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actuallybean · 2 days ago

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Holy Virgin* | Part Fifteen

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: Gave yall some cute moments this chapter, but be prepared... Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage @ladykitana90 Part Sixteen Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The bathroom was still filled with steam, mist curling like breath along the mirror’s edges as you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped snug around your body. You felt warmer, looser, after standing beneath the water until your skin flushed pink—the tightness in your back eased just a little, the swirl of anxiety in your chest quieted for the first time all day.

Three months. You were three months pregnant.

Your bare feet made soft sounds against the tiled floor as you moved slowly toward the sink, one hand pressed gently to your abdomen. You paused in front of the mirror for a moment, alone, breath fogging the glass as you leaned in.

There were changes. Some subtle. Some not.

Your breasts were heavier now, more sensitive, your nipples darker in hue. Your hips were softening, rounding in a way that changed the way your towel clung to you. Your belly had the faintest swell—a gentle curve that pushed outward when you laid flat, no longer the flat stomach you remembered but something new, something growing. You ran your fingertips across it. The skin there was warm, almost glowing. You didn't feel like a stranger in your body, not yet—but you were learning it all over again. A slow, sacred unraveling.

There were freckles on your thighs you didn’t remember. Your ankles felt more tender after long hours on your feet. You noticed the faint silver hint of what might become a stretch mark one day. It didn’t scare you. It grounded you.

You weren’t just carrying something. You were becoming something. Not all at once. But slowly. Month by month. Cell by cell.

The door opened behind you with a quiet creak, and you saw him before you heard him.

Sam.

Shirtless, hair damp, a soft towel slung low around his hips. He looked like something carved from light and intention, a soft haze of steam curling around his broad shoulders as he stepped into the room.

You caught his eyes in the mirror, and the smile that pulled across his lips was the kind that wrapped around your ribs and held tight.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hey," you whispered back.

He came up behind you, arms slipping around your waist from behind, palms finding your lower belly. Not to claim it. Not to worship it. Just to connect. To say I’m here.

His lips brushed the spot between your shoulder and neck, and you closed your eyes, resting your weight back into him like a sigh.

"You’re warm," you murmured.

"So are you," he replied, voice low and close, a thread of wonder in every syllable.

You stood like that for a while—barefoot, towel-wrapped, damp and drowsy. Like time had folded inward just for you.

Eventually, laughter bubbled to the surface. Sam dried your hair clumsily with a fresh towel while you tried to brush it out, making dramatic faces every time a tangle fought back. You stuck your tongue out. He kissed your temple. You pouted at your reflection. He made fun of your "hydro-fluffed" hair. Every time you made him laugh—that real, deep, chest-vibrating laugh—you felt it behind your ribs like a second heartbeat.

You slipped into your favorite cotton sleep dress. Soft, faded, roomy enough now to be forgiving. Sam pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants and a worn college tee that you were fairly sure had once lived in the bottom of a laundry basket for six months straight.

In the mirror, you looked like yourselves again. Silly. Tired. In love.

You bumped hips while brushing your teeth, arguing over toothpaste brands and sharing the mirror like teenagers. When you rinsed, you glanced sideways at him and teased, "You know, if you’re gonna propose to someone, you could at least wait until she’s not naked and hormonal."

Sam grinned through toothpaste foam. "I thought it was kind of romantic."

"Oh yeah," you said, smirking, "nothing says forever like morning breath and back pain."

He leaned in to kiss your cheek. "I meant it, you know."

You paused, then kissed him back. Slow. Meaningful. "I know."

The rest of the evening drifted softly.

You climbed into bed together, tangled under the quilt with your limbs braided lazily. Sam rubbed your back until your breathing deepened. And eventually, with his hand resting on the curve of your belly, you fell asleep.

✦

Later that night, the bunker was quiet.

The hallway lights were dim, the hum of the ventilation system the only constant noise. In the war room, the low flicker of TV light painted shadows across the walls. Dean sat alone on the couch, an empty bottle of beer perched on his knee, watching some old action movie on mute.

Sam entered quietly, hoodie half-zipped, barefoot. He held two beers and passed one silently to his brother before sitting on the opposite end of the couch.

Dean accepted it with a nod. "She asleep?"

Sam smiled faintly. "Out cold. She always crashes hard after a hot shower."

Dean raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. They sat for a while, watching explosions light up the screen in silence.

Sam fidgeted in his seat before blurting out to Dean, "I asked her to marry me."

Dean blinked. "You what?"

Sam chuckled. "I didn’t plan it. No ring. No big gesture. We were in the bathroom—mid-shower, actually. I looked at her, and I just... said it."

Dean winced, half-laughing. "You proposed to the Virgin Mary in a bathroom? Naked?"

"Basically, yeah."

Dean laughed harder, full-bodied and warm. Then he sobered, lifting the bottle to his lips. "Did she say yes?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. She did."

Dean looked over, eyes softening. "Then it’s real."

Another silence settled between them. Comfortable. Lived-in.

Dean finally spoke again. "You’re gonna be a good husband, Sammy. A good dad."

Sam looked down, overwhelmed by it. "Thanks."

Dean raised his beer. Sam did the same. They clinked the bottles gently.

"You know," Dean said, "I’ve been thinking of baby names."

Sam groaned. "Please don’t."

"Come on," Dean said, grinning, "how about Jesus the Second? Or Winchester Prime?"

"Dean."

Dean laughed. "Okay, okay. But I get to give a toast at the wedding. That’s non-negotiable."

Sam groaned louder. "You’re gonna bring up my college hair, aren’t you?"

"First bullet point," Dean said, pointing at him. "Then I move into your tragic poetry phase."

Sam buried his face in his hands. But he was smiling.

Because here, in the still of the night, two brothers sat shoulder to shoulder, dreaming quietly of a future that once felt unreachable.

And in the bedroom down the hall, you slept—safe, warm, loved.

The world outside could wait.

✦

The bunker was quiet, but not silent.

From the kitchen came the low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of dishes — the unmistakable sounds of Sam and Dean moving in tandem, their domestic rhythm long-practiced and unconscious. The scent of fried eggs and freshly brewed coffee drifted through the corridors, weaving between the stone and steel like something sacred.

Dean stood barefoot at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other, wearing a hoodie and plaid pajama pants that had definitely seen better days. Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, still rumpled from sleep. The tension that had lived in their shoulders for the past few weeks had finally started to loosen, unwinding slowly in the aftermath of a long stretch of relative peace.

“She still sleeping?” Dean asked, flipping an egg with practiced ease.

Sam nodded. “Out cold. Kicked me halfway off the bed around six a.m., but didn’t wake up once. Think the baby’s been taking up more space.”

Dean chuckled, scraping the egg onto a plate. “Better get used to it. Kid’s gonna be a kicker.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, but the way his voice softened hinted at something deeper. His fingers drummed absently on the ceramic countertop.

Dean glanced over, catching it. “You good?”

Sam hesitated for half a second. Then he smiled. “I am. Just thinking.”

“About the kid?”

“About everything,” Sam admitted, picking up a piece of toast from the rack. “Her. The baby. What comes next. The fact that I’m somehow engaged to the Virgin Mary, and also you’re about to become Uncle Dean.”

Dean snorted, loud and unabashed. “Damn right I am. Been practicing my dad jokes for years. You think I don’t have a stash of bibs and flannel onesies hidden in my closet?”

“You don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “I’m serious, though. I’ve never seen you this excited.”

Dean leaned on the counter beside him, cradling his mug. “I am excited, man. Don’t get me wrong, this whole prophecy, divine-birth, angels-snooping-through-our-sock-drawer crap is still top-tier nightmare fuel. But…” He shrugged. “You love her. She loves you. And you’re building something here. That baby’s gonna be ours, too. Not just yours. Family.”

Sam looked at his brother, smile softening. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean muttered, sipping his coffee. “Wait ‘til I’m teaching them how to hotwire a car by age seven.”

They both laughed, that warm, genuine kind that cracked open the tension lingering beneath their ribs. The sound echoed faintly down the hallway.

Toward your room.

✦

The warmth of the blankets cocooned you, but something wasn’t right.

You stirred slowly, the edges of the world pulling into focus like sunlight through stained glass — beautiful, but off-kilter. Your limbs were heavy, joints stiff like they didn’t belong to you. There was an ache down your spine that felt deep and ancient, more than just the usual soreness that came from sleeping too long.

Your mouth was dry. Your throat caught on a breath.

Something’s wrong.

Blinking the haze from your eyes, you reached instinctively for your belly — and stopped.

Your hand landed not where it should’ve — not on the gentle, familiar curve of three-month pregnancy. No.

It landed on something… massive.

Your breath caught.

The shape beneath the blankets was no longer the soft, modest swell you’d fallen asleep with. It was a dome. A full, tight curve stretching from your ribs to your hips. Your nightshirt was pulled so tight it barely covered your skin, seams groaning under the sudden, unnatural growth.

You pushed the blanket down and screamed.

The sound tore out of your chest like an explosion — raw, wild, desperate.

In seconds, the door burst open.

Sam was there first, bare feet skidding on the tile, eyes wild with panic. Dean was seconds behind him, half a piece of toast in one hand, already reaching for his gun with the other.

“What happened?!” Sam’s voice was sharp, full of terror.

You were frozen, staring at your own body — your hands hovering over the unmistakable swell of what was now an eight-month pregnancy. Your breathing came in gasps. “Sam,” you choked. “Something’s wrong. It… it wasn’t like this last night.”

Sam dropped to his knees beside the bed, hands trembling as they hovered over your stomach. He didn’t touch it yet — like he was afraid it might disappear. “What… what the hell…”

Dean stood behind him, the blood draining from his face. “Jesus,” he whispered. “She’s… that’s not possible.”

Sam finally pressed his palms to your skin.

It was real.

The baby kicked beneath his touch — strong. Alive. Your body had changed overnight, without warning. No morning sickness, no weeks of slow growth. Just... transformation.

His voice broke. “You were three months yesterday.”

You nodded, tears spilling now. “I know.”

Dean blinked hard, stepping closer. “You think this is… divine?”

Sam looked up, jaw clenched. “It has to be. God must’ve—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

You looked down at your belly again, cradling it in both hands now. “Why would He speed it up? Why now?”

There was a beat of silence before Dean said, quietly, “Maybe the time is coming sooner than we thought.”

You shook your head, voice fragile. “I’m not ready. I thought I had time. I thought I had months…”

Sam moved up onto the bed beside you, gathering you into his arms. His hands spread protectively across your back, one palm still resting on your belly like he needed to anchor himself to the proof. “You’re not alone,” he said, voice fierce. “We’ll figure this out. No matter what.”

Dean looked between the two of you, jaw tight, then ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll call Cas. And Rowena. Hell, I’ll call anyone who might know what the hell this means. But you’re not doing this alone.”

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of it — the miracle, the fear, the speed. The baby inside you rolled once, and it felt like the ripple of a storm cloud passing through your body.

The child was coming.

Soon.

You didn’t know how much time you had left. But it wasn’t months anymore.

It was days.

Maybe less.

And God had already started the clock.

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