Isabella had created.
Instead of acknowledging my defiance directly, Evelyn's mouth thinned into a grim line, and she turned her steely gaze back to Jensen, effectively dismissing my emotional outburst. Her voice dropped, becoming even more clipped and imperative.
"This isn't just about denials, Jensen," Evelyn stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We need to counter this with an overwhelming display of devotion. Authenticity, even if it's manufactured." She paused, then delivered the next directive like a cold, calculated blow. "You need to start posting candid pictures. Immediately. Pictures of you two," she gestured between us, her hand sweeping dismissively in my direction, "laughing, holding hands, looking in love. Not just posed red carpet shots. Everyday moments. Breakfast, walking the dog, watching a movie. We need to flood social media with your 'unbreakable bond'."
She looked at Jensen, her eyes boring into his. "Real, unscripted moments. Make them believe it. Make them feel it. We need to bury this 'pregnant girlfriend' story under an avalanche of marital bliss."
Evelyn's demand for "candid" posts, for manufactured intimacy, felt like the final, unbearable straw. My heart, already a mosaic of fractured pain, simply couldn't take any more.
Jensen, his face still pale but hardening into a familiar resolve, met Evelyn's gaze. "Understood," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of any warmth. "I'll get on it." The words were an agreement, a surrender to the relentless machinery of his public life.
But I couldn't. I simply couldn't. The thought of feigning tenderness, of smiling into a camera lens while my soul was screaming, was abhorrent. My legs, which felt like lead just moments ago, suddenly propelled me forward. I pushed myself up from the sofa, the movement stiff and ungraceful.
"I can't," I whispered, the word a raw, guttural sound that was barely audible even to myself. I didn't wait for a response, didn't look at either of them. My eyes were fixed on the doorway, my only escape. The opulent living room, with its heavy drapes and polished surfaces, felt like a cage closing in. I had to get out. I had to breathe.
With a desperate surge of adrenaline, I turned and practically ran from the room, the sounds of Evelyn's sharp intake of breath and Jensen's stunned silence fading behind me as I bolted towards the solitude of my own desperate corner of the house.
The familiar click of my bedroom door shutting behind me was the only sound I wanted to hear. The opulent space, meant to be a sanctuary, had always felt more like a luxurious prison. Now, it was just a temporary staging ground for my escape. Evelyn's words, Jensen's agreement, the thought of smiling for fake "candid" photos while Isabella carried his child – it all coalesced into a single, overwhelming truth: I couldn't do this anymore. This was the final straw that broke me.
My hands moved almost mechanically, driven by a raw, primal need to flee. I pulled a duffel bag from the back of my closet, the one I used for quick trips, and started stuffing clothes into it indiscriminately. A few pairs of jeans, a couple of sweaters, a t-shirt. I grabbed my passport, my wallet, and my phone. No jewelry, no designer clothes, nothing that tied me to this gilded cage. I didn't care about the PR marriage anymore, not about the carefully constructed image, not about the fallout. My heart had shattered, and the pieces were too small to mend, too sharp to ignore. All that mattered was getting out.
The bag was light, reflecting the few material things I truly valued now. I zipped it shut, the sound a small victory. Taking a deep, trembling breath, I walked towards the bedroom door, then down the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing unnaturally loud in the silent house. Each step was a defiance, a reclaiming of myself.
As I reached the grand foyer, the massive front door looming like a gateway to freedom, I saw them. Evelyn stood near the living room entrance, phone still to her ear, her face etched with a fresh wave of frustration. Jensen was a few feet away, leaning against the archway, his arms crossed, his gaze distant.
They both looked up, simultaneously, as I reached the door. Evelyn's eyes widened, dropping her phone arm slowly. Jensen's head lifted, his jaw slacked, his expression morphing from detached pensiveness to utter disbelief. My duffel bag, clutched in my hand, was all the explanation they needed.
"What do you think you're doing?" Evelyn's voice, though hushed, carried the sharp edge of a razor. Jensen just stared, his eyes wide and unreadable.
I didn't answer. I just reached for the doorknob, the cool metal, a promise of liberation.
I yanked the heavy front door open, the cool evening air a jolt against my skin. My heels clicked rapidly across the flagstone path, the duffel bag thumping against my hip with each desperate stride. I fumbled for my car keys, the metal cold and slick in my trembling hand. The familiar gleam of my old, reliable sedan, parked discreetly at the side of the sprawling driveway, felt like a beacon of hope.
Just as my fingers wrapped around the car door handle, I heard them.
"Wait! Get back here!" Evelyn's voice, sharp and furious, cut through the quiet night.
I glanced over my shoulder. They were hot on my heels. Evelyn, her face contorted with a mixture of disbelief and strategic panic, was power-walking across the gravel. Jensen was right beside her, his long strides easily closing the distance, his eyes wide and unreadable in the dim light. They looked like a perfectly orchestrated pursuit, the publicist and the celebrity, but this time, the target was me.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of impending freedom. I ripped open the car door, threw the duffel bag onto the passenger seat, and practically dove into the driver's seat.
"Don't you dare!" Jensen's voice, raw and desperate, reached me just as my hand found the ignition.
My hand twisted the key in the ignition, and with a satisfying growl, the engine roared to life. The familiar vibration of the car beneath me was a tangible connection to my freedom, a defiant heartbeat against the chaos unfolding around me.
"Don't you dare!" Jensen's voice, raw and desperate, cut through the night just as the engine caught.
I looked up, my breath catching in my throat. He was no longer just beside Evelyn; he had moved. Jensen stood directly in front of the car, bathed in the sudden glare of my headlights, his silhouette stark against the dark house. His arms were spread slightly, a human barrier, his face a mask of desperation and something unreadable.
Evelyn skidded to a halt beside him, her chest heaving, her expression a mix of fury and genuine alarm. "Get out of the car!" she practically shrieked, her voice losing all professional composure. "You are making a monumental mistake!"
But my eyes were fixed on Jensen. He was a wall, an obstacle to my escape, a living embodiment of everything I was running from. The cold, empty marriage; the public charade; Isabella's pregnancy; the crushing weight of a life not my own. It all coalesced into a fierce, blinding anger.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles white. My voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady, a low, dangerous growl. "Move, Jensen."
I didn't ask. I commanded.
Part 3
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The Arrangement
Master List
Characters: Jensen x Reader
Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, infidelity, arranged marriage
A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one.
This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family.
Minors DNI 18+
The ornate invitation, thick with gilded script, felt like a death sentence in my hands. Jensen Ackles. The name shimmered, famous and impossibly handsome, but carried the weight of a life not my own. Our families, both prominent in the entertainment industry, had orchestrated this. Not for love, but for PR, for image, for damage control after some whispered scandal I wasn't privy to. I knew, even before the ink dried on the pre-nup, that this would be a loveless marriage. It broke me before it even began.
The wedding itself was a blur of flashing cameras and forced smiles. Jensen, polite but distant, barely met my eyes. He had a girlfriend, a beautiful actress whose name I’d only seen in tabloids, and he made it clear she wasn't going anywhere. My heart, still foolishly clinging to the hope of connection, ached with a dull, constant throb.
The honeymoon was a cruel joke. A sprawling villa in Tuscany, designed for romance, became a monument to my solitude. Jensen spent most of his time on calls, or away, presumably with her. I explored ancient cobblestone streets alone, ate gourmet meals across an empty table, and cried silent tears into opulent silk pillows.
Back home, in the house that was now ours but never truly mine, the loneliness deepened. Our lives were separate, intersecting only for public appearances, where we’d play the part of the happy couple. But behind closed doors, a chasm yawned between us.
Then came the nights when the chasm wasn't enough. He started bringing her to the house. Not subtly, not sneaking around, but openly, as if daring me to protest. I'd hear their laughter echoing from the living room, her sweet voice mingling with his deep rumble. My stomach would clench. My breath would catch. And then, the undeniable sounds of them, just doors away. Sharing what should have been our marital bed.
Those nights, the guest room became my sanctuary, my prison. I’d lie awake, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, the cold air seeping into my bones. The irony was a bitter taste: I was married to a man who shared his bed, his life, his love, with someone else, all while I was a phantom in my own home.
The old house groaned around me, a symphony of settling timber and whispering drafts. It was sometime in the dead of night, the kind of hour where shadows played tricks and silence felt heavy. I couldn't sleep, not with the faint, unsettling sounds from the master bedroom echoing in my ears. Pushing myself from the lonely expanse of the guest bed, I wandered to the kitchen, a phantom in my own home.
The moon, full and indifferent, poured silver light through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the cold air. I leaned against the counter, the cool granite a small comfort against the heat of my shame and sorrow. A single, silent tear tracked a path down my cheek, then another, and another. My throat ached with unshed sobs, a physical manifestation of the crushing weight on my chest. I hugged myself, as if to physically hold my breaking heart together.
"Can't sleep?"
The voice, deep and startling, shattered the quiet. I flinched, my eyes snapping open to find Jensen standing in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the softer light of the hallway. He was dressed in sweats, his hair mussed, looking more human and less like the polished celebrity I was forced to call my husband. My breath hitched, and I quickly swiped at my face, a pathetic attempt to hide the evidence of my grief.
He stepped further into the room, the moonlight catching the slight furrow in his brow. He saw it, of course. The streaks on my cheeks, the redness around my eyes, the tremble in my lower lip I couldn't quite control. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – surprise? Discomfort? Pity? I couldn't tell, and frankly, I didn't want to know.
"Are you... okay?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost tentative.
The question hung in the air, mocking me. Was I okay? Married to a stranger, living in a gilded cage, my husband sharing his bed with another woman while I cried myself to sleep in a guest room. No, I wasn't okay. Not even close. But I couldn't say any of that. The words were trapped, choked by the lump in my throat. I just shook my head, a slow, desolate movement, and another tear escaped, tracing a path I was too tired to wipe away.
His question, "Are you... okay?" was a cruel echo in the vast, silent kitchen. How could he even ask? Did he truly not see the shattered pieces of me scattered across this cold floor, illuminated by the unforgiving moonlight? My feelings were a tangled mess, a suffocating knot of humiliation, despair, and a raw, aching loneliness.
Humiliation burned brightest. To be caught like this, exposed and vulnerable, by the very man who was the architect of my misery. He had a girlfriend, a beautiful, vibrant woman he openly loved, and here I was, his supposed wife, a tear-stained ghost in the middle of the night. Every cell in my body screamed in protest at the indignity of it all. I felt like a pathetic cliché, the discarded wife, and his mere presence amplified that feeling to an unbearable degree.
Then there was the despair, thick and heavy like the night air. This wasn't just about a bad marriage; it was about the death of a dream I hadn't even realized I held. The dream of a partner, of connection, of warmth in a shared life. That dream had been suffocated before it could even breathe, replaced by this barren reality. Each silent tear was a drop of pure sorrow, mourning a future that would never be.
And the loneliness. Oh, the profound, desolate loneliness. It was a physical ache in my chest, a hollowness that no amount of grand house or expensive wedding could fill. To be so close to someone, sharing a name, a home, a public facade, yet to be utterly, completely alone in my pain. He was standing right there, looking at me, but he might as well have been a million miles away. His question, though perhaps well-intentioned, felt like a chasm opening between us, highlighting the vast, unbridgeable distance.
There was also a tiny, desperate flicker of resentment. Resentment that he got to have it all – the fame, the woman he loved, and the convenient PR marriage – while I was left with the wreckage. Resentment that he seemed so oblivious to the devastation he had wrought, or perhaps, simply indifferent.
I couldn't speak. The words would have come out as shattered fragments, choked by tears and anger. So I just shook my head, a silent acknowledgment of my brokenness, hoping that in that simple gesture, he might grasp the immensity of what I was feeling, even if I couldn't articulate it.
He stood there for a long moment, watching me, his silhouette framed by the moonlight. I braced myself for something – an apology, an explanation, anything. Instead, a soft, almost melancholic smile touched his lips. It wasn't a genuine smile, not one that reached his eyes, but a fleeting, distant expression that offered no comfort, no understanding. He didn't say a word, just held my gaze for another beat, then slowly turned and walked back into the shadows of the hallway, his footsteps fading as he ascended the grand staircase.
The click of the master bedroom door closing was a definitive, brutal sound. It was the final nail in the coffin of my shattered hope, a punctuation mark to the end of any illusion that he might care, even a little. The air in the kitchen, already cold, seemed to drop several degrees.
A ragged, uncontrollable sob tore its way from my chest, hot and violent, unlike the silent tears that had preceded it. It was a primal sound of raw pain, of utter desolation. I crumpled against the counter, my knees giving out, and slid to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself in a desperate attempt to contain the torrent of grief. The moonlight, once soft and ethereal, now felt like a spotlight on my humiliation, my brokenness, my profound, aching loneliness. He had seen me, truly seen me, and offered nothing but a hollow smile before retreating to the arms of the woman he loved. And that, more than anything, was the most painful truth of all.
The next morning, the kitchen felt strangely quiet, the early light doing little to dispel the lingering chill from the night. I was nursing a mug of lukewarm tea, my eyes gritty from lack of sleep, trying to construct some semblance of normalcy for the day ahead. The taste of the tea was bitter, a fitting parallel to the taste in my mouth. I had scrubbed my face raw, trying to erase the evidence of last night's breakdown, but the ache in my chest remained.
Then I heard it. The familiar murmur of voices, growing louder as they approached the kitchen. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. I gripped the mug tighter, my knuckles white. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
The double doors swung open, and they stepped in, bathed in the gentle morning light. Jensen, looking impossibly put-together even in a casual t-shirt and jeans, his eyes a little tired but otherwise betraying nothing. And beside him, she. Her name was Isabella, a cascade of sun-kissed hair and a smile that seemed to radiate genuine happiness. She was dressed in one of Jensen's shirts, too big for her, making her look endearingly rumpled and utterly at home.
They were laughing about something, a shared intimacy that felt like a physical blow. Isabella leaned her head on Jensen’s shoulder, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his arm. They looked like a couple in a magazine spread, effortlessly beautiful and deeply connected. The air crackled with their comfortable presence, a stark contrast to the brittle silence that usually surrounded me.
Jensen’s gaze flickered to me, a brief, unreadable glance before it slid away. Isabella, however, offered a bright, almost apologetic smile. "Good morning!" she chirped, her voice warm and friendly, making the knife twist deeper. "Did you sleep well?"
The question was innocent, yet it felt like a barb, a cruel reminder of my lonely night. I managed a tight, polite nod, unable to force words past the lump in my throat. I watched as Jensen moved to the coffee machine, his movements fluid and familiar, while Isabella went to the fridge, their morning routine already seamlessly intertwined. They were playing house, in my house, in what was supposed to be our home.
Isabella's bright "Good morning!" and her innocent, "Did you sleep well?" twisted the knife deeper. Did I sleep well? The words echoed in my mind, dripping with bitter irony. How could I sleep well when my husband was in the next room, sharing our marital bed with another woman? My throat tightened, a wave of nausea washing over me. Every fiber of my being screamed at the injustice, the sheer audacity of their blatant happiness in my space. The humiliation was a physical ache, a hot flush that spread across my cheeks. I wanted to scream, to shatter the idyllic scene they were creating, to expose the sham of our marriage. But the words caught in my throat, choked by a cocktail of despair and fury.
I forced a tight, brittle smile, a mask I'd perfected over these six months. "Good morning," I managed, my voice barely a whisper. My gaze, however, found Jensen. He was pouring coffee, his back to me, seemingly oblivious to the radiating pain in the room. This was it, the perfect moment to remind him. The only leverage I had in this twisted arrangement was the carefully constructed public image we presented.
"Jensen," my voice, though still quiet, held an edge of steel. He paused, mug in hand, and slowly turned to face me. His eyes, usually so expressive on screen, were unreadable. "Don't forget," I continued, making sure my voice carried, "we have that interview later today. The one about 'our journey' and 'our wonderful first six months of marriage.'"
The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. Isabella, who had been reaching for a fruit bowl, froze, her hand hovering in mid-air. Her bright smile faltered, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before she quickly composed herself. Jensen's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and his eyes, for a fleeting moment, met mine with a sharp, cold glint. The unspoken challenge was clear between us: We have a show to put on. And I was just the unfortunate co-star.
Part 2
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Yellow Fever
Pairing: Dean Winchester x you | Established relationship
Warnings: Protective Reader, Panic Attack, Hallucinations, Comforting Dean, Angst and Fluff, Tenderness
Summary: A one-shot remake of the “Yellow Fever” episode (Season 4, Episode 6). I’ve always loved this episode, so I couldn’t resist making it a little sappier. Because honestly—who wouldn’t want to be there to pick Dean up when he’s falling apart?
You and Dean are holed up in a motel room while Sam’s out with Bobby, working on a way to get rid of Dean’s ghost sickness. The air feels thick—like it’s holding its breath with you. Dean’s phone rings, and when he answers, you catch Sammy’s voice on the other end. They’ve got a plan. Hope, thin and fragile, stirs in your chest. But when Dean hangs up, his expression twists—panic bleeding through every line of his face.
Then the door slams open so hard it rattles the frame. You flinch instinctively, heart leaping, and both of your heads snap toward the noise.
The sheriff storms in with a gun raised and wild eyes locked on Dean. His voice is a harsh roar, filled with rage and fear. He screams about how he’s not going to let Dean ruin his life. Your stomach drops when you see the telltale rash crawling up his arms.
Everything happens fast—too fast. The sheriff charges, and Dean throws himself in front of you, knocking you aside as they crash together. The gun skitters across the floor. Dean wrestles him down, slamming the man into the coffee table, which gives with a splintering crack under the weight.
The sheriff seizes violently, gasping, screaming. Dean shouts at him to calm down, but it’s no use. The man’s body twists and then goes horrifyingly still.
Dean stumbles back, breath ragged, clawing at his arms like something is trying to crawl out of his skin. He collapses onto the couch, his whole body vibrating with panic.
You rush to him, fall to your knees in front of him, hands flying up to cradle his face. “Baby, hey—look at me. Calm down. Stop, okay?” Your voice shakes, but you need him to hear you, to see you. His eyes won’t stay still—they dart wildly around the room, full of terror.
You grab his hands before he can tear at his skin any further. “Dean. Baby. You’ve gotta focus. Look at me.” You lean in close, willing your voice to ground him. “I’m here. Dammit, I’m real. This isn’t an illusion. You’re gonna be fine. Sammy’s got this. You just need to breathe. Please, baby, breathe.”
Finally, his eyes lock onto yours. There’s so much fear there, it tears at your chest. Without thinking, you crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms tight around him like you can shield him from the weight crushing his mind. One hand slides to the back of his head, gently guiding his face to your neck.
“Close your eyes,” you whisper, voice soft against his temple. “We’re gonna sit this one out. Just you and me, baby. You’re safe. You’re okay. Breathe with me…”
You place tender kisses on top of his head, your heart thudding in sync with the frantic beat of his. Then his body stiffens.
“Please don’t say that… not you,” he growls suddenly, shoving you away so hard you stumble backward. He’s on his feet in an instant, fury overtaking the fear. “How can you say I deserve to go to hell again?!”
You freeze. “Dean, I didn’t—”
“Get out of her, you black-eyed bitch!” he shouts, and before you can react, he lunges.
“Fucking hell—” You gasp as he tackles you, and the breath is knocked from your lungs. Instinct takes over. You roll, scrambling to pin him beneath you, gripping his wrists as tightly as you can.
“Dean! It’s me! Baby, it’s me! You’re hallucinating—please, goddamn it, look at me!”
His arms jerk free and he clutches his chest, twisting, groaning, like he’s being torn apart from the inside out. You scramble back, rising to your feet, helplessness closing in like a noose.
“No, no, no—Dean!” you beg, voice cracking as you watch him shrink into a corner, still clutching at his chest, mumbling Lilith’s name like a broken prayer. Then—
He stops moving.
His body goes still, eyes wide open and unseeing.
You can’t move. You can’t breathe. Your feet are rooted to the floor as terror locks your body in place.
Then, a gasp—sharp and alive. Dean blinks, coughs, then shifts upright, dazed and shaking. The spell shatters, and you rush to him, falling to your knees and wrapping your arms around him without hesitation. He leans into you, all strength gone, and you lower him gently to the floor, cradling him close.
His fingers trail along the skin of his arms where the rash used to be. Eventually, he stills. His head finds your chest, and he buries himself in your embrace, clinging to the sound of your heartbeat. Whatever Sam and Bobby did—it worked. The sickness is gone.
All you can do is hold him. Just hold him and whisper soft “you’re okay” into his hair, over and over, until your own hands stop shaking.
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