impalamistakes

[impalamistakes]

Dean’s POV :

“…Even if it kills me.

And some nights, it almost does.

Tonight’s one of them.

Because his shirt’s ridden up just enough for the swell of his belly to show—bare skin, soft and tight and flushed with warmth—and I don’t even realize I’m moving until my hand’s hovering an inch above it.

Not touching. Just… there.

Close enough to feel the heat.

Close enough that if I breathed a little deeper, my palm would brush him.

I don’t even know what I’d do if I let myself go there.

Just rest my hand? Slide lower? Press my lips to the center of him and whisper some fucked-up prayer into his skin?

I want to feel him flinch. I want to feel him react.

I want to feel him.

But I stop.

Right there.

Because the second I get that close, he makes a sound—a soft shift in his breath, a twitch of his fingers—and I freeze.

Not because I think he’ll wake up.

Because I know if he does, I won’t be able to lie about what I want.

And he’s too tired to have to choose between sleep and me.

So I pull back.

Barely. Just a breath’s worth of space.

I don’t touch him.

I don’t kiss the stretch of skin I’ve been staring at like it’s sacred.

Instead, I close my hand, press it to my chest, and count to ten like a fucking coward.

Because I’d rather ache like this than see him push through exhaustion just to give me what I want.

And God, I want.

So much I can’t see straight.

But I’ll wait.

I always wait for Sam.”

[impalamistakes]

Dean’s POV :

“He’s so warm.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it all day. The heat of his skin, the way his shirt clings tighter across his stomach now. Not a full bump—just a curve, subtle, but there. Like his body’s holding a secret it hasn’t decided to share yet.

And I want him.

Not in some slow, sweet, head-on-the-pillow kind of way. I want to press my mouth to his stomach, taste the warmth of it. I want to nose along the waistband of his boxers and kiss the softest parts of him—where the skin’s starting to stretch, where the hairs are getting darker, where he’s changing.

I want to crawl into that space between his legs and stay there. Let my hands learn him all over again—this new version of him that’s softer in some places and sacred in others.

He fell asleep mid-sentence earlier. Told me his body felt tight tonight—like something inside him was shifting and his skin couldn’t catch up.

I helped him undress. Rubbed that spot low on his back until his breath evened out. Watched him let go while I sat there, hard as hell, trying to pretend I wasn’t picturing him naked under me, full and flushed and wanting.

And now I’m just… here.

Staring.

He smells like peppermint lotion and warm skin and something I can’t name but know down to the bone. His shirt’s barely buttoned. His mouth’s a little open.

And I swear to God, I could wake him. He’d let me. He always lets me.

But he’s exhausted.

His nipples hurt from the fabric of his own damn shirt. He winced earlier just turning over. His body’s doing more than it should have to, and the last thing he needs is me grinding into him like I’m starving.

Even if I am.

So I stay where I am.

One hand on his sleeve, the other clenched tight enough in the blanket to leave marks. Because loving him means wanting him constantly, and choosing not to—over and over—every time he needs sleep more than sex.

Even if it kills me.

And some nights, it almost does.”

Note: All images are AI-generated using custom prompts by me. If you'd like the non-watermarked versions or want something tailored to your vision, feel free to DM me for paid commissions.

[impalamistakes]

“It’s small. Barely anything, really. Just the tiniest push of skin under Dean’s hand. But it’s real. It’s happening.

We don’t talk about it much—not out loud. But today, when I leaned back and his hand settled there, neither of us moved.

He just… stayed. His fingers didn’t press, didn’t explore. Just rested there.

And I swear I felt something. Not a kick or flutter—nothing like that. Just a shift. A fullness.

Like my body finally admitted it was carrying something more.

My nipples have been weirdly sore lately. Not all the time—just when I least expect it. Brushed against the towel too hard this morning and nearly flinched out of my skin. Dean asked what was wrong, and I told him it was nothing.

It’s easier to say that than admit my own chest’s turning against me.

Dean looked at me like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Like it terrified him and calmed him all at once.

I know what he’s thinking. I’ve thought it too. The blood in me. What it could do. What it could make.

But in this moment, I feel… calm.

Like whatever’s inside me isn’t a curse. Like we’re not doomed.

Dean’s so careful with me now. More than ever. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching—it’s like I’m already more than one person to him.

And for the first time, I let myself smile.

Because I think we’re going to be okay.

Scared, sure. Confused, always. But together.

And that’s enough for now.”

Note: All images are AI-generated using custom prompts by me. If you'd like the non-watermarked versions or want something tailored to your vision, feel free to DM me for paid commissions.

[impalamistakes]

“I didn’t sleep last night. Not really. Just laid there feeling… full. Off. Like my skin didn’t fit anymore.

Dean didn’t say much. Just stayed close. His hand stayed on my back the whole time, like he could hold me in my body if I started to slip out of it.

I was too sore to get comfortable. My lower back was screaming—like everything inside me was pressing down too fast, too heavy, too soon.

At one point, I couldn’t even sit up. I tried, and the muscles in my stomach just gave. I panicked. Dean caught me before I slid off the bed.

He helped me pee.

Like, full-on, got me to the bathroom, helped me lean against him, held me up while I tried not to cry from how much pressure there was down there.

I’d been holding it in for hours because I was just too tired to try again. Every time I thought about sitting up, my whole body locked up like it knew better.

And he didn’t say a word. Just stayed steady, like it wasn’t weird. Like I wasn’t shaking in his arms trying to piss while terrified I might bleed instead.

I know how that sounds. I know it’s a lot.

But that’s what it’s like. Already.

My body’s changing in ways that don’t make sense. Warm in places that shouldn’t be. Cramping if I move too fast. Sometimes it feels like something’s flickering deep in my gut—like it’s aware of me.

And I don’t know what I’m carrying.

I don’t know if it’s human.

I don’t even know if I am anymore.

Because I’ve got demon blood in me. I’ve lived with it for years, buried it, tried to pretend it didn’t touch everything I am.

But what if I passed it on?

What if this thing growing inside me is already doomed?

What if I didn’t just get pregnant—what if I damned something into existence?

Dean hasn’t left my side. Not once.

He keeps holding me like he can keep me anchored to something good.

Like he can keep me human.

And God, I need that to be true.

Because I’m scared I’m not just pregnant.

I’m scared I’m a vessel again.

And I don’t know if I’ll survive it this time.”

Note: All images are AI-generated using custom prompts by me. If you'd like the non-watermarked versions or want something tailored to your vision, feel free to DM me for paid commissions.

[impalamistakes]

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel safe enough to just lay down like this again — wrapped in a blanket on the floor, Dean kissing my forehead like it’s all normal.

Like I’m not carrying the weirdest miracle in the history of miracles.

Not with everything going on inside me — physically, emotionally… supernaturally.

Dean says it’s okay to rest. That I’m not weak for needing to stop and breathe.

But sometimes I wonder if he hears the same screaming in my head that I do.

The what ifs. The what the hells. The how the fuck is this even happening.

There’s something about the way he touches me now.

Slower. Heavier. Like he’s memorizing everything before the world takes it away.

Like this moment is something holy.

But there’s heat in my veins that shouldn’t be there. Something old. Something unnatural.

And every time Dean rests his hand on my belly, I swear it gets stronger.

It’s mine. And his. But also… not.

There’s demon blood in me. That’s not just a metaphor — it’s biology.

I’ve felt it twist me from the inside before. I know what it can create.

So yeah, I’m scared. Of what it is. Of what I am.

But I keep holding on to this: his kiss, his calm, the weight of his love on my belly.

Because if it all goes to hell tomorrow, at least I’ll have tonight.

Too much? Probably.

But you don’t carry something like this without turning into someone else a little.

And this is me now.”

Note: All images are AI-generated using custom prompts by me. If you'd like the non-watermarked versions or want something tailored to your vision, feel free to DM me for paid commissions.

[impalamistakes]

“They said I was pregnant.

And for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Dean’s hand didn’t move from my chest. Maybe because he knew if he let go, I’d fall apart.

I’m not scared of being pregnant—not in the way most people would think. I’m scared of what I’m carrying.

Because it’s not just cells dividing in there. It’s mine. And I’m not normal. I haven’t been since I was six months old.

There’s demon blood in me. It’s part of who I am, in ways I’ve never been able to shake.

And now? Now I can’t stop thinking: what if I pass it on? What if I’m not carrying a baby, but a demon? Or something worse? Half human, half hellspawn—something with my blood and none of my soul.

Dean doesn’t say it, but I can see it in his eyes. He’s trying so hard to be calm for me, but we’ve both read the lore. Demon-blooded vessels don’t just have kids—they breed power.

And I don’t want that. God, I don’t want that.

I just wanted to be his.

Now I’m his and this… and I don’t know what that makes me.

But I’ve learned to stop spiraling. To stop seeing myself as a ticking time bomb.

We take it one day at a time now. And I’m learning it’s okay to be scared—so long as we’re scared together.”

Note: All images are AI-generated using custom prompts by me. If you'd like the non-watermarked versions or want something tailored to your vision, feel free to DM me for paid commissions.

[impalamistakes]

“Morning’s barely broken and Dean’s already got me wrapped in his love—fingertips tracing my skin, his warmth grounding me. I’m carrying our future, and he makes me feel seen, safe, cherished. No rush, no noise—just us, quiet and close, before the world wakes up. This is the kind of love I never knew I needed but now can’t live without.”

Note: All images are AI-generated using custom prompts by me. If you'd like the non-watermarked versions or want something tailored to your vision, feel free to DM me for paid commissions.

[impalamistakes]

“Mornings aren’t quite what they used to be. There’s this odd pressure and a weird little dance going on inside me. Still, coffee helps, so that’s something. Dean’s probably already up and about, pretending he’s not worried but checking in more than usual.”

Note: All images are AI-generated using custom prompts by me. If you'd like the non-watermarked versions or want something tailored to your vision, feel free to DM me for paid commissions.