myceliumsunshine

[myceliumsunshine]

the fact that he'll always have the scars of y/n's initials, that's what gets me

sam winchester x cupid struck! reader

lovesick

description: a cursed cupid’s arrow strikes you mid-hunt, leaving you desperately, obsessively in love with Sam. at first, it’s manageable…until it isn’t. your innocent affection spirals into fixation and your mind frays. Sam is forced to confront the terrifying reality that your trying to kill him…out of love.

genre: creepy • violence • obsession • fluff • 4k words

spn masterlist

You don’t notice the sting right away.

The day is hot, the kind of dry summer heat that sinks into your spine and makes your boots feel heavier than usual. The three of you had been canvassing behind a victim’s property, some rust-colored farmhouse just outside of Liberal, Kansas, chasing the latest lead in a strange string of crimes that Dean insisted reeked of “Cupid shenanigans.”

You’re halfway through crunching across brittle weeds when something flickers. Not in front of you, but inside you. A brief pinch on your left breast, too quick to make sense of. You reach up, scratch at the spot absently, but it’s gone.

Then Sam speaks.

Just a simple, casual question aimed at Dean about the witness timeline, but his voice echoes. Rattles in your brain and fills every corner with warmth and familiarity. 

You blink.

And suddenly everything feels off-kilter, like the wind has gone too quiet, like the sky has dimmed a shade too early, tinged a shade of hazy pink.

But Sam... Sam is the only thing that’s still sharp in your vision. Clearer than he should be. His mock FBI suit stretched across the wide expanse of his shoulders. The way his hair curls against his neck in the heat.

The few sweatdroplets clinging to his sideburns and around his temples. 

The exact pattern of scruff on his jaw.

Your heart knocks once against your ribs, its speedy pulse fills your eardrums, hard.

You must be tired. That’s all. You’ve been on edge all week. Travel, interviews, another motel that smelled like mildew and carpet cleaner. Maybe you’re just grateful. 

Grateful for his anchor-like presence. 

For the way he always walks slightly behind you in unfamiliar areas, like a silent promise he’s watching your back.

Yeah. That’s it. __

“Hey, you good?”

You jolt at the sound of his voice again. You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing outside the car, staring into the open sky like a sleepwalker.

Sam stands in front of you with a bottle of water, brows drawn slightly. You think he must’ve just come out of the gas station, but it felt like he’d been gone for…ages. 

What if he forgot something and goes back inside, then you’d have to wait all alone here, again. 

Without so much as a second though, you wrap your arms around his waist and tuck your face into his chest.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” you murmur, muffled against him.

He freezes a little before rubbing your back soothingly. “I... I did. Through the window.”

You tug his jacket unconsciously. “But I didn’t hear you.”

There’s a pause, like he’s trying to work something out.

You don’t move. Why should you? It feels better like this, anchored. The waves of uneasiness crashing against the shoreline of your stomach and inside your chest eases a little.

The bells of gas station door ring again and Dean steps out, nursing an arm full of snacks. 

He whistles under his breath. “Clingy much?”

But you don’t care. Sam is here. Sam is fine.

But when he gently pulls back and forces a soft smile, gaze flitting around your lovesick face under scrunched eyebrows, something about it feels distant. __

You start noticing little changes, but they all feel... good.

You just need to see Sam, that’s all. 

So you sit there beside him on the motel desk, taking in the veins in his hands as he flips through an old lore book, the bend of his thumb tapping against the hardcover, the way his eyes narrow when he’s thinking, the slight shift in his shoulders when he catches something useful.

“Well, it says here an evil Cupid could corrupt a heart, causing it to blur the lines between love and violence…” 

Every time he talks, you feel like someone’s muted the rest of the world. 

Even Dean’s gruff yammering becomes muffled, dim, distant in comparison to the honeyed words coming out of Sam's pink lips.

You want to be near him.

Not to hear what it is he has to say, but feel the vibrations of his vocal cords as he spills whatever’s occupying that big beautiful brain of his. 

So you shift, scootching closer from your seat next to him.

Close. 

Closer.

Until your head rests against his shoulder, jaw agape as he talks away, ignorant to the short concerned glances he sends down in the midst of it all. 

You laugh a little, classic Sammy. Always so worried.

It’s so cute how he worries about you like that. 

Only you.  

Maybe he thinks something’s wrong. 

But nothing's wrong, no. It doesn’t feel wrong. If anything, it feels overdue.

Later he gives you that same look, confusion riddled his dewy eyes when you trail behind him from room to room in the motel. 

Then, again, when your hand shoots out to deathgrip his shirt when he opens the door to go grab ice. 

What if something happens to him? What if he walks out and never comes back because some filthy demon like Meg or Yellow Eyes takes him?

He sighs, giving you a slow look when you grab his sleeve for the third time that hour.

“I’m just stepping into the hallway,” he says carefully, leaning down a bit to meet your dilated eyes.

You shrug and huff like he’s the one being irrational here. “I know. I just didn’t want to lose track of you, that’s all.”

His mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. __

Later that day, you're sitting in the corner of a small-town diner booth while Sam interviews one of the victims. 

Your cheek rests against your knuckle as you stare across the room, eyes locked on him.

He’s talking again, explaining timelines, asking about emotional shifts, behavioral red flags.

“W-well it was like he was…obsessed with me, but he wanted to hurt me at the same time—” the victim sputtered. 

You barely register the weeping woman’s answer. All you see is the way Sam’s brows furrow over his glistening eyes in sympathy, how calm he stays, how much he cares. You feel full just watching him. 

Full and empty at the same time. 

Like if he looked at you with those eyes, everything would feel complete again.

Someone waves a hand in front of your face.

Dean.

Of course.

“Yo,” he mutters. “Googly eyes, you in there?”

You blink slowly. “Huh?”

He scoffs, “You were staring like he’s a damn steak. Creeped the lady out.”

You glance at the loser woman he was talking about across from Sam, she looks uncomfortable. Sam, meanwhile, is giving you a strange sidelong glance.

You try to smile. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

Dean doesn’t look convinced. 

Neither does Sam. __

The car ride to Bobby’s is quiet at first.

As always, Dean drives while Sam navigates.

You should be in the backseat, that’s usually your spot, but the thought of being that far away from Sam makes that gnawing feeling in your chest worse.

Instead, you slide into the front beside him before Dean can stop you.

You hook your arms gently around Sam’s left arm, resting your head against his shoulder as he squints down at the map in his large hands.

It amazes you how quick he is to understand the myriad of roadways. 

“You’re the best at reading maps,” you murmur as he goes over the directions.

Dean scoffs. 

Sam pauses then huffs a little. “Uh... thanks I–guess?”

“Hm…You’re always so focused.” 

He gives you a strained smile.

Dean’s voice is dry. “Okay, that’s it. She’s tagged.”

“Tagged?” Sam furrows his brow, “What like—Cupid tagged?”  

“She’s freakin’ drooling all over you!” Dean grimaces. 

“What?” you ask, wiping at your agape mouth, “What do you mean?”

Sam gives Dean a warning look, before slowly unhooking your fingers from his bicep. “Nothing, sweetheart. We’re just...bouncing around theories, y’know?”

The way they’re looking at you makes your stomach twist, not because you feel wrong, but because they seem so far away all of a sudden. 

Like they’re behind a glass wall.

You glare at the hand Sam used to unfurl your fingers, as though they’d committed the act on their own accord.

You don’t want distance. You want Sam. __

Bobby’s place usually smells like engine oil, old paper, and refuge, but all of that crap is masked under Sam's scent. 

Warm, soapy, and woodsy.

At dinner, Sam finally manages to peel his sore lips away from yours, gently coaxing you off his lap, promising that he’ll cuddle so long as you eat something that isn't his face. Dean’s got his head dipped down, swallowing every morsel as always. Sam only pokes at the stale takeout, shooting careful glances your way, worried you’d flip the switch and become murderous any second.

Dean taps Sam’s arm mid-sentence, reaching across the table to grab the salt, and that's all it takes. 

Sam feels you stiffen beside him. He glances your way, hoping he imagined it.

But then he sees your hooded eyes shooting daggers at Dean, at Bobby, then back down again. He jolts a little when the knife and fork in your hands jam into your food with a little more aggression than you intend to. 

Dean chuckles in disbelief. “What? You’ gonna throw hands because I brushed his shoulder?”

You don’t answer. You don’t blink. You just keep cutting into your food with all the tenderness of a buzz saw.

Bobby gives Sam a knowing look.

You’re still staring, not at Dean, but at Sam, like your thoughts are miles away. 

And Sam has no idea where you’ve gone. __

As Bobby, Dean, and Sam murmur in hushed tones near the kitchen counter, you sit by yourself on the couch with your back to them, humming softly to fill the silence, occasionally throwing a glance over your shoulder to make sure Sammy hasn’t run out. 

He’d meet your eyes with a jumpy smile and nod, shoulders finally un-tensing when you grinned and turned away.  

Sam tries to defend you, to explain it away. Stress, exhaustion, maybe even dehydration. 

But he couldn’t deny that every time your eyes met his today, his heart practically dropped to his ass.

You smiled, hummed, touched his arm when you passed behind him on the motel couch.

But the smile never reached your wide, unblinking eyes, a devoted gaze so thick it felt like molasses, syrupy and slow and impossible to wash off.

As Bobby and Dean argue over the next course of action, the hairs on the back of his neck stand, like he can feel your eyes boring holes at the back of his neck, but he wills himself not to turn around.

That is until Dean’s voice drops to a harsh whisper, 

“Okay–who the hell gave heart eyes a damn knife!?”

A knife?

Sure enough, when he glances over, there you are, seated cross-legged on the couch, knife in hand as your thumb trails along its edge.

You don’t look violent, not yet at least. If anything, you look… pleased, serene. 

He shivers, then mutters, “It’s the one I gave her.”

Bobby and Dean look at him like he’s lost his damn mind.

“You what?”

Sam sighs harshly, “It was before, alright? When she was normal, I didn’t know that she’d become all…” His voice trails off in mild horror as you then rise and walk slowly to Bobby’s hallway closet door.

You don’t know why, but suddenly you feel the need to carve slowly. So you bring the blade up against the hardwood and press down. 

You tongue at the corner of your mouth, furrowing your brows as you press harder, careful not to mess up. 

After a few moments, you step back to admire your work.

A nice big heart. 

Inside it, the letter S... and your first initial. 

You smile to yourself, unable to help the laugh that escapes you, soft and sharp, just like love. 

As you trace your fingers into the engravings, you wonder how soft and plump Sammy’s precious big heart must be. 

Especially in contrast with the glinting blade of your knife. 

Sammy’s knife. 

You ponder over how pretty the red tracings would look if you just doodled your initials right onto his lifeline. Nice and forever. 

The more you mull it over, the stronger the desire becomes to swoop the naive heart out of his chest and brand it for good. 

Maybe then Bobby, Dean, Meg, the Yellow eyed demon, Lucifer—even those whiny women at each victim interview—would finally keep their paws off your soulmate. 

When you turn around, they're still murmuring. 

And poor Sammy, he looks so worried. 

Maybe it was about the hunt. 

Huh.

Strangely enough, you couldn’t recall what the hunt was about, what even brought the three of you here in the first place. 

All you knew was that they’d been trying to snatch Sam away from you from the moment it started.

Maybe you could just…get rid of them.

Then you could get Sammy alone, make your binding official. 

While your thoughts spiral, Bobby rests a heavy hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Dean’ll try to summon Cas to track the Cupid down, but…are you sure you can handle her on your own?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you wearily. 

“Yeah,” He finally nods, but his throat is tight, voice coming out weaker than he expected, “I’ll be fine.”

__

Once the door clicks shut, Sam keeps an eye on you from afar. 

You're seated on the couch again, legs tucked underneath you. His heart catches in his throat when you catch his gaze. 

You beckon him, a tiny wave of your hand, the glint of the knife in your palm catches the light.

He stiffens.

“Come here.” 

Sam blinks once, then stupidly looks over his shoulder like maybe you're asking someone else even though it’s just the two of you.

Your soft expression falters for the first time. 

You exhale, annoyed. “Yes, you, Sammy. Come here.”

He hesitates, sweaty palms brushing against his thighs before moving to sit on the couch, carefully choosing the far edge.

You laugh gently, “Relax. I don’t bite.”

“Oh—yeah… right.” Sam swallows hard, then scoots a millimeter closer.

Just to seem less like prey. 

In one fluid motion, you rise. Before he can brace or push you away, you plop yourself right in his lap.

His hands rise instinctively, either to steady or defend himself, he doesn’t know which.

But you let out a pleased little sigh, leaning against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

That’s when Sam notices how warm you are. Too warm, heat radiates off your skin like a stove, sinks into his ribs like syrup poured too thick. 

Sweat beads along the side of his neck, slow and cold.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, plopping the knife down into your lap like it’s done its job for now. 

Then your hands are on his firm shoulders, thumbs kneading into the muscle with startling tenderness. 

Sam doesn’t relax, but lets you keep your hands busy anyway.

You sigh contentedly, before slowly reaching in, lips brushing against his.

He leans closer, lips suddenly meeting yours feverishly, aiming to distract you from the blade. 

You kiss him back with a fiery intensity that knocks his head back against the couch, teeth against teeth, ragged breaths mingling, nose smushing against his.

In the midst of it all, his eyes peel open and fall to the blade again. He makes a slow reach.

Maybe… if he can just ease it away—

Smack! 

He groans in defeat when your hand slaps his away. 

You break apart from him, breathless, flushed, and wild eyed.

“Sammy,” you scold, voice carrying more edge than it had before, “I told you to relax. You’re safe with me.”

He watches the grin on your face dim just a touch, how your pupils have dilated almost completely. His stomach turns, but he fakes a grin nonetheless,

“Sorry, just–had a long day,” 

You frown and brush back the brown locks against his temple, placing a tender kiss there, “You're always thinking so hard.”

Sam lets his guard down just a little, face leaning into your hands.

Your fingers trail down to trace the veins on his neck, feeling the pulse hammering beneath the skin. Then, without warning, you pick up the knife again.

Sam watches as you twirl it slowly, watching the reflection of your hooded eyes twist along the blade. 

“I want to stay here,” you murmur. “With you.”

“We can…ask Bobby to stay a few more days–”

“That’s not what I meant.” You snap.

Sam sees something shift behind your eyes. Quick and subtle, but unmistakable. 

Possession. 

Anger.

Hunger. 

He sucks in a breath as you trail the blunt edge of the knife down to his sternum, pressing it there idly. “Want you with me forever, Sammy.”

“Alright, m-me too, but…” Sam stammers, “Can you put the knife down?—”

“I think I’ll put my initials right...here,” you coo, ignoring him to outline a heart over his chest, featherlight, like you're mapping something out.

Sam’s breath hitches. “Why would you do that?” He whispers, feeling a bead of cold sweat roll down his face.

“So you don’t forget,” You tap the blade against his temple, voice dropping to a chilling whisper, “who you belong to.” 

For a moment there’s a long, insufferably tense, silence.

He shifts suddenly, attempting to stand, but your hand shoots out, shoving him back down against the couch.

He grunts, squirming in place. Your strong, stronger than you should be.

“Y/N,” Sam warns carefully, trying to twist away, “Let me go, please.” 

“No, Sam.” Angry tears brim in your wide eyes, “You're not…leaving me.”

The two of you fumble, boots scraping hardwood as he twists, your breath uneven now, panicked, erratic.

“You can’t just leave!” You hiss again as he finally manages to break free and snatch the knife from the floor.

Just as he’s about to get away he stumbles, trips slightly on the corner of the rug. 

He feels the sharp corner of the living room table crack against the side of his skull, cold and sharp.

And then–

Darkness.

__

He wakes up cold.

A slow throbbing behind his eyes. The coppery tang of blood dripping from his temple and into his mouth.

Blinking through the haze, he realizes three things all at once: He’s in the basement. He’s tied to a chair. You're playing with the damn knife again.

Somewhere to his right, you pace, slow and idle like you're browsing a Sunday market. 

“You were out for a while, didn’t want to start without you,” You say calmly.

His arms are bound tight and he tests the ropes as subtly as he can. Sweat beads down his spine when you turn to look at him with overflowing affection. 

Pure and clean, like none of this is bizarre.

“Don’t worry, Sam” you drawl, “No one’s going to separate us here.”

He lurches as far back as he can when you reach for him, beginning to undo his shirt one button after the other.

“Not Dean…” One down.

“Not Bobby…” There goes the second.

“Not Lucifer…” Then the third.

You rip the shirt the rest of the way, “No one.”

“Hey–w-wait! Please,” He begs, eyes wide as you raise the knife, “Listen to me, you’re not thinking straight.” 

He winces, trying to squirm away as you press the blade firmly against his skin.

“Stay still now,” you warn softly, like you're reminding a puppy to sit. 

His breath shallows as you shakily trace a heart into the firm skin of his chest, calmly shushing him now and then.

A few agonizing groans later, Sam heaves, sighing in relief when you finish carving. 

You collect the trail of crimson oozing out from the shaky cuts with delicate fingers.

“I know, it hurts.” He watches in horror as you pop a bloodied finger into your mouth, eyes rolling back in satisfaction, “But it’ll feel better soon, baby, I promise.” 

You reach for his chest, knife poised, and Sam thinks this is it, his lover’s going to murder him, puncture his chest and carve his heart out.

Then—

There’s a sharp gasp.

Your body jolts violently, before it hits the floor with a sickening thud.

__

There’s a ringing in your ears.

You blink, but the light seems wrong, yellowed, dusty, flickering too harsh along the walls and something tugs at your wrists when you try to move.

Rope.

You lift your head sluggishly. The world tilts sideways.

“—can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank God for Cas…” someone mutters. The voice is gruff, sharp around the edges.

Dean?

Boots scuff the floor. A chair creaks. You can’t quite focus fast enough to follow the movement, and your mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton.

“What’s your name?” Bobby’s voice asks wearily.

You try to answer but it comes out hoarse and small. “Huh?”

“Your name, Heart-eyes.” Dean cuts in, eyes narrowing.

“Ease up, man,” a softer voice warns, and your sluggish heart lurches.

Sam.

You squint and twist toward the sound and find him standing by the kitchen counter, hair ruffled, bandages poking out beneath the collar of his henley. 

There’s purple bruising along his temple and dark circles under his eyes. 

Dean doesn’t look away from you. “I’m just making sure. Spell or not, she came at you like a damn wildcat. I wanna know who we’re really talking to right now.”

You blink again, harder this time. 

“I don’t… remember. I’m–” you pause as a wave of exhaustion hits you, eyelids daring to flutter closed, “I’m so tired.”

“Sounds about right,” Bobby says gruffly from somewhere near the stairwell. “Cupid’s arrow ain’t just a love tap. It hijacks the whole limbic system. Even with the bond reversed, her brain’s trying to figure out which way is up.”

Sam moves closer. “Alright then unbind her, she’s not a threat anymore.”

“Maybe not,” a low voice interrupts.

The three turn to see Cas, “But you must take precaution.” Sam scoffs, “Precaution? The spells worn off Cas–”

“The dopamine and oxytocin in her brain has significantly dropped. She’s going to be irritable, foggy, maybe even aggressive.” Cas interrupts, “We must wait a few hours. Just to be sure.”

You’re barely listening now. The room feels like it’s breathing, walls pulsing, your vision tunneling in and out.

Sam nods reluctantly. “Fine. Keep her bound, but I’m loosening the ropes…and she’s not sleeping in a damn chair.”

You feel motion.

Strong arms lift you gently, your body sagging against a warm chest. Your cheek brushes cotton and skin, you don’t have the strength to protest.

The sheets are cool when you realize it’s Sam who lowers you onto the bed, tucking the blanket up to your waist with the same gentleness he uses to handle old books.

You shift slightly, and then you see it.

His chest.

Bandaged but bruised, the gauze soaked faintly red near the center, right where his heart is.

A rush of sensation barrels into you: the feel of a knife handle in your fist, the taste of his name on your lips, the overwhelming need to keep him yours. 

You see your own hands pressing him down.

Hear his voice begging.

His eyes welling with tears.

His pain.

“No—no…I–what did I do?…,” your voice breaks as your hand shoots out, catching his wrist before he can move away.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, hey,” Sam says quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed, his free hand coming up to steady your shoulder. “You’re okay. I’m okay.”

“But I almost killed you,” you whisper, throat raw. Your hands, still bound, hover as if unsure where they’re allowed to exist. 

Sam glances at the door, then exhales through his nose.

“Dean’s gonna kill me,” he mutters, then he quietly shuts the bedroom door. A moment later, he returns and kneels beside the bed, tugging at the knots on your wrists until they slip free.

You curl into yourself, guilt radiating from every breath.

Sam climbs into the bed behind you, drawing you gently into his chest, careful to shift your weight so you’re not pressing against the wound.

You hesitate for only a second before melting into him. He feels you sniffle again, this time not from fog or fear, but guilt. 

Deep, crushing guilt. 

You lift your head just enough to look at the injury again. “I—how can you forgive me?”

Sam pauses, thoughtful, tired.

“I spent a year without a soul,” he says, voice low against your hair. “Did things I’ll never be able to take back. I hurt the people I love, I hurt you.”

You say nothing. 

He brushes his fingers through your hair.

“You weren’t in control. I know that fog, I know you’d never do what you did if you had a choice.”

You blink, stray tears soaking into the collar of his shirt.

“I’m still sorry,” you whisper.

“I know,” he whispers gently. 

He holds you a little tighter, nuzzling the slope of his nose into your hair.

“Guess its payback for being a soulless dickbag,” he huffs after a beat, voice warmer now.

You let out a weak laugh against his shoulder, “Call us even then.”

poor sammy, can never catch a break.

welp, anyways, what do we think of creepily obsessed y/n?

[myceliumsunshine]

im lying here crying and its all your fault. i mever cry over fics.

Holy Virgin* | Part Twenty-Two

You've shared everything with Sam but one thing—your faith. It’s never been a problem… until Heaven turns its gaze on you, and suddenly, devotion takes on a darker meaning. *Contains sexual material, pregnancy, thoughts of suicide/attempted suicide, virginity and has some religious themes: Minors DNI Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader (Platonic), Castiel x Reader (Platonic) Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage @ladykitana90 @sepho @kinavet Part Twenty-Three Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Your body went still again.

Not the kind of stillness that comes from rest.

Not the kind that promises sleep or peace or healing.

No—this stillness was absolute. Unnatural. A quiet that devoured the room. Like the air itself recoiled from what it knew was coming.

And in that moment—just that breath of space between a heartbeat and a scream—Sam forgot how to breathe.

“No, no, no—(Y/N), stay with me—stay with me, please,” he begged, voice cracked and full of splinters, fingers digging into your shoulders as if his touch alone could anchor your soul. He shook you—softly at first, then harder, his panic rising in waves.

Your head lolled lifelessly to the side.

Your mouth was parted slightly, your lashes brushing your cheeks as your eyes began to roll back, losing what little light had sparked in them just moments ago.

Sam’s voice broke. “(Y/N)!”

But you didn’t stir.

Not even a twitch.

Jody stood at the foot of the bed, blood up to her wrists, your newborn swaddled awkwardly in a towel that had once been white. Her arms cradled him close to her chest, his tiny body slick with blood and amniotic fluid, unmoving. Her breath hitched as she adjusted her grip, her fingers trembling like leaves in a storm.

“He’s not crying,” she whispered, the words barely audible. “Why isn’t he crying?”

Dean shoved past the edge of the chaos, hands slick and shaking as he shoved another towel into Jody’s arms. “Here. Wrap him. Keep him warm—he’s probably just in shock—”

Jody nodded numbly, doing as she was told, bundling the boy into the makeshift cocoon of warmth. Her gaze flicked up—once to Sam, once to you, then back down to the newborn.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she whispered, rocking gently. “Give me a cry. Just one. Let me know you’re here.”

The baby’s chest rose and fell, but no sound came. His limbs twitched, weak and slow.

On the bed, beneath the violent hush of the room, blood spread beneath you like ink in water. It pooled at the seams of the bedding, soaking through gauze, towels, even the mattress below. Your abdomen—still raw, still open—gaped beneath a half-hearted patchwork of bandages. Your flesh was torn and trembling, body pale, eyes vacant.

Castiel had dropped to his knees beside you, palms glowing faintly blue as he pressed them to the gaping wound in your belly. The grace that once poured from him like a river now flickered dimly, like a dying candle.

“She’s hemorrhaging,” he said hoarsely, jaw clenched. “It’s not clotting. Her body is failing—too much blood loss. I can’t—”

Sam bowed over you again, forehead against yours, one hand tangled in your hair, the other trembling as it gripped your bloodied hand.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, baby—stay with me. I can’t do this without you.”

A single tear rolled down his cheek and landed on your temple.

Then—

A flutter.

Your lashes twitched. Your lips quivered.

“Sam?” you whispered, voice thin as thread, barely audible.

His breath hitched. He jolted upright, eyes wide, clutching your hand like it was the last real thing left in the world.

“Yeah. Yeah—I’m here, sweetheart—I’m here.”

You blinked at him slowly, like you were trying to remember the shape of his face. Your lips were pale, bloodless. Your pupils unfocused.

“I saw her,” you murmured. “I saw Mary.”

Sam blinked in confusion. “Mary?”

“She had such soft eyes,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Golden. Like morning light. She said not to be afraid.”

Dean froze where he stood, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and grief.

“She said I was brave.”

You coughed once—wet, sharp—and more blood flecked your lips. Sam gently wiped it away with shaking fingers.

You didn’t notice.

“I saw Jesus too. I think. His eyes were so kind. He looked at me like… like I mattered.”

Dean’s hands pressed harder into your abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding. Castiel gritted his teeth, whispering incantations, prayers, anything, but the light beneath his palms was dimming.

“I saw Sally,” you breathed, the edges of your voice fraying like old fabric. “She told me the baby needed me. Said the baby… the baby’s light. Pure.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Your friend? The one from—”

“Mhm,” you hummed, already fading again. “She said… he’d change things. Said I wasn’t done.”

Jody stepped forward, her voice catching. “(Y/N). Look at me.”

You turned your head slightly.

Jody knelt beside you, her arms wrapped protectively around the small bundle in her towel. She leaned close.

“It’s a boy,” she whispered. “You have a son.”

Your eyes widened slowly, almost disbelieving. “A boy?”

“Yeah,” Jody said with a small, tear-choked smile. “A little boy.”

She gently angled the baby toward you so you could see him—his tiny, red face, his dark hair matted to his scalp, his little hands curled weakly beneath the folds of towel.

Your lips parted.

“My boy,” you whispered, wonder blooming in your fading voice. “He’s… beautiful.”

Sam smiled through his tears, kissing your forehead. “He is. He’s perfect. You did it.”

You inhaled sharply.

And then—

Everything in you gave out.

Your body slackened all at once, like something had been pulled loose from deep inside.

Your hand fell from Sam’s grasp.

Your chest… didn’t rise.

“(Y/N)?”

Sam leaned closer.

“(Y/N)—hey—no, no, no—look at me. Open your eyes—open your eyes!”

Dean’s hands were shaking now. “She’s going cold—”

Castiel looked up, his expression cracked open. “She’s slipping.”

“(Y/N)!” Sam screamed, clutching your face in both hands. “No—please—*stay with me—*don’t go—not now—not after this—not after everything!”

But your lips were still.

Your eyes, half-lidded, stared toward the ceiling without seeing it.

Your skin was losing what little warmth remained.

The silence grew fangs again.

And then—

A sound.

Small.

Wobbly.

But unmistakable.

The baby.

In Jody’s arms, your son let out a thin, warbled cry.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t strong.

But it was enough.

The first breath of life.

The echo of something holy.

Jody gasped, eyes wide with disbelief. “He cried. Oh my God—he’s breathing—he’s breathing.”

Everyone stilled.

But Sam didn’t move.

He was frozen, curled around your unmoving body, face buried in your neck, grief pouring from him in broken sobs that rattled the walls of the bunker.

Your son cried again—stronger this time.

And still���

You were silent.

✦

Sam’s hands trembled as he cradled your face, slick with blood and shaking so violently it was a miracle he could even hold you steady. His fingers, stained to the wrist in the deep, dark red of you, trembled as though they were trying to reverse time — to undo the agony etched across your skin, to pull the light back into your eyes, to will your soul back into your broken, bleeding body.

“Come on, (Y/N)...” His voice cracked, splintered, barely more than a breath, his words sticking in his throat like shards of glass. “Please. Open your eyes. Please—please come back to me.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, lips brushing your bloodied temple as his thumbs swept gently, helplessly, across your cheeks. The skin there was cold now. Too cold. Like something inside you had already left, like you were becoming hollow before he could stop it.

Behind him, the room had fallen into a deafening silence.

Dean stood frozen a few feet away, his hands slack at his sides, blood smeared across his arms from the effort to stop your bleeding. His face was bone-white, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap. He didn’t say a word — couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on you, wide with disbelief, fury, and the dawning terror of loss.

Castiel stood next to him, his hands still faintly glowing with the dying shimmer of grace, but even that was fading now. His gaze dropped, expression unreadable — a strange mix of grief and acceptance that looked unnatural on the face of an angel. He had tried. They all had. But it hadn’t been enough.

The sheets beneath you were no longer white. They were saturated, soaked through and through with the heavy crimson of life lost. The gauze Jody had used earlier was now little more than a damp memory, discarded and useless. The floor beneath the bed was stained, a creeping tide of blood pooling out in every direction, as though the world itself was mourning you in silence.

Jody sat on the ground a few feet away, her legs folded beneath her in a numb, stunned crouch. Her arms were wrapped tightly around your newborn son, rocking him in the softest rhythm — a quiet, unconscious motion born from pure instinct. The towel she had wrapped him in was streaked with blood, her own sleeves soaked through, hands shaking as they clutched the child close. Her lips were pressed tight, no sound escaping — only the tracks of silent tears slipping down her cheeks. She didn’t sob. She didn’t scream. She simply held your son with the quiet grief of a mother who had seen too much — a hunter who had lost too many.

And further still, near the doorway, stood Rowena.

She was still. Too still. Her spine rigid, arms crossed tightly across her chest like she was holding herself together by force alone. But her face—Rowena’s face was raw. The cracks had broken open. Her makeup had smeared, her eyes were rimmed red, and her lips trembled as if her magic was fraying with every breath. She looked at Jody—at the bundle in her arms—and the grief in her expression shifted.

Became something darker.

“That child…” she whispered, and though the words were quiet, they cut through the silence like a blade.

Sam’s head turned slightly, barely able to register the sound through the fog of panic and heartbreak.

Rowena took a shaky step forward, her eyes wild, her voice rising with each word. “He’s… evil. That boy is darkness. Don’t you see? He’s the one who killed her. He’s what did this to her.”

Jody’s arms instinctively tightened around the baby, shielding him from the words like they were poison.

Rowena pointed a trembling finger toward the infant, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “He’s not human. He can’t be. She’s gone because of him. He’s the demon’s spawn—he’s the end of everything—”

“Rowena, stop!” Dean barked, stepping forward, one hand shooting out to intercept her. His voice was sharp, brittle, like it had to break something else to keep from breaking itself. “That’s enough.”

Castiel moved beside her swiftly, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. His voice, low and calm, cut through the rising panic. “You know that’s not true. You know the child is not Lucifer’s. You’ve seen the signs.”

Rowena’s shoulders shook violently beneath his touch.

Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor in a tangle of velvet and grief. “She was so strong,” she whispered, her accent thick with sorrow. “She fought so hard… and still... gone.”

Her sobs broke free then — ugly, wrenching, human. She wept into her hands like someone had ripped the future out from under her feet.

Sam didn’t hear her.

Not really.

He was still curled over you, rocking your body gently as if he could coax warmth back into your limbs, life back into your lungs. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, trying to memorize the shape of it, as if he could keep it, preserve it, protect it. His other hand was pressed to your sternum, hoping—desperately hoping—for the smallest rise, a breath, a twitch, a pulse.

“(Y/N)... you have to fight,” he whispered, voice hoarse, thick with tears. “You’re stronger than this. You’ve always been stronger than me. You can’t leave now. Not after everything. Not after him.”

He looked over his shoulder at the baby—your baby—cradled in Jody’s arms, a tiny bundle of blood and silence.

“You haven’t even held him yet,” Sam choked. “You don’t even know his name.”

He bent lower, pressing his forehead to yours again.

“Come back to me,” he whispered. “Come back to him. Please… please, don’t leave us.”

But still—you didn’t move.

Your chest remained still beneath his hand.

Your skin was turning cool again, lips dusted blue, the glow of life fading beneath the veil of death.

The silence thickened.

Grief pressed down from every corner of the room, wrapping itself around them all.

✦

The bunker was quiet in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. It was the kind of stillness that settled like dust in the lungs—thick, unmoving, suffocating. The overhead lights, dimmed and flickering ever so faintly, cast long shadows across the walls, stretching into the corners like ghosts trying to fill the space you once did. The silence wasn’t empty. It was full—with memories, with grief, with the echo of your laughter that had long since gone quiet.

Every room seemed to ache with absence. The hum of the air vents, the creak of the pipes, the muted shuffle of feet on stone—each sound only reminded them of what was missing. Of who was missing.

In the living room, Jody sat curled in the armchair like a sentinel who had been there for centuries. The leather groaned beneath her weight, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her arms cradled the infant close to her chest, her hold protective, reverent, as if the very act of letting go would shatter what was left of this fragile world. His tiny body was warm against her, a soft, breathing miracle tucked into the hollow of her embrace.

The baby slept, undisturbed by the heaviness pressing in from all sides. One of his hands had escaped the swaddle, fingers splayed in midair like he was reaching for something only he could see. His little mouth worked gently, almost imperceptibly, in a rhythm that matched the rise and fall of his chest. Every now and then, his feet twitched—small, involuntary movements that reminded Jody he was dreaming. Dreaming. Just days old, and already lost in a world she couldn’t follow him into. She wondered if you’d ever held him like this, even once, even for a second. Her throat tightened.

Jody looked down at him and found herself aching.

He was beautiful. Hauntingly so. She took in every detail like she was memorizing something sacred—because maybe she was. The soft swell of his cheek, pink and smooth. The gentle slope of his nose. The impossibly long lashes that lay like shadows against his skin. His tiny mouth, already prone to frowning in his sleep, tugged into a shape that stirred a memory.

A lump rose in her throat.

He looked like you.

He had your jawline—strong and sure even in its newness—and your brow, furrowed just enough to mimic that familiar expression of deep thought, or concern, or stubbornness. Jody could already see it in him—the quiet fire you carried in your bones. The strength that had once fought so hard to protect this little life now nestled in her arms.

Her fingers moved without thought, brushing gently over the baby’s soft, dark hair. It felt like silk under her touch, like something too pure for this world. Her hand lingered there, holding him steady, grounding both him and herself.

“He’s got your eyes,” she whispered into the quiet, voice catching on the edges of the words. She didn’t know who she was speaking to—maybe to the ghost of you still lingering in the air, maybe to herself. Maybe to the baby, who wouldn’t understand but deserved to hear it anyway.

She swallowed, her chest heavy. “You should be here. You should be the one holding him.”

The baby stirred slightly, lips parting in a soft sigh, but didn’t wake.

Jody blinked against the burn in her eyes. She leaned back further into the chair, pulling him tighter against her, as if her arms alone could shield him from all the things you hadn’t been able to. As if she could love him enough to make up for the hole that had been torn in the universe the day you left.

The bunker around her was still. But inside that silence, Jody held the last piece of you left in the world.

And she would never let go.

✦

Far down the hall, buried beneath the bunker’s reinforced concrete and the quiet hum of old power lines, Dean Winchester lay flat on his back atop his unmade bed. The room was dark save for the faint orange glow bleeding in from the crack beneath the door — emergency lighting, a reminder that somewhere, someone might still be trying to hold the world together. But not here. Not tonight.

The ceiling above him stretched blank and endless, a cracked canvas that had become a familiar refuge for his sleepless thoughts. He stared up at it like it might blink back, offer him something — a sign, a shimmer, a crack in the veil. But it remained still. Cold. Empty.

His jaw was clenched so tight it ached, a silent scream trapped behind molars ground raw. His hands, rigid at his sides, had curled into fists without him realizing. Nails bit into callused palms. His chest rose and fell with slow, uneven breaths that sounded louder than they should’ve — like each inhale took more effort than the last.

He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there like that, staring into nothing. Long enough that his eyes felt dry, raw in their sockets, but not from tears — there were none left. Just the kind of emptiness that came after. The kind that carved out hollow places inside of him and echoed.

Eventually, with a breath that trembled more than he meant it to, Dean closed his eyes. Not to sleep — he knew better — but to shut the world out. Just for a moment. Just long enough to pretend he still knew how to reach out. To hope.

He turned his head slightly, cheek brushing the worn flannel of his pillow, and his lips parted like it hurt to even form the words.

“Cas…”

The name cracked from his throat like a prayer torn from dry stone. Fragile. Barely a whisper.

His brows furrowed, and his voice broke again — quieter this time, like a child calling into a darkened room.

“I need to know. Is she…?” He swallowed, the lump in his throat thick and hot and stubborn. “Are you there? Are you with her?”

The silence that followed was not peaceful. It was a silence that screamed. Heavy and unnatural, pressing in from every angle, loud with the things not said. No flutter of wings. No breath of grace. No presence.

Just absence.

Just the walls. The dark. The hum.

Dean's heart thudded painfully against his ribs, too loud in his chest. The stillness of the room became unbearable — a vacuum of grief where even hope refused to live.

He pressed a hand over his face, palm rough against stubble, and drew in a breath so deep it rattled in his lungs. His shoulders shook, just once. Then again. Like something inside of him was cracking and he didn’t have the strength to stop it.

Still, the only answer he got was silence.

And it was the worst kind of torment — not rage, not grief, not punishment. Just the void. The not-knowing. The cruel, crushing weight of no sign at all.

✦

Rowena sat hunched at the kitchen table, a silhouette of quiet ruin beneath the dim flicker of the overhead light. The bunker around her was unnervingly silent — all that power and history and ancient magic built into the stone walls, and yet it offered no warmth, no comfort. Just echoing stillness. Just absence.

Before her, a porcelain teacup sat untouched, its floral rim stained with lipstick from hours earlier when she’d first poured it. The tea had long since gone cold, the faint curls of steam now only a memory. Still, she sat there, eyes fixed on the surface of the brew as though it might ripple with some prophetic message, some whisper from the other side. Something to explain. Something to soothe.

Her fingers were wrapped tight around the cup, knuckles pale and trembling slightly from the effort. Her nails — usually perfectly painted and sharp enough to be weapons — were chipped and uneven, as if she’d clawed through time and fate itself in desperation.

Rowena’s hair, once immaculately styled into cascading waves, hung limp and tangled around her shoulders. Stray strands clung to the tear-slick skin of her cheeks, her curls frizzed from hours of pacing, of collapsing, of holding her head in her hands when the grief twisted too hard in her chest.

The vibrant red of her lipstick had bled and smeared across her lips and cheekbones in ghostly trails, a silent map of how often she’d wiped her face, pressed shaking fingers to her mouth to keep from crying out. The kohl around her eyes had run, dark streaks tracing the hollows beneath — eyes that looked impossibly tired, shadowed with loss, rimmed with red.

Her gaze was locked on the tea, unfocused, haunted. The swirl of liquid inside the cup was all she could bring herself to look at, as if — with enough concentration — she could conjure an image, a vision, a reason.

The silence pressed in on her, a suffocating blanket of things unsaid. Her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of it — not just grief, but helplessness. Regret. Fury at the universe for stealing what little good had clawed its way into her cursed life.

Rowena MacLeod, powerful witch and survivor of centuries, sat crumbling at a kitchen table in the belly of a bunker built by men. And for once, not all the spells in the world could mend the crack that had split her open.

Her voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper.

“Come back to us, darling girl…” she said to the tea. Or maybe to the silence. Or maybe to the ghosts that had taken up residence in her heart.

But no one answered.

Not even the dead.

✦

The war room was silent but for the frantic rustle of pages and the occasional scrape of a mug long gone cold.

Sam Winchester sat at the head of the long table like a crumbling statue — a relic of something once strong and whole, now hollowed out. The overhead lights cast harsh, sterile light onto the cluttered surface before him: open lore books stained with coffee, yellowed pages marked with frantic scribbles, printouts curled at the corners from restless fingers. His laptop sat open but forgotten, its glow casting flickering shadows on his face, highlighting every exhausted hollow.

He looked like death had touched him too. Like it hadn’t just stolen you — it had taken something from him, too, and left a broken man in its place. His eyes were red-rimmed and bruised from lack of sleep, skin pale and stretched thin over sharp cheekbones. The soft stubble on his jaw had thickened into something unkempt, and his shoulders curled inward like the grief itself had collapsed him.

He hadn’t left this room in days. Not really.

Not since you.

Dean had practically dragged him away from your side when it was over, when your body had gone slack in the bloody bed you'd shared, your chest forever stilled. Sam hadn’t wanted to move. Hadn’t wanted to breathe. He had clutched your hand for hours after your soul had slipped away, murmuring your name like a prayer, as if maybe — maybe — God would listen this time.

But no one came. No angels. No miracles.

Only Dean, standing in the doorway with silent tears and a soft “Sammy,” trying to get him to let go.

Sam had fought him. Cried. Begged. But Dean pulled him away anyway, arms locked around him like a brother trying to hold together a shattering dam.

Since then, Sam had sealed himself in the war room with the desperation of a man drowning. He tore through every book in the bunker, scouring lore and necromantic rituals, crossroads deals, obscure resurrection spells, anything — even things he would’ve once deemed too dark, too dangerous. None of it mattered now. The line had already been crossed the second you died.

And somewhere, just down the hallway, was the baby you died to bring into the world.

Your son.

His son.

Sam hadn’t held him. Hadn’t so much as looked at him. He couldn’t. Not when the boy’s very existence felt like a cruel twist of fate. He knew he was innocent, untouched by what had happened — a living, breathing piece of you. But to Sam, he was a raw wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. A reminder of what had been lost in exchange for life.

In your bedroom — no, his bedroom, your bedroom, theirs — your body lay still, covered now by a plain white sheet that could not hide the truth beneath. Blood had dried and turned rust-colored where it soaked into the mattress. The wound across your abdomen had been crudely stitched in urgency, the last attempt to bring your baby into the world as you slipped away.

Rowena had come after Dean called her. She’d taken one look at Sam and said nothing — only stepped into the room where you lay and stood in silence for what felt like hours. Then, gently, she’d offered to use a preservation spell. A fragile, cobbled-together mix of Celtic charm and ancient necromancy to slow decay — to keep your body untouched by time.

It wasn’t resurrection. Not yet. But it was the only way Sam could hold on. The only thing that kept him from unraveling entirely.

Dean hated it. Hated how your body stayed in that room like a ghost that wouldn’t pass on. He wanted to give you a hunter’s funeral. A pyre that kissed the sky in fire and ash, something worthy of the love and fire you carried in life. But Sam had said no. Begged him not to.

And so Dean relented. For now.

In the quiet of the war room, Sam’s hand trembled as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small, silver ring he’d meant to give you.

He hadn’t even proposed yet.

It had been sitting in his pocket the day it happened, burning a hole in the fabric while he tried to find the perfect moment. He’d imagined giving it to you in bed, when the baby kicked and you laughed and told him to stop staring at you like you were the whole world.

But he had.

And now that world was gone.

The ring caught the light as he turned it in his fingers. His vision blurred with tears he could no longer hold back, and his breath hitched painfully in his throat.

“I was gonna ask you…” he whispered into the silence, the words breaking apart before they even left his mouth.

Then the dam broke.

A sob ripped from his chest like it had claws, dragging pain up from someplace so deep it had no name. He doubled over, elbows on the table, forehead pressed to his folded arms as he wept — not gentle, not quiet, but guttural, aching cries that echoed off the stone walls.

No one came. No one interrupted.

The bunker had grown used to this sound by now.

Sam Winchester, once a man of logic and reason, sat crumbling beneath the weight of love that could not be undone, grief that refused to soften, and the impossible hope that maybe — just maybe — there was still some way to bring you back.

And as the war room held him in its cold, watchful silence, the only answer to his cries was the ticking of time.

And the soft, distant cry of a baby down the hall.

✦

Five days had passed.

Five long, unspoken days, measured not in hours or minutes but in the aching stillness that settled like dust over every surface of the bunker.

Outside, the world went on. The sun rose and set without pause. Rain fell and dried. Cars sped along highways. People lived. Laughed. Fought. Loved. Died. But down here, beneath layers of concrete and earth, time had lost its meaning. The clocks ticked, but no one listened. The silence was too loud.

Inside the room you shared — once filled with soft laughter, quiet words in the dark, the sound of your pen scribbling in a journal, or your boots being kicked off after a hunt — now sat in suspended animation. The air felt heavier than it should have. Like it was mourning with them. Every breath taken was reluctant, reverent.

You lay beneath a thin white sheet, unmoving.

The faint rise of your body’s shape was just enough to recognize you, but not enough to pretend you were only sleeping. The color had long since drained from your skin. The warmth too. And yet, the room was kept cold, unnaturally so — the air conditioner humming endlessly to slow what could not be stopped. Candles lined the walls, not for light, but ritual. Protection. Preservation. A hope more desperate than practical.

Rowena sat beside you on the bed — not at the head, where a friend or healer might sit in comfort, but at the edge near your hip, as though unsure how close she deserved to be. Her spine was hunched, hands trembling in her lap, her usual grace swallowed by fatigue. The crimson of her dress dulled by shadows. Her curls had fallen loose from their careful pins, brushing her shoulders like a disheveled veil. And her eyes… gods, her eyes. Red-rimmed and glassy, heavy with magic and mourning.

She had done everything. Every spell she knew. Every ancient rite. Every forbidden word she once swore she’d never utter aloud again. Her voice had gone hoarse days ago from the incantations, and still she had not stopped. Until now.

Now, she sat in silence, save for the whisper of her final spell as it slipped past her lips.

Her fingers hovered inches above your chest, slow and shaking, sketching the invisible lines of the preservation charm — one last time. Old magic, older than even she liked to admit she knew, bloomed faintly in the air. A warm glow flickered over your body, gold threaded with silver, like sunlight on fresh snow.

It clung to you… and then, like a dying breath, it faded.

Rowena let her hand drop to her lap.

And with it, the silence returned.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Swallowed hard.

“That was the last time,” she said, her voice barely more than a tremor in the room’s stillness. Her words weren’t for you. Not anymore. Her head didn’t turn. “Sam… if she doesn’t come back soon…”

She paused — the weight of the words dragging her down like stones in her throat.

“…We’ll have to let her rest,” she finished, voice cracking. “Truly rest.”

At the door, Sam didn’t move. He stood like a statue, knuckles white where his hands were clenched at his sides. His eyes were fixed on you — not your body, but you, like he still saw you there, still believed you could hear him. His jaw was locked, the muscle twitching, his throat bobbing as he forced himself not to fall apart in front of Rowena. Again.

Then, without a word, he turned. Boots scuffed harshly on the floor as he left in a rush, the door swinging shut behind him harder than it should’ve.

Rowena remained.

And for a moment, she didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Then… her composure gave way.

Her shoulders shook violently as sobs tore their way from her chest. No sound escaped her mouth — just gasping, helpless breath as the tears poured freely down her face. Hands trembling, she covered her eyes, as if not seeing you would make it easier.

But it didn’t. Nothing did.

Because even magic — powerful, ancient, impossible magic — couldn’t fix a heart that refused to beat.

And Rowena MacLeod, for all her power and pride, was just a woman mourning someone she loved.

✦

Elsewhere in the bunker — beneath layers of stone and silence — Dean Winchester sat hunched on the worn leather couch in the living room, the muted amber glow of a single table lamp casting long, tired shadows across his face. The air was heavy with the stillness of grief, of words left unspoken and rooms left too quiet. In his arms, nestled close against his chest, was your newborn son — the only piece of you left behind in a world that had taken far too much already.

Dean held him like something both sacred and breakable, as if his touch alone might fracture the fragile miracle sleeping in his arms. The baby was wrapped in a pale blue blanket, his tiny body warm and soft, his breathing slow and steady. One small fist peeked out from the folds of fabric, curling and uncurling in rhythmic sleep, fingers twitching like he was dreaming of something gentle.

Dean’s eyes didn’t leave the baby’s face — that impossibly small face with its perfect features. A button nose. Soft cheeks. Lips that trembled faintly as he sighed in slumber. But what stilled Dean most was how much of you he could see there — your shape in the curve of the child’s mouth, the quiet grace in the lashes that fanned over his cheeks. And it wrecked him. It hollowed out something already bleeding.

He blinked hard, jaw clenching against the sting behind his eyes. The grief clawed at him, unrelenting. Your voice still echoed in this bunker. In the nursery that waited with folded blankets and books you never got to read. In the notes you’d left in the journal. In the promise you made Dean repeat with you — that the baby would be loved, fiercely and wholly, by his uncle. That Sam would never have to do it alone.

But Sam wasn’t here. Not really. Not since the day you died.

The soft creak of a door caught Dean’s attention, but he didn’t move. He knew who it was before she even spoke. Jody stood at the edge of the room, quiet as a ghost, her figure framed by the low hallway light. Her eyes — always strong, always seeing more than most — softened as they landed on the scene before her. Dean holding your child like the world might steal him too.

She stepped in slowly, her voice quiet, as if afraid to break whatever fragile peace had settled over the moment. “Has Sam… said anything? About the baby?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes down, watching the slow rise and fall of the baby’s chest. His jaw tensed, his throat moved like he was swallowing back gravel. When he finally spoke, it was barely audible — a raw scrape of sound pulled from somewhere deep. “No. Not a word.”

Jody sighed, a weary sound that filled the space between them like a cold wind. She moved closer, sinking slowly into the armchair across from Dean. Her tone shifted, no longer tentative — now there was steel beneath it, the kind born of heartbreak and hard-earned strength. “Dean… he made a promise. To her. To you. To this baby.”

Dean looked at her then, just briefly, and the pain in his eyes was unbearable. “I know,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I know, Jody. But he’s not—he’s not here. He’s walking around, breathing, but it’s like he’s not even in his body. Like he left with her.”

“He’s grieving,” Jody said gently, though her voice carried an edge. “We all are. But this little boy…” She nodded toward the baby, who stirred faintly in Dean’s arms. “He didn’t just lose a mother. He can’t lose his father too. Not like that.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, rough and shaky. “I’m trying, okay? I’m doing everything I can. I’ve been feeding him, changing him, rocking him when he cries. I sit in that nursery for hours, just so he doesn’t feel alone. But I’m not his dad, Jody.”

“No,” she said softly. “You’re not. But he has one. And Sam’s still in there, somewhere. Buried under all that guilt and pain. You just have to make him remember who he was before it swallowed him whole.”

Dean looked back down at the baby, one finger brushing gently across the downy hair on his head. The child sighed and shifted, nestling closer against Dean’s chest, instinctively seeking warmth, safety, love.

“He looks like her,” Dean whispered, like it was the only truth left in the world. “Every damn day, he looks more and more like her.”

Jody’s face crumpled, just slightly. “Then you know what she would want. She’d want him to grow up surrounded by love — not silence. She believed in Sam, Dean. So much. She trusted him with everything. Don’t let that trust die with her.”

The silence that followed was thick, pressing in like the walls themselves were mourning. Dean sat still, breathing shallowly, eyes fixed on the baby who held so many pieces of you it made his chest ache.

The room was still. Heavy with ghosts. With promises. With the sound of a baby’s breath, and the hope that somewhere, somehow, Sam would find his way back to the boy waiting for him. The boy who had your eyes.

✦

The war room was swallowed by darkness, broken only by the dull, uneven glow of an aging desk lamp perched precariously on the edge of the battered table. Its flickering orange light cast long, wavering shadows across the cracked stone walls, wrapping the room in a claustrophobic silence that felt as heavy as the weight pressing down on Sam Winchester’s chest.

Sam hadn’t moved in hours. Not a twitch, not a sigh beyond the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest. He sat slumped over the cluttered table, his broad shoulders hunched as if trying to physically bear the crushing grief that squeezed his ribs tighter with every heartbeat. His gaze was fixed—empty, hollow—on the ancient symbols embossed and faded into the cracked leather of the tome before him. The pages, yellowed and brittle, lay still, untouched by curious fingers that once traced their words with hungry intent. But tonight, they remained frozen, as did Sam’s will to turn them.

His fingers rested limply on the worn cover, knuckles paling against the scuffed wood beneath. His breathing was slow, ragged—a barely audible struggle that sounded less like life and more like a man fighting to keep his soul afloat, treading water desperately to avoid the depths pulling him under. The loss had seeped into every fiber of him, unraveling the man who had once been unbreakable.

The heavy thud of boots echoed quietly as Dean stepped into the room. He didn’t announce himself — no knocking, no clearing of throat — just paused in the doorway, his broad frame silhouetted in the dim light. His eyes narrowed, taking in the broken figure of his brother, frozen in grief and silence like a statue carved from sorrow.

“Sam.”

The name fell softly at first, almost a question. No response. The stillness stretched on, oppressive and thick, swallowing the space between them.

Dean’s jaw tightened, his voice losing its gentleness and gaining an edge of steel. “Snap out of it.”

Sam flinched, barely—a flicker of life that was as fragile as a dying ember. But it was enough to pull Dean in, closing the distance with purposeful steps. His arms crossed over his chest, a shield and a challenge all at once.

“You can’t keep hiding in here,” Dean said, voice low but urgent, carrying the weight of all the unshed tears and sleepless nights. “I get it. I miss her too. Every damn minute since she left us.” His voice cracked, betraying the steel beneath. “But this? This isn’t what she would’ve wanted. She wouldn’t want you wasting away in the dark, drowning in silence while your son’s out there, needing his dad.”

That word — son — hit Sam like a fist to the gut, reverberating deep inside his hollow chest. It forced a painful breath to break free, ragged and uneven.

Dean took a step closer, the urgency softening as he lowered his voice. “He looks like her, you know.” His eyes softened, memories surfacing. “It’s kinda freaky, actually. Same nose. Same little frown when he sleeps.” The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched in a bittersweet smile, but his eyes stayed serious. “He deserves more than silence, Sam. And you need to see him — really see him.”

For a long moment, Sam said nothing. His eyes, rimmed red and glassy from too many sleepless nights and tears swallowed, finally lifted from the book to meet Dean’s. The raw exhaustion and sorrow swimming in his gaze cut deeper than any blade.

“I…” Sam’s voice was hoarse, as if he’d forgotten how to speak aloud. “I don’t know how.”

Dean’s expression softened, the brotherly toughness melting into something gentle but firm. “You don’t have to know how.” His hand reached out, briefly touching Sam’s arm — a lifeline, a promise. “You just have to try.”

The weight of the moment pressed down hard, thick silence swallowing the space as Sam sat frozen, battling the storm inside. Then, slowly, like a man pulling himself out of a deep mire, inch by aching inch, Sam rose to his feet.

The war room held its breath, the flickering lamp casting a tentative glow on a man stepping forward — fragile, broken, but still moving toward the faintest spark of hope.

✦

The living room was heavy with quiet — a hush woven from exhaustion and fragile hope. The soft rustle of blankets whispered against worn fabric, mingling with the steady, shallow breaths of those who had not slept properly in days. Warmth from the dim, golden light of the lamps softened the shadows, but it could not chase away the lingering ache that hung in the air like a low fog.

Rowena sat on the aged couch, her posture slightly hunched as she cradled your newborn son close to her chest. Her dark eyes, rimmed red and glossy from tears she hadn’t bothered to hide, stared into the distance with a mix of reverence and raw sorrow. The baby, swaddled snugly in a pale blanket, rested quietly against her, his tiny chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of peaceful sleep. His delicate fingers twitched gently, a small sign of life amid the stillness.

Nearby, Jody knelt on the soft rug, her thumb moving in slow, soothing circles against the baby’s back, a quiet balm in a storm of grief.

The door creaked open softly, and Sam stepped inside, followed closely by Dean. The air seemed to still further, as if the room held its breath. Jody’s eyes lifted immediately, searching the doorway with guarded hope, while Rowena shifted slightly, still clutching the infant with a protective grace.

Sam’s gaze was immediately drawn to the small bundle — so fragile, so new, so achingly real. His breath hitched, his throat tightening as years of pain and longing crashed against the fragile hope nestled in his arms.

His voice trembled when he finally spoke. “Can I…?” His eyes never left the baby. “Can I hold him?”

Rowena didn’t answer with words. Instead, she rose slowly and moved forward with a reverence that seemed almost sacred, carefully placing the newborn into Sam’s outstretched arms. Her hands lingered for a moment, as if reluctant to let go of the small life she’d protected through the worst of it.

Sam’s hands trembled as he cradled the baby — gentle but urgent, like he was holding the last fragile thread keeping him tethered to the world. His eyes traced every delicate feature for the first time, drinking in the soft sweep of downy hair, the button nose, the long, dark lashes resting against pale cheeks. The weight of it — the miracle and the heartbreak — cracked something deep inside him, a flood of warmth and grief tangled and overwhelming all at once.

His knees nearly gave out beneath him. “God…” he whispered, voice raw. “He looks just like her.”

Drawing the infant closer, Sam’s thumb brushed the baby’s cheek, tears spilling freely now — one warm trail tracing down his own worn face, then another. The walls of grief that had held him captive for so long trembled and finally began to give way.

And then, for the first time since the world had fractured, Sam smiled. It was soft, tentative, fragile — but real.

“What… what have you been calling him?” Sam asked after a long moment, still gazing down at the peaceful little face, the faint flutter of lashes like a secret being shared.

Jody shrugged gently, voice low but steady. “I just say ‘the baby’ or ‘your boy.’ We didn’t want to… pick anything yet.”

Dean, ever the reluctant joker even in dark times, smirked as he flopped onto the arm of the couch. “I’ve been calling him Jesus Jr.”

Sam blinked, lips twitching despite himself. “Jesus Junior?”

Dean shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What? You were out of it. I had to improvise.”

Rowena exhaled softly, a breath that was almost a laugh despite the exhaustion, and Jody shook her head with a fond, tired smile.

Sam’s smile faded into something more somber as his brows knit together in thought. “She had a baby name list. She’d been working on it for months.” His voice dropped, haunted. “I… I don’t know where it is now.”

Dean shrugged. “I looked everywhere. Checked her room top to bottom. No luck.”

Then, as if summoned by the weight of the moment, a soft whoosh of displaced air stirred the room. Castiel appeared silently behind them, his trench coat barely rustling, his expression calm but serious.

Everyone flinched except the baby, who shifted briefly in Sam’s arms but didn’t wake.

Castiel’s voice broke the tense silence, calm and measured. “Apologies for the abrupt entrance. I believe I may know where the list is.”

All eyes turned toward him, hope flickering in the dim light.

He stepped forward, solemn but steady. “When I used to read the Bible to her — late at night, before the baby was born — she often tucked small notes between the pages. Personal thoughts, sketches… once, I saw a piece of paper folded in between pages”

Sam stood, still holding the child carefully. “You think it’s still in her Bible?”

Castiel nodded, turning with purpose toward your room.

Moments later, he returned, cradling a worn, leather-bound Bible in his hands. The edges were soft from years of use, the pages yellowed and fragile. He opened it with deliberate care, flipping through with reverence until he stopped and placed a finger gently on a passage in the Book of Matthew — a verse about names, destiny, and meaning.

Tucked neatly between those pages was a folded scrap of paper. Castiel extracted it carefully and extended it to Sam.

Sam’s hands trembled as he took the paper, unfolding it slowly, the creases crackling softly in the stillness. His breath caught as his eyes scanned the handwriting — unmistakably yours — looping, familiar, real.

The list stretched before him: dozens of names, some crossed out in hurried scrawl, others underlined or circled, and one name marked with a small star and a tiny heart drawn delicately beside it.

A smile, fragile and bittersweet, touched Sam’s lips as tears pooled once more in his eyes. His gaze lifted, voice thick with love and quiet certainty.

“I think she already knew what his name would be.”

Eliorin.

✦

The bunker had slipped into a silence so profound it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Night draped over every corridor and chamber like an oppressive, suffocating blanket—thick, unyielding, and endless. It was the kind of silence that made each exhale sound like a shout, every heartbeat a sudden, discordant drum in the vast emptiness. Time seemed to slow, stretch thin and fragile, as if the world itself had paused to mourn.

In the farthest bedroom, the one Sam now claimed as his own, shadows pooled heavily in the corners, swallowing the faint outlines of furniture. This was not the room that still held your still form — Dean had insisted, stern and unyielding, that Sam couldn’t stay there. Rowena had agreed, her voice cold but kind, warning that no man could find peace sleeping beside the ghost of a lost love. So Sam had moved here, into a room that was bigger than he needed, emptier than he could bear.

The crib sat quietly across the room, bathed in the soft, gentle glow of a nightlight that flickered intermittently, casting trembling shadows across the walls. Your son lay there, tiny and vulnerable, wrapped in a light blanket, his breaths soft and steady, warm and real. The rise and fall of his chest was a fragile heartbeat of life amidst the heavy stillness.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped forward, elbows resting on knees, fingers loosely intertwined. His eyes, rimmed with exhaustion and haunted by sleepless nights, stared blankly at the floor. Sleep had become a stranger — an impossible luxury — since you stopped breathing. How could he rest when the world had fractured beneath his feet?

He ran a hand through his tangled hair, tugging at the roots in a restless, unconscious gesture. His breath came out in a slow, heavy sigh, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the silence. Finally, he rose, bare feet cold against the bunker’s unforgiving floor, clad only in faded sweatpants and a worn thermal shirt that did little to warm the chill that seeped from inside him.

He moved down the hallway, each footstep a soft tap against cold concrete, the only sound in the quiet night. He welcomed the noise — any small distraction from the weight pressing on his chest.

The kitchen light hummed faintly overhead as he entered. He reached for the water pitcher, filling a glass, and stood frozen for a moment, the cool glass resting in his palm as his gaze drifted aimlessly to the empty table. The stillness was a blank canvas, and in his mind, memories painted themselves in vivid strokes.

He saw you there: hair loosely pulled back in a careless bun, soft tendrils escaping to brush your cheek. You cradled a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, the other rocking your sleeping baby gently. The kitchen was bathed in golden morning light, sunlight streaming through the windows like liquid warmth. The aroma of eggs frying mingled with cinnamon-spiced coffee, filling the air with the comfort of home. Your laughter — light, musical, pure — floated effortlessly, wrapping the room in a gentle embrace.

He pictured himself leaning against the counter, cradling your son against his shoulder, exhausted but grinning like the luckiest man alive. That imagined morning, that fragile moment, was a balm he returned to again and again in the darkness.

But with each replay, the ache grew sharper.

Sam sucked in a breath, sharp and ragged, then let it go slowly. His fingers trembled as he brought one hand up to cover his face, jaw quivering beneath his palm. The tears he’d expected — begged for — stubbornly refused to fall. Instead, he lowered his hand, gripped the glass of water tightly, and turned back toward his room.

The hallway stretched long and empty before him, a ghostly corridor shrouded in shadows that flickered with the nightlight’s uncertain glow. The silence pressed closer, heavy and almost cruel.

He passed your old room without thinking, without even really seeing the door, cracked open just a little. It was a door he hadn’t dared approach for days.

As he approached his room, he froze.

There was a barely audible, a fragile sound that seemed almost imagined.

His heart thudded hard — once. Twice.

And then he heard it again.

A whisper.

So faint it might have been a trick of his mind.

He slowly walked towards the door left ajar, breath catching in his throat, eyes wide with disbelief and hope and fear all tangled together.

The cracked door beckoned silently.

His hand shook as he reached forward, fingertips brushing the worn wood. With a slow, trembling push, he eased the door open.

The glass slipped from his hand, shattering against the floor in a sudden, sharp sound that seemed impossibly loud in the heavy silence.

“Y/N?”

[myceliumsunshine]

i just want to say sam = rumi, dean = zoey, cas = mira, meg/ruby = jinu, lucifer = gwi-ma

thank you for coming to my ted talk

[myceliumsunshine]

does anyone want this? i have something like this i can write (also who for if so?)

thanks guys

[myceliumsunshine]

bruce: i'm not in love with her bruce:

The Bat is in love! … with Mrs. Wayne?

summary: in which the Justice League notice that Batman is infatuated with Bruce Wayne’s wife, and need to help him get over her (impossible)

pairing: husband!bruce wayne/batman x wife!reader

warnings: none? maybe mentions of slight violence. fluff.

a/n: inspired by this fic by @ilianasbruce

dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

it started when batman and superman were at the watchtower together.

they were doing their own work silently, at opposite ends of the table.

superman was pretending that he wasn’t secretly writing an article for the daily planet that was due within the week (that he had completely forgotten about), and batman was pretending that he wasn’t secretly texting his wife under the table.

bruce: how is the opera, my love? i’m sorry i couldn’t be there, the league has demands.

a lie. he just had a headache earlier and felt like jumping out of a window at the thought of having to put on a smile for the folk and sit through an opera. he did feel guilty about you being on your own, though.

you: it’s alright. i actually know some people here, and they aren’t all bad, bruce.

bruce: you say that now, but wait until they each give you a rundown on each car in their garage.

you: like how you give me a rundown on each gadget you come up with in the batcave?

bruce: that’s different.

you: of course it is. i actually like listening to you.

the familiar ‘ping!’ of one of batman’s gadgets interrupted the silence.

superman looked up, eager to be doing something other than whatever paper in front of him that he wasn’t even focusing on.

“what is that?” his words came out immediately, and before batman could answer, he was speaking again. “robbery? alien invasion?”

“Poison Ivy in Gotham.” Batman is already standing, beginning his exit of the watchtower. Superman follows him.

“Can I come? Please?”

Batman turns, looking at him. “What?”

“It’s boring in here!” Superman gestures around. “And if I’m on my own it’ll be even more boring. C’mon, Batman, I can help you.”

Batman considers it for a moment before sighing. “Fine. But we’re going in the Batmobile.”

“But I can-“

“You are not flying me there, Superman.”

A few minutes later, they’re in the opera hall. Ivy seems to have taken over the stage, giving a speech on ways for the average person to decrease their carbon footprint.

Batman can see a few different people caught between her weeds. Long, thick plants have people in their grip. He scans the room quickly for you, breathing a silent sigh of relief when he sees that you are not captured, but instead just huddled in the corner with a group of others.

Superman doesn’t notice the way that Batman isn’t looking at Ivy, and begins his attack. Batman quickly follows. After a swift battle (turns out having Superman as an ally cuts down on battle time), Ivy is restrained and authorities arrive. The two start on recovering civilians before they both encounter you.

You’re comforting one of the women that was tangled in the weeds. You’re sitting beside her, nodding as she talked. You recognise the familiar pair of boots coming from the side of you. Your head lifts up slightly as you catch sight of the two men.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Wayne?” Superman speaks first, the familiar concern he has for everyone clear in his voice and expression. He recognises you from articles, and he’s heard enough from Cat Grant at the Daily Planet to know you’re married to Bruce Wayne.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you answer with a small smile. Your eyes move to Batman. “Thank you.”

Superman gives Batman a side glance as he hears Batmans heart skip a beat when you smile at him. He tries to not to make his suspicion obvious. However, he turns a little when he hears that Batmans heartbeat is now quicker than it had been five minutes ago.

However, nothing on Batmans mostly covered face gave away any feelings. He just nodded and said a quick: “Stay safe, ma’am.”

And Superman didn’t bring it up again. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. A heart skip doesn’t always mean feelings of infatuation, right?

The second time is with Flash and Green Lantern.

Batman is a stark contrast to the pair. Barry and Hal are close friends, and joke around when put together. Bruce will sigh, and tell them to be quiet, and then Barry tries to be serious, but Hal will mutter a sarcastic comment that makes him start laughing again and the cycle repeats.

So Batman is already tense from working with the two.

They’re investigating a case together, and encounter you somehow. (sorry that’s so vague i literally cannot think of a specific scenario here to save my life)

Flash asks you a few questions if you’ve seen or heard anything suspicious, and you shake your head and answer. Barry notices Batmans shoulders softening a little beside him.

It isn’t hugely noticeable, but Barry senses it. Batmans shoulders loose some of their tension as he talks to you, this civilian. And when Hal opens his mouth to make an implying comment, he tenses right back up again.

Barry’s eyes narrow. It isn’t often that the Bat actually feels emotions, so when he does, his friends take an interest.

On the way back, Barry nudges Hal.

“Hey, you notice the way Bats was acting around that woman earlier?” He whispers so the third man in front of them doesn’t hear.

“You mean that really hot one? Who wouldn’t act like that around her? Did you see her, Bar?”

Barry gives him a look, “yeah, but this is Batman. Brooding, stays-in-the-shadows, feels-nothing-but-rage-24/7, Batman.”

Hal ponders before shrugging. “I don’t know, maybe Spooky’s changed. Never underestimate the power of a beautiful woman, Barry.”

Barry thinks. “She looked kinda familiar, didn’t she? I can’t think of where I’ve seen her before.”

And when they see that the familiar face they were talking to was Bruce Wayne’s wife, they give each other an alarmed look before looking at Batman from across the room.

The third time was with Oliver goddamn Queen.

A charity gala. Bruce couldn’t go because he had intel that Scarecrow was planning on infiltrating the building while everyone was distracted, something about wanting to ‘test out a new gas’, and he had to be on watch as Batman for the evening.

You, however, decided to go. You had a nice dress and were getting close to some of the women there your age. It was nice to not be a total stranger in the room anymore.

So, as you filtered around the room, you met Oliver Queen. He sometimes teases Bruce on purpose by asking for a dance with you at other galas, but without Bruce he was simply a friend to enjoy a chat with.

When Scarecrow did burst in, you actually had been dancing with Oliver. A friendly turn around the room like the others were doing. By the time Batman had taken him down, and everyone emerged from the corners or hidden rooms, Oliver checked to see if you were okay. Lord knows Bruce would probably blame him if anything happened to you.

You were fine, thank God. Oliver’s sentence was interrupted by the Bat himself.

“Was anybody harmed?” the gruff voice asked, his gaze trying not to linger on you for too long.

“I don’t think so,” you replied. Oliver looked at Batman with a certain questioning that nobody seemed to notice.

“Good.” Batman was silent for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps you all should start making your ways home. Scarecrow might return, or someone worse.”

You don’t miss a beat. “It’s a good thing we have someone like you to protect us, Batman.”

“Only a fool wouldn’t protect you, ma’am.”

Oliver blinked. Is Batman . . . flirting? With a married woman? Also, was that sentence a sneaky diss on him?

and Oliver could’ve sworn on his entire fortune that Batman’s lips were almost in a grin during his next sentence.

“Your husband is probably waiting on you, Mrs. Wayne.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows at your response. You laughed a little under your breath before speaking, “probably. I wouldn’t want to keep him up.”

Oliver looks between you and Batman. Perhaps he’s imagining things. You turn to him as if you’ve just remembered that he’s still there.

“Oliver, you have a safe way home, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll call my driver.”

He doesn’t bring it up the next time he sees Batman as Green Arrow. Batman doesn’t speak of it either. But his eyes narrow a little at the Bats whenever Bruce Wayne or his wife is mentioned.

Eventually, it comes up in conversation when Batman isn’t there.

They’re in the common room, and Diana is flipping through the newspaper. She’s on a page that features a picture of you at the latest event with a description of your outfit beside it. Beside her, Hal recognises you.

“Hey, Flash,” he begins, stabbing the page with his finger. “Isn’t that who we were talking to a couple days earlier?”

Barry is behind the couch in a second, nodding. “Yeah, we asked her a couple questions with Batman.” He looks up a takes a quick glance to see if anyone’s expression changes. “He seemed . . . different around her.”

Clark closes the book in his hand with a loud snap, looking at the three on the couch.

“You’ve noticed too?”

Hal laughs, “that Bats has the hots for a married woman? Yeah.”

Diana frowns a little. “That is unlike Batman. He’s known for his self-restraint. It doesn’t seem likely he would harbour a liking for someone else’s wife, especially Bruce Wayne’s. Doesn’t Wayne sponsor him or something?”

Oliver joins in. “Wonder Woman, you haven’t seen him with her. I mean, it was only a few seconds but he was a totally different person.”

“How so?” Diana asked curiously.

“He . . . relaxed a little.”

She raised her eyebrows. Barry cut in.

“Wonder, you need to see it to understand it. It’s like no one else even enters his mind when he’s looking at her. I think everything else sorta faded away, you know?”

“Like in those rom-coms I’ve been shown?” She suggests.

“Yeah!”

Clark thinks for a moment, wondering what to do to help his obviously hopeless friend. How do you break the news to an emotionally constipated Bat that he has to squash his feelings before anything terrible happens?

So, they organise an intervention. A very unorganised organised intervention.

Your name gets mentioned during a briefing. About how you could be potential target for a kidnapping due to your status.

Hal’s mouth works quicker than his mind.

“What about Bruce Wayne?”

“What about Bruce Wayne?” Batman asks in his low voice, his back still turned to the team.

“Just saying, he’s probably a potential target too, right?” Green Lantern points out. “He’s her husband, after all.”

Batman turns. They all seem to be looking for his reaction.

“Right, I was just getting to that.” He says stiffly. “So I think until Joker is tracked down again, a pair of eyes should be on them. Since Gotham is my city, I can-“

“Ohhhh, hold on,” Flash says, leaning forward. “Central City has been very quiet lately, so I’m free too.”

Wonder Woman joins in. “I’m interested too. I think the more people, the quicker we could get this done.”

Batman blinks. “Why the sudden interest in Gotham from you two?”

They both shrug, mumbling incoherent words that overlap each other. Something about “new environments” and “change of pace”.

Green Arrow smirks. “I wouldn’t mind accompanying. (Name) and her husband should get all the protection they can get.”

Batman isn’t showing it, but he’s confused. Less members have volunteered themselves for prison breaks. Why are three other members wanting to go to Gotham for an unconfirmed threat? And why do they keep looking at him like that?

“Yes,” Superman clears his throat. “Mrs (Name) is a kind woman who shouldn’t be in danger. And Bruce Wayne is similar in nature. He is valuable to Gotham City.”

Batman prepared his disliking-Bruce-Wayne act with practised ease. “Bruce Wayne is a spoiled idiot.”

“Of course you think that.” Green Lantern mutters with a smug smirk. Flash nudges him.

“What do you mean?” Batman asks, and Hal practically explodes.

“We know you’re attracted to (Name) Wayne!” He says, making Barry cover his eyes with his hands. Not how the conversation was supposed to go.

“Excuse me?” Batman is -frankly- appalled. Hal grimaces, instantly reminded of who exactly he’s talking to.

“You’re, uh . . .” he splutters before quickly mumbling, “you’re in love with (name).” He gains some of his confidence, and straightens up again, “and you were about to let Bruce Wayne get kidnapped, so you could swoop in and seduce her!” He tops it all off with hand gestures of the supposed ‘swooping’.

Batmans gaze sweeps the table. Nobody meets his eye except Diana, who just seems to be staring at him for his response. A few of them have to stop themselves from laughing at the idea of Batman ‘seducing’ someone.

“And what exactly gave you that idea?”

Barry is filled with a newfound confidence. “Oh, c’mon Bats, a blind man would see how you act around her!” He smirked a little. “You went a little . . . soft.”

Green Arrow snorts. “Sometimes I think you’re only protecting Gotham because she’s in it.”

Batman thinks. Has he been that transparent? He’s always careful about his expressions and body reactions. Maybe he is getting soft. He obviously didn’t take enough care.

A fleeting image passes his mind, where he declares his love for you to the team. How could he not show you off? He would love to tell them that you were with him.

But, of course, he doesn’t do that. He just blinks.

“I am not in love with (name), that’s ridiculous.” He scoffs. “Number one, I don’t fall in love with anyone. Number two, she’s married, so I think that means she’s out of the dating pool.”

Not one face looking back at him looks convinced.

However, a cold stare and a swift change of topic ensured that nobody tries to start the conversation again.

They do, however, take a bigger interest in Gotham nowadays. Whenever a mission includes you somehow, there’s always one of them volunteering to go. They all think that distance will make sure Batman goes back to his cold and steely ways of not having a crush on anyone’s wife.

Bruce crawls under the covers with a small groan, shuffling next to you. His arms go around your warm body as he rests his face near yours. He’s desperate to soak up your warmth after being out in the cold all night.

“Long night?” you ask, your voice still quiet from sleep.

“Long day,” he responds, tucking himself into you. You keep your arms around him. “The League accused Batman of being attracted to Bruce Wayne’s wife today.”

It takes you a moment to realise what he’s talking about. You breathe out a laugh. “Is Batman not in love with me?”

Bruce grins against your skin. “He might be.” He murmurs. “Just a little, though.”

You raise your eyebrows, turning to look at Bruce. “Does Batman know I’m married? And that I’m very loyal to my husband?”

“Oh, yes,” he responded, and sits up a little. he pressed his forehead to yours. “and Batman knows that there’s nobody else on this earth that loves you more than I do.”

You smile, your fingers in his hair now. he leans closer to press his lips to yours, an action that you return. Bruce keeps himself against you for a long time. He likes falling asleep with you in his arms. He likes feeling like the protector.

It’s why he needs to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. It’s why he needs to know where you are each night. It’s why he needs to know you’re safe. And if your safety comes along with each League member giving him looks because they think he’s harbouring a crush for another man’s wife, then so be it.

He’d do anything for you, anyway. 

[myceliumsunshine]

aAHHHH he's just a babyyyy

@myceliumsunshine requested : " The reader taking care of a soft and whiny sammy after a hunt that drained him and helping him unwind and relax." AND Anon requested : " sam who's trying so hard not to be subby, to be in control and not whine and cry, but reader's just like "it's okay baby you can let go" and sammy gets to let go."

Pairing : sub!Sam x softdom!Reader. Warnings : sexual content. sub/dom dynamics, cowgirl, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, dacryphilia, slight choking, Sammy's evident insecurity. porn with some plot. 18+ only !! Word Count : 848 words.

The door slams shut, startling you, just as Sam stumbles inside. Exhaustion and pent-up frustration clings to him like a second skin, the moment he walks in, his breathing heavy and laboured. His flannel is torn at the sleeve, streaked with graveyard dirt and blood—not his, thankfully, but the gash on his forearm stings like hell. The werewolf pack he and Dean took down tonight was brutal, relentless, and it drained every ounce of strength from him. He’s a mess, looking barely a second away from losing any shred of control he’s left cleaving to in desperation and you can see it—the way his hands tremble just barely perceptible, the way his jaw is clenched like he’s trying to hold himself together and failing miserably at it.

“Sammy,” you say softly, stepping towards him and he flinches at the sound, his nerves shot to hell like he’s not used to softness after hours of nothing but blood and gore. He turns to you, his fists clenched with effort, trying to muster that stoic, in-control facade he’s perfected over the years. But it’s crumbling. And it’s crumbling fast. “Just. Don’t. I’m fine.” he mutters, but it’s a lie, and you both know it, his eyes— wide, vulnerable and almost pleading—betraying him. You step closer, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate when your hands cup his face.“You’re not fine, baby,” you coo— your voice honey-sweet and coercive. Your fingers curl around the hem of his flannel and you tug him down, your lips brushing his ear when you whisper, “And that’s okay. You don’t have to be. Not with me.”

His breath hitches, his knees practically buckling from the amount of arousal and temptation that rushes to his head at your words and he shakes his head, trying to fight it—the urge to let go, to let you take over. “I—I can handle it. I-I’m not some weak—” he insists, but his voice cracks, a soft, whiny edge creeping in that makes your heart ache and your thighs clench together tightly at the same time. He’s trying so hard to be the strong one, the one in control like he always is, but you know how he needs to just let go. 

That does it. A broken sound, dripping with an edge so needy it's almost pathetic, escapes him—a whimper that’s so unlike the Sam who just took down three werewolves single-handedly with nothing but a silver blade . His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he pulls you flush against him. You can feel him, rock-hard and straining against his jeans— pressed hot and insistent against your stomach— his body betraying how much he needs this, how much he needs you.

“I—I need you. Now. Pl-please.

You don’t waste even a single minute more. Your fingers tugging at his belt, deftly undoing the buckle as you guide him backwards toward the bed. His breaths come in short, desperate gasps, and when you finally free him, his cock slaps lewdly against his stomach, thick, heavy and already leaking at the pretty pink-flushed head. He’s so worked up, so fucking horny in his desperation, that the slightest touch of your hand makes him groan, his hips bucking involuntarily.

His eyes cross— all stupid and fucked-out already— when you line him up with your soaked entrance and sink down his length with a moan that has him bucking upwards with shallow thrusts of his hips.Tears spill down his cheeks the moment your hips meet his, and he’s babbling—“Shi-shit! Feels- feel so good. Fuck, I can’t—”—his voice high and whiny like he’s already about to blow his load just from having your tight little pussy squeezing around his aching shaft.

You ride him hard, the frantic sound of wet skin against skin filling the room. The sight of your tits bouncing while you fuck him—your hands braced against the taut muscles of his chest— has him squeezing his eyes shut, his teeth sinking into his lip from the effort of holding back as his grips tightens painfully on your hips. His hips jerk up, erratic, chasing your pace, and he’s begging nonstop now, his voice slurred and incoherent as he moans,“Please, oh god, I’m gonna—” 

“Aww, gonna cum already, baby ?” you lean down and whisper and he sobs, nodding frantically. You increase your pace, fucking yourself on him until stars explode behind his teary eyes. And the moment you wrap your hand around his throat, squeezing just right, his eyes roll back as his brain practically short circuits.  “Uhn god, yeah! Just-just like that, baby. Don’t stop, please don’t stop! Mm’gonna cum—”

His hips slam upwards, and you feel him twitching inside you before he spills— hot and thick, filling you till there’s cum leaking out around his cock, dripping down his thighs, and he’s still whimpering, oversensitive and spent. And he looks like the prettiest mess you’ve ever seen.

Author's Message : if you'd like to be tagged, please don't hesitate to let me know !! comments and re-blogs are highly appreciated !! and I'd love to hear all your thoughts on the fic and my writing so please let me know down below. and of course, my inbox is totally open to any thoughts <3. Taglist : @mostlymarvelgirl, @jayhalsteadfan-2417, @zenoxl, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing, @castielsonlyangel, @bea-tween-the-pages, @y0inked, @butterphiiss, @bowxs, @gvf23, @halsteadwichester.

[myceliumsunshine]

Ahhhh i love a/b/o so much it's not even funny, i've read all the a/b/o fics in sam/reader on ao3. i can't wait to read it!

i can't wait for the prompt challenge! very excited to join in.

i'm so scared to write smut because i don't want to get it wrong, but also i have all these smutty ideas for fics - it's frustrating!

my first long fic is basically the plot of supernatural, but with my oc in it. her name is mav, and when she was young, john killed her parents because they had a supernatural disease that was making them kill people, so john took her in. it starts in season one, with her going with dean to go get sam so that they can look for john together. i'm so excited about it.

Writing update - a look into my WIPs - someone send help, why the fuck do I have so many WIPs oh my god stop

Hello you gorgeous people, I hope you're all well! Since I haven't been uploading much of my own writing recently (and mostly been reblogging horny gifs, what's up with that), I thought I'd give you a "quick" update on what I've been doing writing-wise for anyone who's interested in an update. 🤗

I have 18 fics done for Kinktober/Smutober, and I think I will leave it at that. Unless something really, really catches my attention before then.

I'm also working on my first ever challenge that people can join for October. I hope to post it at the end of September at the latest, so anyone who wants to join has a month to write and post. That seems like a doable time frame to me? (There would be a max word count of probably 2 or 3 k)

I'm also writing fluff for November! I'm aiming for 10 fics, but only two are done so far, so we'll see where we end up. 😄

I would also like to do a challenge for that. 😄

I'm working on a sequel to Never more in love than when I'm leaving (very, very early stages).

I'm working on two sequels to fics that I'm posting in October.

I'm working on three big, multi chapter fics: Sun bleached flies (Sam, Dean and reader as childhood friends and later throuple), an A/B/O fic (also Sam x reader x Dean), and I've started plotting out that smalltown AU I asked about here (which I've decided will be Dean x reader).

I'm writing a few short companion one shots for Blackbird.

And I've got a bunch of one shots in several phases of completion, including but not limited to: free use Sam x reader x Dean; Dean x reader in heaven; Dean and Sam meet a reader who's possessed by some kind of eldritch being; Pamela Barnes x reader; Boy King part 3; and a few more that are just ideas and scribbles notes right now.

I've also been mulling over the idea of writing a Bucky Barnes fic since last night. 😄

So there you go. I hope some of this stuff speaks to you! It was good organizing my own thoughts for this. If there's anything you want to know more about, have thoughts on, or if there's something you think should be on that list but isn't, please don't be shy, I love chatting about this stuff!

Thank you for listening to be blab and thank you for being here. ❤️ Sending you all the biggest smooches!

(Also, if anyone else wants to take this opportunity to share a look into their WIP folder, please please do - make me feel a little less insane! 😄)

(Also also if you read all the way to down here, have this taco as a treat 🌮)

[myceliumsunshine]

YOU AREN'T INSANE!! (you're just insane as in insanely good :3)

i can't wait to see the A/B/O fic, tell me more about that, i have this guilty pleasure of A/B/O fics. also, reader possessed by an eldrich being is so cool, i love non-human readers, it's so fun to read.

please tell me about your challenge, i love challenges so much, they get my brain churning :D

i'm here to share my wips folder as well, thought that i'd make you feel less insane

To start, I have my tags lists, which which is literally just a copy of my different tags lists lol

My finished section, which literally just hides all the fics that I've done (yes i keep them in the same doc as all the other fics, i don't know how to transfer them all

theatre kid - a fic about stanford!sam taking theatre as his minor, but the minor and major classes are combined, so reader is doing their major in theatre and is just insane

sub!sam - i've been trying to work up the courage to write smut, i'm kind of scared of it lol

save a horse - based on the song, about the episode where sam and dean go back in time, reader can't help it and rides a cowboy (aka sam smut that i'm also scared to write)

stupid cupid - based on the connie francis song, and a my bloody valentine episode rewrite with reader, where cupid is like, you guys are stupid, it's clear you're in love with each other, and reader's hunger is sam's affection (super exciting because she feeds him demon blood to get on his good side)

keep the lights on - reader is the idea of light, happiness, love, life, ect. and her brother is the idea of dark, sadness, hate, death, ect. and her brother has been killing people, so sam and dean try to summon him but get her instead because (spoiler) they share a body and the only thing that keeps reader in charge is the lights (based on sun and moon from fnaf security breach)

rise and fall of sam's princess series, of which i am currently up to coffee. been struggling with that one, it's really hard to write sam as the 'bad guy' in the fic, because i kind of love him :P

wasted love - based on a request that i haven't gotten around too (i haven't forgot any of my requests, i promise, i just haven't got the motivation for them at this point!) that's about bellamy being in love with reader, but reader is like nuh uh

too sweet - sam is too sweet for the reader, getting up early, not drinking straight black coffee, not drinking whiskey neat, just generally being kind, but sam is determined to date reader, because they both like each other but reader is afraid to break/taint sam's sweetness

i've been thinking about a part two for a long day, because it ended kind of sadly and i don't want to end it on that

my long fic! as soon as i finish supernatural, i'll begin writing it! it's super exciting, i can't wait to start writing it, my oc is super badass, super fun, i love her

i actually lied. i have two long fics i plan to write once i finish supernatural. the second one is a fic about an oc from ourverse ending up in supernatural isekai style and just fixing everything because they want to. i've seen this done a bunch of times on wattpad, but the earliest one i've seen started between season 3 and season 4, and mine is going to start before season 1 (technically. it starts at season 1, but the oc is there before the events of season 1)

feel free to ask about this, anyone. i love talking about my fics. send in an ask, or comment or whatever if you have questions.

god this is too long :|

Writing update - a look into my WIPs - someone send help, why the fuck do I have so many WIPs oh my god stop

Hello you gorgeous people, I hope you're all well! Since I haven't been uploading much of my own writing recently (and mostly been reblogging horny gifs, what's up with that), I thought I'd give you a "quick" update on what I've been doing writing-wise for anyone who's interested in an update. 🤗

I have 18 fics done for Kinktober/Smutober, and I think I will leave it at that. Unless something really, really catches my attention before then.

I'm also working on my first ever challenge that people can join for October. I hope to post it at the end of September at the latest, so anyone who wants to join has a month to write and post. That seems like a doable time frame to me? (There would be a max word count of probably 2 or 3 k)

I'm also writing fluff for November! I'm aiming for 10 fics, but only two are done so far, so we'll see where we end up. 😄

I would also like to do a challenge for that. 😄

I'm working on a sequel to Never more in love than when I'm leaving (very, very early stages).

I'm working on two sequels to fics that I'm posting in October.

I'm working on three big, multi chapter fics: Sun bleached flies (Sam, Dean and reader as childhood friends and later throuple), an A/B/O fic (also Sam x reader x Dean), and I've started plotting out that smalltown AU I asked about here (which I've decided will be Dean x reader).

I'm writing a few short companion one shots for Blackbird.

And I've got a bunch of one shots in several phases of completion, including but not limited to: free use Sam x reader x Dean; Dean x reader in heaven; Dean and Sam meet a reader who's possessed by some kind of eldritch being; Pamela Barnes x reader; Boy King part 3; and a few more that are just ideas and scribbles notes right now.

I've also been mulling over the idea of writing a Bucky Barnes fic since last night. 😄

So there you go. I hope some of this stuff speaks to you! It was good organizing my own thoughts for this. If there's anything you want to know more about, have thoughts on, or if there's something you think should be on that list but isn't, please don't be shy, I love chatting about this stuff!

Thank you for listening to be blab and thank you for being here. ❤️ Sending you all the biggest smooches!

(Also, if anyone else wants to take this opportunity to share a look into their WIP folder, please please do - make me feel a little less insane! 😄)

(Also also if you read all the way to down here, have this taco as a treat 🌮)

[myceliumsunshine]

Red Means I Love You - Sam Winchester

The beach was strangely eery and creepy at night. Or is it romantic? A/N - this is for the summer snapshot challenge by @ambiguous-avery . i just want to say, SAM IS A MONSTERFUCKER and you can't convince me otherwise. anyways, vampire girlfriend and the beach. enjoy! Snapshot Word Count - 731

The beach was strangely eery and creepy at night.

You grinned up at Sam, sharp teeth glinting under the moonlight as you dragged him further down the beach. You don’t get to do this often, the sun making you too weak, too sleepy to get to enjoy day activities like the beach with your human boyfriend.

“Put those away, what if someone sees?” Sam hissed, and you grinned, spinning to look around the beach.

“Who?” Sam looked around at the empty beach and sighed.

“Fine. But please be careful. I don’t want anyone to catch us.”

You smirk, sharp teeth disappearing, a long, slender finger trailing down your boyfriend’s chest. “Catch us doing what?”

His breath catches, and he pulls you into a kiss, his teeth clashing against yours. The love you share, it’s passionate, it’s strange, it’s forbidden, but most of all, it’s real. It’s seen in the way Sam hides you from Dean, meets up with you in secret. He keeps you safe, even from his own hunter brother who would kill you in a heart beat.

All because you’re a vampire. A monster.

The only human blood you drink is Sam’s. Does that make you a monster?

It had happened a long time ago now, right when you first started dating. You’d kissed too close to his pulse, your teeth coming out. Sam had gasped, arching closer to the teeth. You’d paused, pulling back.

“Does the idea of me drinking your blood turn you on?” You’d asked. He’d nodded furiously, blushing and moaning and whimpering as you’d scraped your teeth over his neck where he was most vulnerable, and that had been that.

You pulled back from the kiss, smiling widely. “Let’s go in the water!”

Sam’s smile mirrored your own as you pulled him down the beach towards the water. “How long has it been since you’ve been in the ocean?”

You pondered for a moment. “I don’t know. Longer than a century. A few years before I was turned, at least. I never really liked it. The fashion at the time was to wear full skirts so heavy that you had to hold onto a rope so you wouldn’t drown.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “I think I read about that. You did that?”

“Yeah. It was the law at the time. No such thing as bikinis.” You paused, pulling your shirt over your head and your skirt down your legs, leaving you in just your undergarments. “Come on, strip. I don’t want your clothes to get wet, you’ll get sick.”

Sam pulled off his jacket, his flannel, his undershirt, and his pants until he was in only his boxers. You laughed as he stripped each layer, the absurdity of the amount of layers funny to you.

Sam grinned, pulling you into the water with him. You shrieked, the water freezing against your already dead cold skin. You flinched into him, and he pulled you deeper into the water with him, your legs wrapped around him until you couldn’t touch the floor anymore.

You stayed like that for a while, legs just wrapped around him as the waves lapped softly against you, both of you shivering and trying to warm each other up. You pressed soft kisses to Sam’s neck, leaving small red lipmarks there, your lipstick transferring. He leaned into the kisses, kissing the side of your head and baring his neck for your access.

That was your favourite thing about Sam. You were a vampire. Other vampires he’d met had gone for the kill right at his neck. But Sam trusted you so much that he would bare his neck to you freely, let you kiss there softly. You never bit there, never breaking that trust, never becoming other to him.

Eventually, Sam walked you both back into the shore. Your feet touched back down in the sand, and you put back on your discarded clothes, Sam’s jacket ending up around your shoulders.

“I love you.” You whispered. “Thank you for taking me to the beach.”

He kissed your forehead, wrapping an arm around you. “Of course. I love you too.”

You pressed another red kiss to the hand around your shoulder. He pulled the kiss up to his lips softly, before putting it back around your shoulder. You grinned up at Sam, sharp teeth glinting under the moonlight.

The beach was strangely romantic at night.

TAGSLISTS ALL WORKS @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @ambiguous-avery SUPERNATURAL @bettystonewell

Find the rest of the fics in this snapshot here!

[myceliumsunshine]

lol it's the thing!

pretty 🤲🤲

[myceliumsunshine]

Man-God-Thing - Winchester!Reader

Dean had broken his promise. That’s what you were mad about. Not that he’d found a hunt. That he’d broken the promise he had made with you. A/N - this is for the summer snapshot challenge by @ambiguous-avery . fun little beach angst! enjoy! Snapshot Word Count - 890

You sprinted down the beach, unseen by the other people as you screamed for help. You don’t know how he was doing it, shielding your terror from the masses on the beach. You screamed again, hoping, praying for someone to notice you.

The man - god, thing, you weren’t really sure - was walking behind you, following you, at a leisurely pace. It was as if he didn’t have to worry about catching you. He knew he would.

He was tan, a long white beard contrasting against his neck, a Hawaiian beach shirt shrugged over his shoulders and khaki board shorts down to his knees, flip flops on his feet. The man - god, thing, you weren’t really sure - had held you captive before you’d managed to escape.

When he’d first caught you, you’d been sitting on the beach late at night. You’d just had a major fight with your brother, and had come out to the beach to cool off. See, you were all on a vacation - you, Dean, and Sam - but Dean couldn’t seem to relax. He saw monsters everywhere.

You saw them too, admittedly, it was your job to hunt them, but before you had begun your week long holiday, the three of you had promised each other not to pick up a case, and to relax for once, just for one week. Let the other hunters deal with it.

Dean couldn’t relax. He’d read in the newspaper about someone going missing off of the very beach that you were staying at and he’d gone straight into hunter mode. He’d broken his promise.

That’s what you were mad about. Not that he’d found a hunt. That he’d broken the promise he had made with you.

The man - god, thing, you weren’t really sure - had come out of the water, gasping like he’d been drowning and this was his first breath of air in a long time. You’d moved to help the man immediately, pulling him to his feet, hitting his back to get the water out of his lungs.

“Are you alright?” You’d asked as he stopped spluttering. He’d nodded, grinning in a way that had made your stomach turn sour.

“Yes.” Was the only thing he’d said, before he’d pulled you back into the water with him, kicking and screaming. 

Now, you sprinted into the beach shack that you, Sam and Dean had been staying in. Even if they weren’t there - they weren’t - all of your weapons were. You picked up a gun, an angel knife, and readied yourself. 

The man - god, thing, you weren’t really sure - opened the door. It didn’t bang open dramatically like most monsters liked to reveal themselves. The door opened softly, like a gentle sea breeze had pushed it open. He was grinning that awful, gut churning grin as he stood there, tanned skin and beach attire filling the doorframe.

Where were your brothers? That was your only thought as you shot the man - god, thing, you really weren’t sure. The bullet bounced from his chest, and he grinned down at it. You let out a shriek, discarding the gun and moving towards him with the angel blade.

Red bloomed around silver, staining his Hawaiian shirt. He looked down, his grin fading. You pulled back out the angel blade and shoved it back in, and he grunted. Over and over again, you stabbed your captor, this man-god-thing that had tortured you under the sea for the last week. The room seemed to brighten as you pushed him off your angel blade and to the ground.

You weren’t really sure how long you stood over his body, panting, angel blade clutched loosely in your hand as you stared down at him blankly.

It was over.

You wanted to cry, as you stood there, the man-god-thing’s body on the floor below you, but no tears flowed. There was this lump in your throat, tightness that felt like it would never go away, but no tears flowed. You weren’t sure how long you’d been underneath the sea, but with his torture it had felt like an eternity.

The sound of footsteps alerted you. You looked up as Sam and Dean walked back through the front door of the shack, laughing. Their movement stopped when they spotted you, blood splattered on your face, angel blade in hand, man-god-thing body at your feet, leaking dark liquid onto the floor.

The blade clattered to the floor as your face wobbled. Sam was at your side in a second, your hands shaking as you began to sob.

“You were right.” You’d sobbed to Dean, repeating the phrase over and over again. “You were right.”

You’d been gone for the night. 12 hours at most. Upon hearing this, your sobs had loudened, before silencing entirely as you picked up the angel blade from the floor and began stabbing the body again violently.

The smell of salt and sand still makes you gag sometimes. You hadn’t been able to shower or take a bath for a month. Fish still makes you shiver. You’ll probably never go back to the beach.

But you’ll never forget the feeling of your brothers’ arms around you as you sobbed, the cheers that Dean let out as you stabbed the corpse of your captor, the taste of the icecream that Dean had forced Sam to go and get.

TAGSLISTS ALL WORKS @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @ambiguous-avery SUPERNATURAL @bettystonewell

Find the rest of the fics in this snapshot here!

[myceliumsunshine]

SORRY YOU'VE DONE IT AGAIN!! I LOVE DIVORCED DAD CHARACTERS!!

also being not sure if it's really love or just nostalgia for the love you once had is probably the best thing about exes to lovers

Never more in love than when I’m leaving (never want you more than when you’re gone)

(Dean Winchester x female reader)

Summary You come home from a crappy date. Dean's there, watching the kids, and the two of you start reminiscing about - and reliving - the past. CWs Divorced!Dad!Dean and ex-wife!reader (although they're technically not divorced yet), explicit sexy times on the couch, needing to be quiet, some jealousy, some mental health discussions, exes to lovers, starts out as a night of mistakes but turns into more? Hopeful ending! 18+. 8.6k words AN You gorgeous sweethearts voted here for me to finish this fic out of my WIPs, so here you go! ❤️ Thank you for voting, and thank you for being here. I appreciate you all so, so much! (I'm having an emotional moment, don't look at me) Oh, and title is from Adrianne Lenker's "A better time to meet".

Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

You walk into the kitchen to see Dean leaned over the aisle, looking at his phone. The very kitchen aisle he once built himself, while you were big and round with Emma. It’s a strange picture. It’s been ten years, his hair is longer and neither of you wear your wedding rings anymore, but it gives you a strange moment of whiplash.

You get a second to look at him before he notices you. A second to look at the man you once thought you’d be spending the rest of your life with. The one who moved out a year ago, because you both agreed it’s what would be best. He’s still the most handsome one you’ve ever seen. 

It makes you feel more than one strong emotion.

“Hey,” you say, and it comes out a little breathless. He looks up, raises his eyebrows in that non-committal way he does.

“Hey,” he says, locking his phone and pushing it into the back pocket of his jeans, straightening. 

“I’m sorry,” you say with a quick look at the clock over the fridge. “Couldn’t get a cab to save my life. Kids go down okay?” Dean raises his hands, drops them on the counter.

“All good,” he says. “They only complained a little about my bedtime methods.” You walk over to the far left cabinet, open it and take out the bottle of bourbon and a glass without really thinking about it.

“Why are you waiting in here?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him. “Isn’t there a game on? You could have sat in the living room.” You look away from him to pour some of the liquor, only look up again when he doesn’t answer.

“So does that mean it was a very good night,” Dean asks, eyes on the glass and then slowly going up, “or a very bad one?” You snort, hold up the bottle.

“You want one?” you ask. Dean chews at his bottom lip, making a face. Probably about to tell you he needs to head out, has plans, when— 

“Sure,” he says. “One for the road.” 

With a nod, you take out a second glass, pour some of the dark liquid into it, then carry both glasses over to the aisle, hold one out to Dean. He takes it, holds it up to his nose while you put yours down, shrug off your coat, the one you put on when you suddenly started feeling self-conscious earlier about the body-hugging black dress you decided to wear. Dean’s giving you a slow grin when you turn back to him.

“What?” you ask, voice suspicious.

“You look good,” he says. You roll your eyes at him.

“Whatever.”

“No, you do.”

“Alright, Dean,” you answer, shaking your head a little as you take a slow sip. Both of you are quiet for a moment. 

“So,” Dean says, rolling the glass in his hand and he’s looking at you expectantly when you turn to him. “Who was it?” You press your lips together, study him.

“You’re gonna lose your shit,” you say, already trying to hide your grin. Dean widens his arms.

“Try me,” he says. You take a deep breath, let it out slowly. You chew at your lip for a second, put down the glass..

“Tom,” you say, and you can’t help but bring your hands up to your face when you see Dean’s expression, hide behind them. The neighbor you both used to hate with a passion, even more so when he left his wife and kid for a waitress he'd met on a business trip. A waitress who promptly dumped his ass when he showed up at her doorstep with a backpack and a hopeful smile.

“No way,” Dean says and you nod, drop your hands, pick up your glass again. He makes a horrified face. “He is such a douche. I thought you agreed.” 

“Listen,” you say with a shrug, “it’s slim pickings out there. He’s single, has a job and he can almost hold a conversation. That makes him hot shit in the available dating pool.”

“You know you once said you’d like to murder him with a hammer,” Dean continues, but your next chuckle is half-hearted. “A claw hammer, you were real specific about it.” You swirl your drink in your glass, look at it.

“Yeah, well,” you say. “I guess I just wanted to feel desired for an evening and he asked me out, so…” You take another sip. Slowly look back up at Dean. The joviality is gone from his face, replaced by something like shame.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and rough. “I didn’t mean… You can go on dates with whoever you want. It’s none of my business.” You tap a finger against the glass in your hand, shift around in the sudden awkwardness.

“I need to get out of these shoes,” you say and Dean nods. 

“Yeah,” he says, seeming still embarrassed about talking shit about your date, even though there is nothing but shit to talk about him. He clears his throat, puts down the glass. You stretch your shoulders.

“Anything I should bring for Ashley’s party on Saturday?” you ask as you’re straightening too. “Starts at six, right?” Dean freezes, his gaze dropping.

“Yeah,” he says, “about that…”

“Dean,” you say, voice frustrated, “I told you, if you two don’t want Emma and JJ staying over, that’s fine, but you’re gonna have to tell them that, because I know they’ll want to stay, and–”

“Party’s cancelled,” Dean says and you frown at him.

“Okay,” you say, “are you doing something else for her birthday, going away, or…”

“Jesus,” Dean says, looking to the side. “You’re gonna make me say it?”

“Say what?” you shoot back, already annoyed at his caginess, too tired for this shit, but the look on Dean’s face makes you close your mouth again.

“We broke up,” he says, tone sober. “Well, she broke up with me. Details, I guess.” He raises the glass again, drains what’s left in it, maybe to avoid looking at you. You’re quiet for a moment, your hands going together as you watch him. The way his eyes flit back and forth like they always do when he’s said something that might make him vulnerable. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” you say, voice low. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”

“‘S alright,” he says, hands pushed into his pockets, looking down. 

“Come on,” you say, picking up your glass again. “Bring the bottle.”

“It’s really–” Dean starts, but you interrupt him, already halfway out of the kitchen.

“Heels,” is all you say over your shoulder.

You walk over to the couch, kick your shoes off with a groan. It doesn’t take long for you to hear Dean’s footsteps coming up behind you. He walks up to you, looking down at you with an expression that asks, happy? In response, you hold out your glass, and he fills it, then his own, before putting the bottle on the low couch table and sitting down next to you with a deep, world-weary sigh.

The two of you sit there, you with your legs tucked under you, Dean with his wide, swirling the glass where he’s holding it. You look at him, look at his features, the way he moves. All so intensely familiar from all the years you’ve spent together and then suddenly becoming less familiar. Sometimes you look at him and for a moment, you forget what part of your life you’re in.

“So?” you say, taking another sip from your drink. Dean clenches his jaw before he answers.

“She says I’m unavailable,” he replies, unable not to add a slightly sarcastic tinge to the last word. “Says she doesn’t feel like I’m really interested in her, or ready to commit.”

“Hmm,” you mumble, taking another sip, holding back on any commentary for now.

“That living with me used to be fun, but now it’s like living with a ghost,” he continues. His eyebrows shoot up as he raises his glass, brings it up to his mouth. “I’m aware of the irony.”

“Does she know about any of that?” you ask. “The hunting?” Dean shakes his head before the glass has left his lips.

“Nah,” he says. “Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” You nod, then shrug.

“Big part of your life to keep a secret from someone you’re supposed to trust,” you comment, and Dean turns to you, looks at you.

“How’s that work?” he asks, frowning a little, looking handsome as ever. “You know how people react to that.”

“I’m just saying,” you reply, raising your hands. “I don’t have the solution. Just… thinking out loud.” Dean huffs, then looks back at his glass.

“If it’s so easy,” he continues, “then how come we didn’t make it work?” He looks back at you, something deep and sad in his eyes. You return the gaze, take your time with answering.

“It’s not easy. And because she’s right,” you reply, voice serious. “Living with you’s like living with a ghost.” 

You see the pain your words set free in Dean’s eyes. The crinkling of the skin around his eyes, the slight movement of his lips like he’s trying to find the right words to say. Not like you haven’t thrown much worse stuff at him, and he at you. The two of you were always passionate, that’s for sure.

“It wasn’t always, for what it’s worth,” you add, hoping to soften the blow of your words a little. “It’s just something that happened over time. Ashley might be a bit ditzy, but I know she saw the same thing in you that I did. It’s why she was so crazy about you.” You take another sip as Dean scoffs, but it’s half-hearted.

“Ditzy, huh?” he asks and you smile at him. “Should have just told me you didn’t like her.” You breathe out slowly.

“It’s not about her, Dean,” you answer and he frowns. “You just moved on so quickly, I… I don’t know.” You look down, but feel Dean’s eyes on you. When you look up, his expression is soft.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I didn’t want you to move on,” you say, a sad smile forming on your lips. “I wanted you to be hurt, wanted you to regret not putting your all into this marriage. I wanted you to be miserable. But now… I want you to be happy, Dean. I really do.” He nods slowly.

“Somehow that’s worse,” he replies, and in a way, you know what he means. The anger the two of you felt toward each other at failing at your marriage, failing your children, failing the promise of doing it right, doing it better - it's what kept you going for a long while. Afterwards, it was just you and the shards of a broken family.

“I just wanted you to get better,” you continue slowly. “This toughing it out business, it was never gonna work. And I was so angry because I just wanted you to try, when I know now that it’s more complicated than that. I might have been pretty nasty at times. Not proud of that.” Your hand finds one of your feet, and you press your fingers into the stiff muscles of your sole.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, leaning forward, elbows going to his knees, “not like I didn’t give you reason to.” You press your lips together.

“Anyway,” you say, “it’s all in the past.”

“Maybe,” Dean asks, sighs, then reaches for the bottle again. You had red wine at dinner, hoping to drown out your date’s yapping, but the feeling of being on your couch, the bourbon warming your stomach and, if you’re being honest, Dean’s closeness, the still familiarity of it, is making you feel comfortable and soft. You shift around.

“So,” Dean says, raising the bottle as you hold out your glass, “is Tom gonna get lucky?” You snort, see the twitch at the corners of Dean’s mouth.

“I would rather never have sex again,” you mutter and Dean chuckles, grins. It warms your heart - it’s been a while since you’ve seen him smile, it feels like. 

“You think he talks a lot during?” Dean asks, putting the bottle down, and you push your leg out, press your foot against his side, groan theatrically.

“Oh my God, shut up,” you say and Dean grins again. “I don’t even wanna think about it.”

“Hey, I need to know what my wife gets up to, okay? That’s how that whole co-parenting business works,” he says and you immediately shake your head.

“Ex-wife,” you correct him, pushing your foot into his side again. To your surprise, Dean grabs it and squeezes it in one hand.

“We’re not divorced, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re not rid of me yet.” 

You huff as Dean gives you a sideways glance. A soft, gentle one, like he’s checking you’re okay with what he’s saying. He leans forward, puts his glass on the couch table with a grunt, then leans back, and takes your foot in both hands, puts it in his lap. Presses his thumb into your sole and drags up. You open your mouth to complain, but then your eyes fall shut immediately. A small humming sound leaves you despite yourself.

“Remember when I used to do this when you were pregnant?” he says, and you slowly blink your eyes open, look at him. There’s something unreadable on Dean’s face as he keeps massaging you.

“I remember you doing this when I decided to go on that stupid hike that one time I insisted we go camping,” you reply, taking another sip of your drink, looking at Dean over the rim of your glass. “I don’t know why in the world I thought that would be a good idea with a toddler.”

“Hey, don’t knock that trip,” he responds, hitting a particularly sensitive spot and making you gasp. “Pretty sure we made JJ while we were there.” You chuckle.

“Pretty sure we made him at Sam’s graduation party,” you reply. Dean grins, and it’s his old one - the one you used to get a lot of, the life-affirming, loving one, the one he gave you everytime the two of you realized that you’d made it - made it out, survived, that life was only just beginning. The one you saw less and less of as Dean started struggling, feeling like he was never good enough, was never gonna really belong in this life. 

When the joy of making it out became yesterday’s news and all the old wounds he’d never fully recovered from started catching up with him. The ones you’d begged him to deal with, get help for. He started pulling away from you, left you with the responsibility of trying to keep it all together.

“Long time ago,” he mumbles, looking down at his lap.

“Yeah,” you say. Both of you are quiet, Dean just holding your foot now but not letting go of it, a strangely intimate gesture. 

“I know it’s hard,” you say eventually, your voice quiet and Dean seems to have been deep in thought, because he blinks, looks over at you. “Digging yourself out of that hole. Believe me, I’ve teetered at the edge of it, too. But you have to, Dean. It’s not just about you, or us. It’s about them.”

You don’t need to clarify who you’re talking about - of course you don’t. They’re the center of it all, the reason you couldn’t afford to fall apart when your marriage did. The reason Dean is here, because JJ asked if his dad could come over rather than sleeping at his new place, the one your son has had you pick him up a few times from cause he says it doesn’t feel homey, Dean with the saddest look in the world, like he thought he was the biggest failure to ever live. The two of them aren’t little babies anymore, Emma’s gonna be ten in the fall. Time is passing so quickly it sometimes terrifies you.

“You know what Emma asked me the other day?” you say, looking at your foot still there in Dean’s hands. You can’t look at his face, because you don’t want to see his expression. “She asked me, ‘mom, is daddy sad?’ And I didn’t know what to answer, Dean. Because I think you are. I think you’re really sad, and I think you have been for a while.” 

Carefully, you look up. Dean’s brow is low, his jaw clenched. The devastation of his daughter seeing him as only human is clear on his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters and you let out the breath you were holding. But then, to your surprise, Dean looks up at you, something stoic there. “I’ve been seeing someone.” You blink, unsure at the seemingly sudden switch between topics.

“A–aside from Ashley?” you ask with a frown, then tilt your head with an angry expression. “Dean, you didn’t cheat on her, did you? That would be so–”

“A friggin’ therapist,” Dean interrupts you, shaking his head at you, unbelieving. “Did you think–? No, I’ve been– A therapist, okay?” You feel heat rush to your face at your assumption, and then something sudden and soft in your chest at his words.

“You… you have?” you ask, sounding unsure.

“Yes,” Dean says, still sounding offended. “It’s the one Sam went to, he recommended him to me. Jesus, you really think I’d cheat on Ashley?” You open your mouth, then close it.

“That’s amazing, Dean,” you say, leaning forward when he refuses to look at you. You gently slap his arm. “Hey. That’s amazing, okay?” He grumbles a little and you can’t help but chuckle.

“It’s… weird,” he says, looking amused now. “Still a lot of stuff I need to lie about, the apocalypses and monsters and all that, but I didn’t think it would be like that. It feels kinda good, you know?” Your heart beats faster and you can’t hide your grin.

“How long have you been going?” you ask, and Dean shrugs.

“Few months,” he says. You frown.

“You didn’t tell me,” you point out. Dean shrugs again, looking bashful.

“Wanted to make sure I could stick to it first,” he mutters. You swallow, keep looking at him. Feel the pull of emotions in you, like a weird mix of all the affection you feel for Dean and the sadness that it took so long for him to figure out he’s worth being cared for.

“So,” you ask, “he tell you what an idiot you were for letting your hot ass wife go?” You tried for a jokey tone but the look Dean shoots you tells you you’ve hit something soft and vulnerable. He gently squeezes your foot.

“Don’t need a therapist to tell me that,” he replies, looking into your eyes. Your breath catches, and you swallow. “Figured that one out all on my own.”

Both of you are silent and it’s like you’re holding your breath together. You feel the pads of Dean’s fingers on your ankle and then they travel up an inch. All the while he keeps looking into your eyes.

“Dean,” you say, needing to lick your lips, ignoring how much his look is making your mouth feel dry. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he says, his fingertips running over your skin. “Just… reminiscing.”

“You mean feeling lonely?” you ask, tone soft but a challenge in it.

“No. Yeah. Maybe,” Dean replies. “I don’t know.” His fingers slip higher on your leg.

“Dean,” you say again, “we made such good progress. You wanna fuck that up cause you don’t want to be alone for five minutes?” Dean purses his lips.

“Five minutes?” he says. “That how you remember me?” 

You can’t help but chuckle, and Dean grins at the fact that he managed to make you laugh. He looks proud of himself. There’s something so comfortable and familiar about his cockiness. It makes you want to wring his neck a little too, but it also feels nice to see it. You haven’t, not in a long while.

“You know it’s not,” you say, and then Dean’s other hand travels up, this one at the back of your leg, where it tickles. It makes you shift around, clench your thighs.

“I just miss you, okay?” he says, voice low and deep. “Miss us. You don’t miss me at all?” You chew at your lip, swirl the liquor in your glass. 

Of course you miss him. You miss the easiness with which he sometimes tackled life. The way the two of you found yourself working so well as a team, just like you did when you used to hunt together. One always filling in where the other one was lacking. Miss the passionate way he loved you, and you him.

“I’ve got a couple of battery-powered friends that help me when I get too nostalgic,” you reply instead and Dean grimaces.

“Ouch,” he replies, “guess I deserve that.” You chuckle, stretch your toes. 

“But yeah, you might play the odd supporting role in what I think about.”

It’s out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. Dean blinks, and then his expression settles into something self-assured, something steady. Like he’s been trying to find the rhythm to a song and now he finally has it.

“Is that right?” he drawls, and it makes heat shoot to your core, the way he says it, the way he looks at you. You almost can’t help it when you slowly run your calf along his leg.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice soft. Dean’s fingertips move again, making it feel like he’s sending lightning bolts from them straight into you.

“Anything in particular you like to think about?” he asks. You shift your foot, now dangerously close to Dean’s crotch. You notice your breath is coming a little heavier.

“Our honeymoon,” you say and a dreamy grin comes over Dean’s face. 

“Whirlpool?” he asks and you need to bite your lip.

“Yep,” you say, popping the p. “That one night we didn’t sleep. Got room service in the morning.” Dean’s fingertips wander higher, now nearly at your knee.

“Fuck, you wore me out that night,” he says, voice scratchy. “I thought you were gonna give me a heart attack, the way you kept wanting more and more. You were insatiable.” You clench your thighs, slow, delicious pressure building in you.

“I was,” you reply. “I was in love. Happiest woman on the planet.”

Dean’s touching stutters, then stops. He looks at you, like he’s asking you to tell him to keep going. Your chest is rising and falling, and so is his. 

“I want you so bad right now,” he says, his tone quiet, like he’s terrified you’ll actually hear him and say no. Your breath catches.

“What about Ashley?” you ask. Dean shakes his head, just a little.

“I was happy when she ended things,” he says. “I think I was hoping she would. We never had what you and I had.” You tilt your head to the side.

“Don’t make this her fault,” you say. “It’s not flattering to me.”

Dean’s hand squeezes your skin where it is, setting another volley of explosive lust free in you. 

“You’re right,” he says, looking deep into your eyes. “I’m sorry.” You nod slowly.

“Alright,” you reply, returning the look, raising your chin as you decide to take the leap. “Now come here.”

Dean looks at you for a second longer. Then he suddenly moves, pushes himself up. You take a sharp breath as he leans over you, but the truth is your legs drop open, allowing Dean to slot between them. He looks down at you and your head drops back to look up at him, watch him as he narrows his eyes at you.

“You’re right, you know?” he says. “I’m an idiot, okay? That what you want to hear?” You nod. Dean’s hand lands on your thigh, and at your confirmation, it slowly starts wandering.

“You are an idiot,” you say, your own hand landing on his chest and traveling down. 

“The biggest one in the world,” he says, shifting around and then your mouth drops open as he presses himself against you, your dress riding up, helped by his hand that is wandering higher and higher. “Didn’t know how good I had it. I had everything I ever needed.” You press your lips together, look at him defiantly.

“Fuck what you needed,” you say, surprised at your own intensity. “What about what I needed?” Dean’s lips move, and then he settles, looks into your eyes. He breathes in slowly, then lets it out.

“I know exactly what you need,” he says. He reaches for the glass, still in your hand, puts it down on the floor next to the couch. Then he starts moving lower.

You close your eyes as Dean presses an open-mouthed kiss to the top of your breasts, strong hands grasping your sides and keeping you in place for him. He nuzzles at that part of you and your hands go to his head, pulling him closer. He grunts in response, presses his tongue against your skin.

“Fuck,” you mumble, but Dean isn’t deterred. He kisses against your breast, through the dress, then moves lower again, kisses against your stomach. You shift around, hot seething need suddenly burning inside you.

This is a terrible mistake, surely. You shouldn’t do this. Both you and Dean are feeling a little lonely, he because of Ashley, you because of your shitty date. Sleeping with him is not the solution to this. But the way he’s touching you, wanting you, feels like it’s making you dumb. You know what Dean can do, what he’s capable of. How well you fit together. You’re sick of denying yourself in the name of reason. You’re sick of always being the responsible adult.

Dean’s hands move and wander under the skirt of your dress, slowly pushing it up. He groans, then lowers his head, runs his nose over the skin right where your panties end. His breath fans over you, making you squirm.

He doesn’t make you wait. Just presses his mouth against the fabric. It makes your eyes flutter shut.

“God, I miss how you smell,” he mumbles. Your eyebrows go together as your hands wander down, looking for the sides of your panties to drag them down.

Dean understands, gets there before you and starts tugging. Once he gets them over your ass and then your legs when you bring them up, give him room, he drops them somewhere, scoots lower, his arms pushed under you, hands around your waist, your thighs around his head.

He starts kissing you, his lips never leaving you. Low on your stomach, against the insides of your thighs, exploring you, warming you up. Your hands fly out, one going to the back of the couch, the other to the side of his head. You run your thumb along his cheek, and Dean opens his eyes, looks up at you. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him. But you don’t.

When he lowers his head again, he goes for the prize. His lips run along your own and you shudder before he starts kissing you there, soft, gentle, but deep. It makes your toes curl pretty much immediately. 

Dean starts licking at you, in that way that he knows drives you crazy. The way he discovered a few weeks into your relationship, after trying different methods. This way has you squirming for him, shifting around. He once told you that that move usually had the women he was with begging for him. Not you, though. You started giving him orders instead.

He used to say that's what made him fall on love with you.

Your hand wanders to the back of his head and you feel Dean huff against you. He lets you push him closer, his nose pressing against you as he moves his face a little, brings his tongue to your entrance and starts exploring it with the tip of it. You let your head fall back, bite your lip. Allow yourself to enjoy.

Your stomach is tight with arousal as you gently start rocking your lower body. Dean moves again, presses his mouth over your clit. He drags one arm out from under you, lets the hand run down your thigh, pressing it closer against his head, like he wants you to squeeze him there, hold him tight with nowhere to go. You can do that.

You raise your head again to look at him. Press down on his head a little harder, bring your thighs together, and Dean groans against you as you keep rocking yourself against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth. He’s always loved this. Surrounded by nothing but you, he used to call it, making you giggle. You never expected to miss it this much. The look on his face from what little you can see of it. His sounds, small, low grunts. It’s intoxicating to have that effect on someone. You’ve missed being worshipped like that.

You close your eyes, roll your hips. Concentrate on the sweet, soft feeling building in you. The joy of being with someone who knows your body well, who cares about your pleasure, enjoys it as their own. 

You can’t help but wonder if, in another world where you never confronted Dean about his behavior, where he never moved out, where you never went on a date with Tom, you would be in this exact same position now. Dean and you used to make it a point to get time to yourself. Go on dates, get the kids out of the house for long sessions of love making. Be conscious of each other. You did a good job, both of you did. For the longest time, you did.

You gently run your fingers over where you’re still holding Dean, scratch at his scalp and it makes him moan against you, the vibrations tickling you. His hand moves off your thigh in response and the next second, you feel his fingers at your entrance. You press your fingertips into his skin, encouraging him. He enters your with two fingers a second later.

He finds you like he never left, like he didn’t spend nearly a year away from you. You run your foot over his back, the fabric of his shirt soft and rough at the same time against your sole. Kind of like Dean. A lot like Dean, actually.

“Yes,” you mumble, bring your head up again. “Ugh, that’s… right there.” And Dean concentrates there, the pads of his fingers working at you from one side, his tongue and beautiful lips from the other. You press your lips together to try to be quiet.

He opens his eyes, looks at you again. The man you married, decided to spend your life with, decided to make the father of your children. Right there, between your legs, through trial and turmoil and grief, latched on to you, eyelids low.

The orgasm hits you and you grab Dean’s hair, make fists of it, needing something to hold on to. You rock your body up but he’s holding on to you so hard it’s almost impossible to move, but even only pressing against his strength is delicious. High, small whimpers leave you, your body too electric to be louder.

And then you drop. No pretense. You know how you must look right now, vein pulsing on your forehead, flushed, a little sweaty. But Dean crawls up your body, looks down at you. When you manage to blink your eyes open, you see his expression.

He looks at you like you’re the best thing in the world.

You swallow, emotion suddenly thick on your throat. Maybe you should stop here, make a joke about you getting yours but that it’s ultimately for the better. That you should be reasonable, both of you, and then Dean can get into his car and drive to his empty apartment, and you climb into your empty bed and all is well.

Instead, you grab his face and drag him in for a kiss.

You taste yourself on him, and Dean immediately presses himself close to you, returning the kiss. He’s just so goddamn soft to your touch. Everything about him. He tries to hide it like it’s the worst thing in the world, but you know.

He is also, in your humble opinion, wearing way too many clothes. To remedy that, you run your hands to his shoulders, start pushing his flannel off him. Dean helps you, neither of you willing to separate the kiss, so you do it blindly, uncoordinated. He presses himself against you, his jeans rough against your bare pussy but you can feel him hard there. You run your hands down his back to his ass, try to bring him closer. When you feel the tattered back pocket of his pants, you pull your head back and roll your eyes.

“I hate those jeans,” you mumble and Dean grins. 

“Too bad you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore,” he says, one eyebrow arching up.

Rather than reply, you bring your hands to his chest, push at him. Dean follows with a confused look as you sit up, keep pushing at him until he plops down against the back of the couch. The next second, you straddle him.

You kiss him again before he can say anything. Dean reaches up, hands tangling in your hair, fingers stroking the skin of your neck and face. You press yourself against him, and he groans into your mouth. You pull back just a little, keep your face close to him.

“Take them off,” you say with a grin that Dean returns immediately. It feels light. It feels new. 

He drags you in, kisses you again, his hands wandering all over your body. He presses his tongue into your mouth, and when you moan around it, he squeezes you where he’s holding you.

“Fuck,” he mumbles when he breaks away, “you’re so fucking sexy.” You bite your lip, then press yourself down against him and Dean moans before pulling you in once more, like he can’t get enough of you.

You hear the door upstairs open and pull away from him, stop moving immediately. Dean looks up at you, blinks, seems out of it.

“Wha–” he starts and slap your hand over his mouth, keep it there.

You hear JJ’s small steps cross the upstairs hall. Then a second of nothing, and then the slight squeak of Emma’s bedroom door, the hinges of which you’ve been meaning to have a look at but just haven’t found the time. The door closing. Nothing else for a few seconds. You slowly let out the breath you were holding.

Dean’s frowning when you look back at him, drop your hand from his mouth to his chest. He’s leaned back, and his hands travel over your hips when he speaks. Intimate, sweet. 

“What’s JJ doing in Em’s room?” he asks, voice low. You take a slow breath.

“He goes there sometimes when he can’t sleep,” you mumble. “She’s fine with it. I told her she can tell him to stay in his room, but I think she’s secretly happy about it.” Dean huffs a little.

“So he’s gotten too big to climb into our— I mean, yours, huh?” he asks, only correcting himself at the last second. You shake your head slowly.

“He doesn’t like coming to my bed,” you say, unsure whether this is the moment to tell Dean this. “Says it feels too empty without you there.”

Dean swallows, clenches his jaw. It’s not a big deal, which is why you haven’t told Dean about this, despite you both still keeping a good line of communication open where it comes to the kids. Still, you’re sure it’s not a nice thing to hear. It sure wasn’t for you when JJ told you, although you made sure not to show him that.

“Dean,” you say and you bring your hands up, cup his cheeks and he blinks to look at you. “They’re fine. We’re fine.” He looks up at you, eyes soft.

Dean’s hands tighten on your hips. He keeps looking at you and then, just as you’re about to ask if he’s okay, he wraps his arms around you, pulls you in.

Your face is suddenly close to his, and damn it if you couldn’t get lost in his eyes just like you used to. He raises his chin, his lips moving before he finds the words.

“I love them so much,” he says, voice low, and you nod.

“I know you do,” you reply, running your thumb along his skin. “And they know that too.”

Dean keeps looking at you, studies you. He swallows.

“I don’t want you to go on dates with douchebags like Tom,” he says finally. “That’s not…” He stops, maybe unsure how to continue. You shake your head as you lean in again.

“Dean,” you nearly whisper. “It’s okay.” And then you kiss him again.

Because the truth is, you don’t want to be going on dates with guys like Tom either. Or with any guy that isn’t Dean. You want him. Only him.

Dean kisses you back, inhaling sharply through his nose, and your heart beats faster at how much you’ve missed him. This can’t mean anything, though. Things need to go back to normal tomorrow, because although you want nothing more than Dean inside you right now, you can’t fuck this up for Emma and JJ.

That’s what you swear to yourself, as your hands wander down Dean’s chest to the button of those jeans you hate.

He separates from you, looks down where you open them. You press yourself up on your knees when you're done. Dean raises his ass, starts pushing the jeans and his briefs down in one go. You help him get them to his knees and then you lower yourself again.

You can feel Dean’s cock pressed against you and he pulls you in, kisses you again. You let him for a few seconds, then pull back, bring your hand to your mouth, collect some spit. Then you find him between your legs, half hard, and wrap your wet fingers around him. 

Dean takes a sharp breath and you pull your head back to watch him. He chases your lips, but you keep them out of his reach with a grin, at least until Dean takes your face in his hands again, drags you down to kiss him. You moan into his mouth as his cock twitches in your hand. Goddamn sap. That’s what he is. But the way he feels against your mouth and body is so intoxicating that you’re willing to forgive him for it.

Dean grows hard in your hand and when he’s all the way there, you press up on your knees again. Dean watches you, eyes soft. His hands go to your hips, stroking them and then he looks down again.

You lower yourself until you feel him against you. Briefly searching, and then he slips into you.

He feels familiar and amazing. You can’t fight the soft smile on your lips. That’s the only cock I wanna see for the rest of my life, you once told him when you were kneeling between his legs. Dean chuckled, shook his head while he brushed some hair behind your ear. You’re a damn romantic, he replied.

Your hands go to his shoulders and Dean looks up, into your eyes. You sink down on him fully with a small gasp, both of you not daring to move for a second.

You remember the first time, still, in his car. Remember so many times after. After deaths, after loss. Slow mornings when the world outside felt so far away, where nothing but the two of you mattered. When you tried for your babies. You don’t remember the last time, before it all ended, and that’s always made you a little sad.

You wonder if this will be the last time. At least you’ll get to remember it.

You begin rocking your hips, and Dean’s eyes fall shut. He squeezes you harder where he holds you. Then his hands wander up, to your shoulders, as he starts tugging down your dress, the straps of your bra. It exposes your breasts, and Dean leans forward, presses his lips against the soft skin there when they spill out. He catches a nipple between his lips and sucks it into his mouth.

Your head drops back and Dean wraps his arms around you, the tight grip helping you with your movement. His hands claw at your exposed ass, squeezing it, the way he always liked to do. In bed, or just casually around the house. Couldn’t keep his hands off you.

He moves one hand, bringing it between your bodies. Presses his fingers against your clit and your body bucks as you clench down on him and he hisses.

You move faster, feel him drag along your walls. A whimper you can barely suppress leaves you. You lean back a little, one arm going behind you to his thigh to hold yourself up. Snap your hips.

You want to be quiet, but it’s almost impossible. With the double fronts of pleasure, Dean knowing exactly how to touch you, a skill he proudly perfected over the years, you taste thick, intense relief in your throat almost immediately. You make a noise, then another, and he shushes you.

“Gotta be quiet,” he mumbles and you nod along, barely hearing him.

“Yes,” you press out along with a high whimper. “Oh God, fuck, Dean, I’m gonna–”

Your body convulses, and then you need to drop forward, your arms slinging around Dean’s neck as you press your face against his shoulder while you ride it out. It’s the only way you can even remotely hope to be quiet. Dean’s hand shoots up to the back of your head, grips the hair there, the slight pain both intensifying the pleasure and grounding you in it.

As the waves die down you slump against him, press yourself close, looking for contact. Dean just keeps touching you, stroking you as you come down, slowly, back to earth. 

When you can, you kiss your way up his neck with small hums. Dean chuckles low in his throat. Always teased you for how lovey and soft you were once you came. When you reach his mouth, you peck him. You can feel him grin, so you give his lip a quick bite.

You pull back, look at Dean’s face. The way your heart beats hard in your chest isn’t just from the sex. It’s something else too. Dean blinks, maybe thinking the same. You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you - are you still the same he knew? Is he?

As if he can hear the question in your mind, he suddenly pulls you in. Your arms are still around his shoulders and they tighten when you feel him push up.

Hey lays you down on the couch table behind you, kisses you again. You moan into Dean’s mouth, run your hands into his hair, then down his body. Dean pushes himself up, looks down at you. You grab the hem of his shirt, start pulling it off him.

He needs to lift one arm, then the other and when you drop the shirt behind you, his hands go to your dress, bunched up and pulled down around your middle. He tugs at the fabric, then grunts.

“How the fuck do you–” he mumbles, and you reach for this face, turn him to you. You’re already shaking your head.

“Just leave it,” you say as you pull him in. “Make love to me, Dean.” 

Dean dips his head, kisses you again as he begins moving. You just pull him close, hold him. Dean breaks the kiss, but it’s only to push his face against your neck. You wrap your legs around him.

He stays like that, his breath fanning over your neck, at least until his rhythm quickens. Then Dean pushes himself up on his arms, looks down at you again while he keeps thrusting. You bring your hands up, hold his face. The way you used to do when a hunt was particularly difficult. The way you did after you finally got to take JJ home from the hospital after weeks.

You see the tell-tale signs - that slight pull up of his lips, the narrowing of his eyes. The catch of his breath. You always loved watching him come, the way all his pretenses just slowly melt away and he just becomes lust and passion, slave to his body. 

He leans down again, his lips passing over yours. A first low grunt leaves him and his one hand goes to your thigh so he can better fuck into you, harder, but he keeps his eyes open, looks into yours. You kiss his lips, and then Dean’s thrusts stutter before a deep groan leaves him. He presses his lips against yours, then presses his eyes closed and his forehead against you as he thrusts a few times more, then stills, pushed deep.

You kiss him on the cheek, then close to his nose while his eyes are still closed. Run your hands over his back. 

If you were to close your eyes, this could feel like your life only a couple of years ago. When things felt normal. Felt right. 

Dean moves his head, then looks down at you. His gaze goes over your face, like he’s trying to read it. You give him a soft smile.

“We better get cleaned up,” you say, and he slowly nods.

Dean grabs some kitchen towels for you and you wipe yourself down, before rushing upstairs to the big bathroom. You take off your dress and put on your robe, then walk downstairs again.

Dean’s just putting on his jacket. The glasses and bottle are gone, cleaned up by him.

He’s fidgeting with his hands and his car key, looking between the floor and you as you approach him.

“I should probably get going,” he says and you nod slowly.

“Yeah, I guess,” you mutter. You watch him swallow, that look he gets when he’s trying to pretend whatever he’s about to say doesn’t mean much coming over him.

“I’d ask if I can stay,” he says, voice forced into lightness, “make that bed a little less empty, but it would be confusing to the kids if I’m here tomorrow morning.” You chuckle, then nod. Look at him. 

He looks completely vulnerable. Fidgeting, unsure. Maybe a little scared. It breaks your heart and warms it. You don’t know him like this. He’s always been confident, boisterous after you’ve had sex. Told you all the things he was gonna do next time.

Maybe, just like you, he’s worried there won’t be one.

“You could come by for breakfast,” you say quickly, and Dean blinks, looks up at you. You can’t hide the smile spreading on your face. At the prospect of having him here in the morning, even if you won’t have him here in the night. “Emma’s been complaining that my pancakes are no good.” Dean chuckles, and there he is again. Like someone walking into a room and turning on the light.

“There’s that movie JJ’s been wanting to see,” Dean adds. “We could… I don’t know, if you wanted…”

“The one with the giant robots?” you ask, and he nods.

“The one with the giant robots,” Dean confirms. Both of you smile softly at each other.

“Sounds like a plan,” you add and Dean raises his chin, takes a slow breath. “And maybe you and I can talk… about this.” He clenches his jaw.

“That’d probably be good,” he says. “Maybe after bedtime?”

And just like that, you’ve planned an entire day together. Just like you used to.

“Dean,” you say, and he looks into your eyes. It almost looks like he’s bracing himself. “This needs to be about what’s best for them, too.” He nods slowly.

“I know,” he says. Then he’s quiet while he looks at you. His gaze is almost too much to bear. He knows you too well and you him. It’s impossible to hide. So what he says surprises you.

“Can I kiss you goodnight?” 

You take a slow breath, then nod. Dean steps closer, slowly, not taking his eyes off you. 

One of his hands goes up, brushes some of your hair behind your ear. His thumb rests on your cheekbone and he just looks at you for a moment.

When he leans in to kiss you, it’s immeasurably soft. You lay your hand on his arm, but not to pull him in or push him away. Only to touch him.

He stays close when he separates. His nose brushing against yours. Then he clears his throat, takes a deep breath.

“I better head out,” he says, and you can only nod. He turns, walks towards the door and you follow him.

He stops just before taking the first step down to the street, turns back. He seems unsure almost, like he hasn’t settled on what he wants to say yet. He moves his key around in his hand.

“You know,” he says, “I wish I could go back. Do it all over again. Do it better.” You wrap your arms around yourself.

“It’s in the past, Dean,” you say, voice quiet. “We can’t change it.” He nods slowly, looks down.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he replies, then he looks up at you, at your face, and it’s like he’s looking across all those years. “I love you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and tears shoot into your eyes that you quickly try to blink away. Dean looks down again, then turns and starts walking towards his car.

It’s the middle of the night and you’re only in your robe, and it’s kind of freezing, but you still go after him. Your feet are gonna be dirty, but you don’t care. 

Dean turns, frowning when he hears you, and then he opens his arms to wrap them around you as you fall into them.

You stay like that for a long time, his jaw pressed against the side of your head, your face in the fabric just over his chest, the place you can smell him perfectly. He smells so warm. He smells like home.

You pull your head back to look up at him, and he does the same. He looks worried, so you bring up your hand, run your fingers along his cheek.

“Tomorrow,” you say, and he nods slowly. He runs his hands along you. It takes him a long time to let go.

He gets into the car and you watch him as he adjusts how he sits. He’s pushing the keys into the ignition when you knock on the window. He turns his head, then rolls the window down. You give him a soft smile.

“And I love you too,” you say. Dean’s face slackens, something deep and intense coming over it. 

You look at him for a moment longer, and then you turn and walk back up to the house. At the door, you turn. Dean’s still sitting there, watching you. Making sure you’re getting home okay. Like it hasn’t been him all this time. 

He turns the key, nods at you and you raise your hand. It feels strangely formal and makes you chuckle. Then the motor turns over, and he rolls down the street.

You watch until the taillights disappear into the night, and then you turn and walk inside.

[myceliumsunshine]

i'm sitting here watching season 14 for the first time and i genuinely thought that marybobby was just a ship people did because they both deserved better than what happened to them but no? it's canon (maybe it's only early in the season but they seem to be going for it)

[myceliumsunshine]

rowena is so real for her comments about sam's shoulders

Holy Virgin* | Part Seventeen

You've shared everything with Sam but one thing—your faith. It’s never been a problem… until Heaven turns its gaze on you, and suddenly, devotion takes on a darker meaning. *Contains sexual material, pregnancy, thoughts of suicide/attempted suicide, virginity and has some religious themes: Minors DNI Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader (Platonic), Castiel x Reader (Platonic) A/N: Guys I'm actually scaring myself with my writing... It's getting intense y'all! Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage @ladykitana90 @sepho @kinavet Part Eighteen Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The bunker had never felt heavier.

Not in all the years you'd lived within its fortified walls — not when it had flooded during a haunting, not when Sam and Dean had dragged themselves home after bleeding out in battles they swore they’d win, not even when Castiel came to you with the message from God and not knowing it would change everything.

No, this was something deeper. Denser.

The silence had thickened into a tangible thing — oppressive and vast, pressing in from all sides like the weight of eternity itself. It wasn't just quiet. It was sacred. Tomb-like. Like the whole place had been cracked open and filled with reverence and dread in equal measure.

It was the stillness of churches just before confession. Of graveyards just before thunder. Of creation right before the breath of God stirred dust into man.

The air felt swollen with it. Like it was waiting to split open.

Somewhere far above your head — through feet of steel, rock, and time — the morning sky stretched wide and clear, unaware. Maybe even uncaring. Sunlight spilled down through the narrow vents high in the concrete ceiling, those familiar slats letting thin, slanted beams fall across the stone floor. They painted the room in golden stripes, like bars of light in a cage you couldn’t leave.

It should have felt like any other morning.

But it didn’t.

Not when you'd gone to sleep three months pregnant and woken up eight.

Not when your body had bent to something divine overnight — not with your breath shallow in your chest, your skin tight and trembling, and the swell of your belly grown into something impossibly full.

Not when you'd felt the pulse of something not yours flutter beneath your ribs — like wings stretching inside a cage of bone.

The air smelled of candle smoke, and blood. Of iron, and lavender oil from the rag Sam had used to wipe your face. Of old stone and something new — something charged. The scent of sanctity.

The tension had rooted itself into the bunker’s bones. Every hallway hummed with divine static, soft but present, like a radio tuned to a station just beyond reach. It curled in the seams between tiles, slithered through air vents, and settled behind the lightbulbs, each one buzzing faintly with electricity or grace — or both.

No one spoke now. Not really. Not in full sentences. Just fragments. Hushed phrases, strained prayers. The occasional gasp of breath, like someone surfacing from a bad dream.

Somewhere nearby, you heard Sam.

Pacing again.

The steady rhythm of his boots echoed faintly down the hallway, heel-to-toe across stone, each pass sharper than the last. You could imagine him clearly, even without seeing — jaw tight, hair mussed, brows drawn together in quiet devastation. One hand raking through his hair in frustrated arcs, the other curling and uncurling at his side, knuckles pale with tension.

He hadn’t left you since the shift.

Since the morning you woke screaming with both hands clenched over your abdomen, whispering you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t move, something was wrong — something was happening.

He’d been by your side as the hours passed and your body changed beneath the candlelight — as your belly grew beneath the thin cotton sheet, as stretch marks bloomed like halos along your sides, as the pain quieted into pressure and the pressure settled into stillness.

He’d kissed your forehead and whispered, “I’m here. I’ve got you,” but it hadn’t stopped the shaking in his voice. It hadn’t steadied the fear in his chest.

Because Sam Winchester had read every scripture on miracles. On chosen vessels. On prophecy and holy birth.

And not one of those stories had ever ended in peace.

Now, even with your room hushed and cloaked in the flickering glow of votive candles and the low drone of scripture, Sam couldn't be still. Couldn’t stop the slow, panicked spiral of thought that something was coming. That you might break before it did.

And then there was Castiel.

He knelt at your bedside like he belonged there.

Like he’d never known anything else.

His trench coat had been folded over the back of the chair hours ago, neatly, reverently. He remained in slacks and a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled past his elbows, his tie askew. His vessel’s body was worn at the edges — subtle signs of grace stretched too thin — but his eyes held nothing but quiet, unshakable loyalty.

And love.

He hadn’t moved for nearly an hour, not since you’d begged him — hands trembling, rosary slipping between your fingers — “Stay with me, please.”

Now, he read from your Bible in a low, unwavering voice. Psalms and gospels braided together with murmured Enochian that buzzed against your ears like thunder behind a veil. One hand rested over your swollen stomach. The other braced your fingers when you fumbled, grounding you through the contractions that weren’t quite contractions — through the pressure that was building like the world was being born inside you.

His voice was low and measured. Never dramatic. Never performative. Just deep and steady — like a lullaby, or a eulogy.

Like an angel remembering how to pray like a man.

You lay still.

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in uneven cadence.

You were too tired to cry anymore. You felt like wax — melted, shaped, and hollowed out. Your skin, once soft, now strained over something divine and terrifying. You could feel the heat of it inside you — not just warmth, but presence. Sacred. Pulsing. Holy.

Your belly had become a chalice. A reliquary.

And you could feel something watching from the inside.

Every so often, Castiel would pause and look at you — not with pity, never with fear. Just quiet knowing. And when the pain took your breath again, he would whisper another line from Luke, or a verse from Isaiah, or a phrase in an ancient tongue that curled in your mind like a forgotten lullaby.

It didn’t matter that you didn’t understand the words.

Your soul did.

And then… there was Dean.

Dean, who hadn’t come back since the angels left.

You knew he was somewhere in the bunker. Probably the kitchen. Maybe the garage. Pretending to fuss with coffee or the Impala’s engine again — anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to keep him from walking through the door.

He hadn’t come back to see you.

Not once.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because he did.

Because to Dean, your room wasn’t just a room anymore. It had become something consecrated. Touched. Beyond him.

It was no longer just you in that bed.

You were the girl he’d once called sweetheart. The one he’d protected in parking lots and patched up after hunts. But now, you were also the vessel of something celestial. Something too big. Too holy. Something not even Dean Winchester — hunter, brother, warrior — could fight.

And Dean had never known what to do with God.

You'd seen it in his eyes — that haunted distance — the night the angels first gathered around you. The night they spoke in thunder and called you blessed among women. The night your breath caught and the lights flickered and Dean backed away like the sanctity might burn him.

He hadn’t said it, but he didn’t need to.

He flinched when the crucifix around your neck caught the candlelight.

He clenched his jaw when Castiel pressed his fingers to your temple and whispered blessings older than sin.

He swallowed hard when your stomach moved beneath the sheet — not with a kick, but with something that felt like a ripple of creation itself.

To Dean, you were still you. But you were also something sacred now. Claimed.

And that scared him more than anything ever had.

Because Dean Winchester could kill demons. He could stand between you and monsters. He could bleed for you.

But he didn’t know how to protect something God had already claimed for Himself.

So instead, he stayed away.

c

In the kitchen, Dean sat like a statue carved from tension and sleeplessness, unmoving save for the rhythmic twitch of his leg beneath the table. The chair creaked softly beneath him each time his knee bounced, the sound a lonely metronome in the silence. The air was cold down here — or maybe it just felt that way, leeched of warmth by the weight of everything that had unfolded in the hours before.

A mug sat between his hands, cradled like an anchor he wasn’t sure he needed. The coffee inside had long gone cold, a sheen of oil glimmering faintly across the surface. He hadn’t taken a sip since he poured it. Hadn’t moved except to run a tired hand down the length of his face, stubble rasping against his palm as he exhaled hard through his nose.

His eyes were bloodshot. Not just from lack of sleep, though God knew he hadn’t closed his eyes in over thirty hours. But from emotion. From watching. From holding too much in.

His shoulders, normally broad and squared like a soldier’s, slouched inward. His Henley clung to him, damp around the collar with nervous sweat, sleeves shoved up over his forearms like he was about to fight someone — or fall apart. His right thumb traced slow circles over the ceramic of the mug, a compulsive, quiet motion. Just something to do.

Beside him on the table, the cracked screen of his phone pulsed with a faint blue glow ofJody’s number. Still open.

She was coming. He’d already made the call. The words had tasted like gravel in his mouth, but he’d said them — told her everything. Enough, at least. Her answer had been clipped, urgent, the sound of keys jangling in the background and a barked command to Donna as she hung up.

She was on her way.

But time didn’t move the same in the bunker anymore.

It had stretched into something elastic — something long and aching and infinite. Like the minutes themselves were holding their breath, waiting for some holy detonation. The weight of the divine made the fluorescent lights feel too bright, the shadows too deep. It made the tile floor feel like it was humming beneath his boots.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands tightening around the coffee until the ceramic groaned.

Then, in a voice that barely cleared his throat, raw and tight and aching, he muttered, “Jesus… what the hell are we doing?”

The question went unanswered.

Not from the phone.

Not from the walls.

Not from the universe.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was filled with something unspeakable. Something vast. The kind of quiet that lives in sanctuaries and cathedrals after the last hymn is sung. A silence that buzzed under the skin. Made him feel like a sinner in a church that had suddenly turned its gaze on him.

Dean dragged a hand back through his hair and stared at the phone again, as if it might blink with a message from God Himself. Nothing came. Just his own reflection in the cracked glass, warped and worn and older than he remembered feeling.

He hadn’t stepped foot in your room since the change.

Couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

Because something had shifted in that space — in you — and he didn’t know how to look at it without falling apart. Without folding in on himself completely.

But even now, from three hallways and a war room away, he could hear Castiel’s voice.

Faint, distant, reverent — a low hum that filtered through the ventilation ducts and echoed like a psalm trapped between stone walls. He could hear the words, just barely, carried on grace and candlelight.

“‘And Mary said, My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior…’”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

The words burned.

Not because they were wrong. But because they were true.

He could see it all — burned behind his eyelids in painful detail. You, lying still on the narrow bed, eyes glassy with exhaustion. Your body unfamiliar, too full, too far along, your belly stretching the soft cotton of your shirt as though something ancient was pressing outward from beneath your skin.

He could still feel the way the air had gone sharp when the angels came. Could still taste the metallic zing of power in his mouth, like lightning in the walls.

He had watched your body betray time. Watched it accelerate, overnight — from soft, glowing second trimester to the terrifying brink of birth. Like you’d stepped through a rift in the universe, and God had pulled you forward without warning.

You hadn’t screamed. Not really.

Just a breathless cry. A wordless gasp. A sound that cut through the bunker like a blade and left Dean paralyzed in the hallway — cross around your neck glinting like a warning, like a crown.

He hadn’t gone back in.

Because what was happening inside that room was no longer something he could fight. Not a demon. Not a curse. Not some bastard angel with a smirk and a blade.

This was bigger.

This was biblical.

And Dean Winchester didn’t know how to fix a miracle.

✦

Sam finally entered the room again, moving like he might burst out of his skin. His eyes landed on you immediately — always on you — and he crossed to your side, brushing your hair gently back, his palm landing over Castiel’s briefly before the angel rose and stepped aside to let him kneel beside you again.

“Jody’s on her way,” he whispered. “She’s bringing everything she can.”

You nodded faintly, your eyes fluttering shut.

Sam kissed your hand and held it against his chest. “We’ll be ready. I promise.”

But the truth hung in the air between all of you.

None of you were ready.

Not for what this birth would look like. Not for what might arrive when your body broke open and delivered something holy into the world. Not for what it might mean.

Not even the angels had said.

And in that tension — in that waiting — time stretched further, until every breath felt like it echoed.

And still you waited.

For Jody.

For answers.

For God.

For a miracle.

Or a reckoning.

Or both.

✦

Outside, the sky was thick with storm-colored clouds, the kind that hung low enough to touch. The wind pulled at the trees near the edge of the hidden road, curling leaves and tugging at loose gravel like the world itself was holding its breath.

Dean stood by the bunker entrance, arms crossed, boots planted in the damp earth. His eyes scanned the tree line, restless. The last few hours had twisted his nerves tighter than barbed wire. Inside, everything was breaking down into quiet chaos. Sam hadn’t stopped pacing. Castiel barely blinked, anchored in prayer beside your bed. And you—sweet, brave, silent you—were curled under heaven’s impossible weight with no promise of peace. Just faith.

The truck’s headlights cut through the fog.

Dean exhaled, almost startled by the relief. The familiar crunch of tires over the dirt made his shoulders drop an inch. He jogged forward as the truck pulled up, skidding slightly before it stopped. The driver’s side door popped open.

“Dean Winchester,” Jody called as she stepped out, her eyes sharp as ever despite the long drive. “You sound like you’ve been hiding a nuclear bomb under your mattress.”

Dean huffed out a breath, already reaching for the duffel bags in the back seat. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I brought medical supplies, extra towels, canned food, holy water… and three pies,” Jody rattled off as she joined him around the trunk.

Dean paused and looked at her. “You brought pie?”

“Pregnant girl’s in a bunker filled with men who can’t cook. Yeah, I brought pie.”

He grinned, just for a second—quick and crooked—and shouldered the heavier bag. “You’re a damn saint.”

“I’m a damn sheriff,” she corrected. “Now take me to her.”

✦

The air inside the bunker hit Jody like a wave of memory: musty, metallic, still humming with warding spells and the weight of secrets. But something was different now. Heavier. Sacred, somehow.

She followed Dean through the halls, her footsteps quieted by the old stone.

“How bad is it?” she asked softly, her eyes scanning every hallway like she half-expected angels to come screaming out of the walls.

Dean sighed. “It’s… hard to explain. We’ve all been through a lot, but this? This feels bigger than anything we’ve faced. Not in a monster-hunting way. In a God-chose-her kind of way.”

Jody stopped walking. “You’re serious.”

He turned to face her. “She’s not the same, Jody. She’s still her—but something’s wrapped around her now. Like light, or grace, or… I don’t know what. It makes it hard to be in the same room too long. Even for me.”

Jody’s lips tightened. “You afraid?”

Dean met her eyes, honest. “Yeah. But I’m more afraid for her.”

They turned the last corner.

✦

Your door was open a crack. Light spilled into the dim hallway—warm, golden, somehow softer than any other glow in the bunker. Jody stepped inside.

You were in bed, propped against pillows, wrapped in layers of linen and Sam’s old flannel shirts. Your belly—once small and tentative—was now full and ripe beneath the covers, a curve of divinity pressing against cotton and ribs. You were pale, your lips chapped, your eyes sunken with exhaustion. But you were luminous too. A quiet sort of holy.

Castiel sat beside you, murmuring a Psalm under his breath, his fingers folded in prayer. When Jody entered, he lifted his head and nodded once, solemn.

Sam stood nearby, watching you like he might shatter from the effort of holding himself together.

You looked up, tired but smiling. “Jody…”

Jody blinked. Her throat closed up.

“Oh sweetheart,” she whispered.

In two strides, she was beside the bed, kneeling, brushing damp hair from your forehead. She cupped your cheek the way a mother would, steady and strong.

“You’ve been through hell,” she said. “And you still look like the bravest girl I know.”

You choked on a soft laugh. “Is it weird that I’m glad you brought pie?”

Jody smiled, her eyes glassy. “Pie fixes everything.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, resting against her touch. Sam hovered at the edge, aching to protect but powerless to soothe this particular ache. Castiel resumed his quiet reading. Somewhere deeper in the bunker, Dean poured himself a drink he wouldn’t touch.

But here, in this moment, there was something like comfort. A woman’s hand on your cheek. An old friend at your side.

Jody leaned in close. “We’re gonna get through this. You hear me?”

You nodded, tears slipping silently down your temples. “I’m just scared. Not for me. For the baby. For what comes after.”

“I know, honey. I know.” She brushed the tears away with her thumb. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing hers, anchoring yourself to that truth. You weren’t alone. Not anymore.

And as the air in the room shimmered with holiness and heat and the promise of something bigger than all of you, Jody Mills whispered the oldest truth in the world:

“You are loved.”

✦

It was nearing mid-afternoon, though time felt vague now—disjointed, soft around the edges, like reality itself had slowed to match the pace of your labored breathing. The bunker was dim and quiet, lit only by the occasional flicker of warm bulb overhead and the echo of footsteps in stone halls.

Jody had taken control like only she could, grounding herself in action. She was seated beside your bed, gently helping you stretch your legs and ankles, murmuring things under her breath like “circulation, sweetheart—helps the blood flow,” as if normalizing this thing you were about to endure would make it less terrifying.

“Up,” she finally said, patting your arm. “Let’s try a few laps. Doesn’t have to be long. Just some movement. Stretch the hips a little.”

You nodded slowly, hands braced against your belly, which felt impossibly large and high and full. Everything ached—your back, your ribs, your thighs. But there was comfort in Jody’s command, in the way she looped her arm around you like she’d done this a hundred times.

She had. Twice. And she hadn’t done it alone either.

“Slow,” she said gently as you swung your feet off the bed. “We’re walking, not running a marathon.”

“I feel like a house,” you muttered as you shuffled forward.

“You’re carrying a world, honey,” Jody said. “Houses don’t move on their own. You’re doing amazing.”

Your breath caught slightly, and you laughed through it. That kind of hollow laugh that lived beside tears.

A familiar perfume bloomed at the corridor’s end, even before her voice echoed down the hallway like silk and thunder.

“Oh, what a sight,” Rowena cooed, appearing at the threshold with a flourish of velvet and crimson skirts. “A glowing miracle and her earthly escort.”

Jody glanced back. “Took you long enough.”

Rowena smirked. “I didn’t want to interfere with your little marching band.”

Still, she joined you. Surprisingly gentle hands hovered just behind your back, not quite touching, but close enough to catch you if you stumbled.

Your feet padded slowly over the cold tile as the three of you walked the central corridor of the bunker, just past the war room, looping around the familiar halls. The silence around you was profound, thick with tension and the faint weight of heaven pressing from above. Even the bunker’s usual hum—those long-forgotten spells embedded in stone, the distant groan of pipes—felt quieter now.

“God really knows how to put on a show,” Rowena murmured, eyeing the low golden sheen still hanging faintly in the air around you.

“I didn’t want a show,” you whispered, a little breathless from the effort of walking. “I just wanted to be normal. To be… me.”

Jody rubbed your back lightly. “You’re still you, sweetie. You’re just… shining a little brighter than the rest of us right now.”

“Feels more like I’m on fire.”

Rowena chuckled under her breath, but there was something soft in her eyes when she looked at you. “You’re doing better than I would’ve at your age. Back then I was burning down castles and stealing love spells from priests.”

“I think you’re still doing most of that,” Jody muttered.

“Details.”

They were trying, you knew—trying to make you laugh, trying to keep the shadows at bay. And it was working. A little.

You walked a bit further, one hand pressed to your side where a quiet ache had begun to bloom. You felt huge. Stretched. The baby hadn’t moved in the last hour, but you could feel the pressure of their presence—the divine weight of something older than time curled beneath your ribs.

You paused at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, panting softly. Jody and Rowena both steadied you.

“Breathe through it,” Jody said gently, thumb rubbing circles on your shoulder.

Rowena leaned close. “Just like before. When the pain comes, you let it pass through you, not against you.”

You nodded, trying to stay grounded in the warmth of their voices.

And maybe because you needed a distraction—or maybe because the tension between your ribs was getting tighter by the second—you said, “Sam proposed.”

They both turned at once.

“He what?” Jody blinked.

Rowena’s brows shot up. “Before or after the immaculate conception, darling?”

“After. In the shower,” you said, cheeks warm. “It wasn’t… formal. But he meant it. And I said yes.”

Rowena blinked slowly, then gave a laugh that was almost wistful. “That boy has impeccable timing.”

Jody raised a brow. “What about a ring?”

You smirked. “I’m a barefoot, hormonal Virgin Mary. I think we’re past jewelry.”

That earned a snort from Rowena.

Then Rowena tilted her head, her grin going a little feral. “Still a virgin, hm?”

Your face went red hot. “Rowena—”

“Oh, come now,” she said, waving a hand. “There’s not a woman alive who doesn’t think about it—prophecy or not. Especially with those shoulders. Honestly, I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long.”

Jody rolled her eyes. “Rowena.”

“What?” she said innocently. “It’s called tension. I’m giving her something to think about besides the holy fetus punching her lungs.”

You did laugh then—a watery, breathless little sound—but genuine. For a moment, the pressure behind your eyes eased.

You pressed a hand over your belly. The baby shifted, just faintly, and your breath hitched again—this time, from something other than pain.

“They’re so quiet now,” you murmured.

“They’re saving their strength,” Jody said. “So should you.”

The three of you slowly made your way back to your room, one agonizing step at a time. Your body felt tight, stretched thin as silk. There was no medical support waiting for you. No hospital gown. No anesthesia. Only salt lines and grace, old spells and whispered prayers.

You weren’t allowed pain meds. That had been the angels’ decree. No man-made medicine. Only what Mary had. Only what God allowed. And it terrified you.

Once back in bed, Rowena helped you settle in, fluffing the pillows with gentle hands. Jody brought a glass of cool water and pressed it into your palm. You drank slowly, your eyes catching theirs—two women who had known birth and blood and the raw miracle of creation. They weren’t angels. They weren’t prophets.

They were mothers.

“Do you think I’ll survive it?” you asked softly.

Rowena sat beside you and took your hand in both of hers. Her voice was low, but sure.

“You are stronger than the divine gives you credit for,” she said. “And if you falter, we will carry you.”

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, as the storm outside rattled the bunker walls and God’s silence loomed like thunder overhead, you believed her.

[myceliumsunshine]

🦅🦅🦅

the way this is genuinely my favorite dean edit

[myceliumsunshine]

Dreams - Sam and Dean Winchester

The beach seems to make you a vocal sleeper. There isn't any reason to be embarrassed, though. A/N - this is for the summer snapshot challenge by @ambiguous-avery . oops. kind of smut, not really. enjoy! Snapshot Word Count - 379

You snorted and sat upright, looking around warily.

Sam was sitting on the towel next to yours, most of the way through a book that was far too thick, Dean on the other side of you, reapplying sunscreen. You let out a heavy breath, blinking away the sleep in your eyes and scrubbing the drying drool at the corner of your mouth, an indicator that the boys had let you sleep for far too long.

“What time is it?” You mumbled sleepily.

“Just after 4. You fell asleep sometime around midday.” Sam said, his face still buried in his book. You rubbed your eyes wearily, holding out your hand in Dean’s direction for the sunscreen. You could feel the burn beginning to set in on your legs, which had been sticking out from underneath the umbrella’s shade.

After applying sunscreen to yourself, you stood, stretching. You stared down at the boys, San still reading, and Dean leaning back, looking up at you. “What?”

“Nothing. Just wondering what you were dreaming about?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember. Why?”

“You were making some pretty happy noises laying there.” Dean smirked. You frowned, thinking about what your dream could have-

Hands, tracing your body. Two sets, burning paths along your hot skin. A voice in your ear, another by your thighs-

Your eyes widened as the dream came back to you. “Oh. Uhm, I think I’m going to go swimming now.”

Dean grinned as you turned and sprinted off. “You can look up from your book, blush boy. She’s gone.”

Sam pulled away from his book, his cheeks red. “Did you have to bring up what she was dreaming about?” He asked, adjusting the towel on his lap. Dean’s grin widened.

“She said our names, Sammy.”

“I heard.” Sam muttered.

“I can tell.” Dean teased.

“Oh, come on, you have a towel on your lap as well.”

“How do you feel about a beach threesome, Sammy? Make that dream come true?”

Sam looked around at the empty beach. It was secluded, with you having found an alcove of beach for yourself and the brothers to share. He sighed. “If someone finds us-”

“They won’t.” Dean assured him. “Now all we have to do is wait for them to come back.” TAGSLISTS ALL WORKS @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @ambiguous-avery SUPERNATURAL @bettystonewell Find the rest of the fics in this snapshot here!

[myceliumsunshine]

Army and Olive - Dean Winchester

a little drabble i wrote in my note app, enjoy

his eyes were the prettiest green you'd ever seen.

your mother's eyes had been shining emeralds, glinting under the moonlight, your sister's eyes trees in a warm summer forest, your brother's eyes the mossy water in the creek near your house, and your triplet cousins that visited at christmas had eyes the colour of the peas they refused to eat.

but dean's eyes, dean's eyes were the most appealing green you'd ever seen.

the strange mix of army and olive that made up dean winchester's sparkling (not that he would ever agree to have his eyes described as 'sparkling') eyes was seemingly the most gorgeous mixture of green that you'd ever seen in the eye of a person.

you often found yourself staring at them - the green, that is, and the swirly way that the army and olive mixed - comparing them to the other green eyes that had made up your life prior to meeting the man. it really wasn't fair to your family - because despite the fact that his eyes were the perfect shade of green in your opinion, you were also slightly biased.

you loved dean winchester.

so yeah, his eyes were the prettiest green you'd ever seen. and yeah, you were slightly biased. but you didn't care.

you were still going to stare into his eyes.

TAGSLISTS

ALL WORKS

@iloveeveryoneyoureamazing

SUPERNATURAL

@bettystonewell @ambiguous-avery