#readerinsertfic

[burntsecrets]

Sweet Chaos

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader Word Count: 1784 Summary: While staying in a cozy inn during a case, Sam surprises you with a gingerbread house kit he picked up at the local store. Warnings: Fluff, playful banter, NSFW, explicit sexual content, consensual intimacy A/N: This is for @moosekateer13 I'm your secret Santa for @spnfanficpond's Secret Santa 2024. I'm using the prompt for the @fluff-cember challenge, day 6: gingerbread house. I hope you like it!

The sound of the wind whistling outside the inn’s window pairs perfectly with the crackling of the small fireplace across the room. The case has been quiet so far—too quiet—but for tonight, you’ve managed to carve out a rare moment of peace. You’re curled up on the couch, flipping idly through an old book you picked up at the local thrift store when the sound of Sam clearing his throat pulls your attention. He stands in the doorway, his tall frame slightly hunched to accommodate the low ceiling. In his hands, he holds a brightly colored box, his dimples deepening as he grins at you.

“What’s that?” you ask, sitting up and tucking the blanket around your legs. Sam steps closer, holding up the box—a gingerbread house kit. It’s kitschy, with cartoon snowmen and candy canes decorating the front, but something about the gesture warms your chest. “Seriously? You bought that?”

Sam chuckles, setting the box on the coffee table in front of you. “I figured we could use a break. And hey, it’s festive.” You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “Alright, Winchester. Let’s do this.”

The table is soon transformed into a sugary battleground. The kit includes walls, a roof, frosting in a plastic bag, and an assortment of candies that look slightly questionable but smell undeniably sweet. Sam carefully arranges everything with the precision of someone who has built a thousand IKEA bookshelves while you eye the frosting like a hawk–already scheming. “Okay, we start with the base,” Sam says, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pipes a line of frosting along the edge of the cookie walls. His big hands are surprisingly steady, and you can’t help but admire his focus.

“That’s cute,” you tease, picking up your own piping bag. “But my side is going to blow yours out of the water.”

“Oh, we’re making this a competition now?” Sam raises an eyebrow, his grin growing. “I thought this was supposed to be a team effort.”

“Teamwork is overrated,” you reply, nudging his elbow just enough to make his line of frosting wobble.

“Hey!” he protests, laughing. “You’re going to regret that.”

It starts innocently enough. You’re both diligently working on your respective sides of the gingerbread house, each stealing glances at the other’s progress. Sam’s side is neat, with perfectly aligned gumdrops and a roof that could be in a magazine. Yours… well, it has personality. “Why do you have all the gumdrops?” you ask, narrowing your eyes as Sam sneaks yet another piece of candy onto his side.

“Because I got here first,” he says, popping one into his mouth for good measure.

“That’s cheating,” you declare, grabbing the frosting bag and aiming it at him. Without thinking, you swipe a dollop of frosting across the bridge of his nose. The look of pure shock on his face makes you burst out laughing.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that,” Sam warns, his voice low and teasing. Before you can react, he dips his finger into the frosting and smears it across your cheek. You gasp, feigning outrage as you grab a handful of flour from the nearby bowl and toss it at him. It’s chaos after that—frosting, flour, and candy flying in every direction. Sam’s laugh is loud and carefree, the kind of sound you don’t hear often enough from him, and it fills the small room like sunlight.

By the time the battle subsides, the table is a disaster. Flour dusts the air, and bits of candy stick to your fingers. The gingerbread house stands in the center, a wobbly, candy-laden masterpiece that looks like it barely survived a storm. You’re both out of breath, sitting side by side on the couch and surveying the mess. “Well,” you say, brushing a streak of frosting from your arm. “It’s not winning any awards, but it’s ours.”

Sam leans forward, inspecting the lopsided roof with a critical eye. “It’s got character,” he agrees, his voice soft. You glance at him, your heart skipping a beat, when you notice the frosting still smeared on his nose. Without thinking, you reach out and wipe it away with your thumb. His green eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. Before you can respond, he leans in, closing the space between you. His lips are warm and soft against yours, the kiss slow and sweet, like the moment itself. When he pulls back, his hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray bit of flour.

The air between you shifts, charged with something deeper, something you’ve both been skirting around for weeks. His eyes darken, flicking down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he admits, his voice husky.

Your breath hitches, and before you can think, you’re tugging him closer, kissing him with a fervor that surprises even you. His hands find your waist, pulling you onto his lap as the kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and he groans softly against your mouth, the sound making your pulse race.

Sam’s hands slide under your sweater, his touch warm against your skin as he trails his fingers up your back. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips moving to your neck, kissing and nibbling along your jawline until you’re squirming in his lap.

You tug at his flannel shirt, pushing it off his shoulders to reveal the toned muscles underneath. He’s breathtaking, all broad shoulders and lean strength, and the way he’s looking at you makes your knees weak. “Sam,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as he shifts, laying you down on the couch and settling between your thighs.

He pauses, his hand cupping your cheek as he searches your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice gentle despite the tension in his body.

“Yes,” you breathe, pulling him down for another kiss.

Sam’s lips trail fire down your neck as his hands caress your sides, the warmth of his touch chasing away every thought but him. He shifts his weight, pressing his body against yours, and the heat of him sears through your clothes. Your hands slide over the planes of his shoulders, gripping him as his mouth moves lower, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

The soft glow of the fire bathes the room in flickering light, casting shadows across Sam’s face as he pulls back to look at you. His hair falls slightly into his eyes, his lips swollen, and his chest heaving. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “I don’t think I can take my time with you.”

Your fingers skim over his jaw, your thumb tracing the edge of his lips. “Who says I want you to?” you tease, your voice breathy. The words light a spark in him, and he leans down, claiming your lips with renewed intensity.

In one fluid motion, he sits back, lifting you into his arms as though you weigh nothing. You let out a soft laugh of surprise, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the bed. He lays you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours as he settles over you. The tension between you hums like a live wire, the weight of his body grounding you in the moment.

His hands are sure as they slide beneath your sweater, pushing it up and over your head. You shiver as the cool air brushes your skin, but Sam’s touch is quick to warm you. He leans down, his lips brushing across your shoulder, then lower, kissing along the curve of your breast. Your back arches as his hands explore, every touch sending sparks skittering down your spine.

You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Your hands roam over his chest, marveling at the heat and strength of him, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch. Sam groans softly as your fingers trace the lines of his abdomen, his hips pressing against yours in response.

“God, you drive me crazy,” he murmurs, his lips finding yours again. His kiss is fierce, all-consuming, and you lose yourself in the sensation of him. His hands trail down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your pants and tugging them down. You help him, shimmying out of them as he follows with his own, leaving you both bare and vulnerable in the firelight.

Sam pauses, his gaze raking over you as though committing every detail to memory. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, his voice reverent. His words make your heart flutter, but there’s no time to dwell on them as he leans down, his lips brushing over your ear. “Let me show you.”

What follows is a blur of sensation—his lips and hands exploring every inch of you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, the way his body moves with yours in perfect rhythm. The fire crackles in the hearth, the snow falls softly outside, and the world narrows to the heat between you, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.

Time seems to stand still as you reach the peak together, his name spilling from your lips as he groans yours into your neck. He holds you close, his body trembling slightly as the moment washes over you both. The room is silent except for the sound of your breathing, the fire casting a warm glow over the two of you.

Sam rolls onto his side, pulling you into his arms. His hand brushes your hair back from your face, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I think we make a damn good team,” he murmurs, his voice low and content.

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “Only when you don’t steal all the gumdrops,” you reply, your tone teasing but affectionate.

He chuckles, his laugh rumbling against your cheek. “Fair enough. Next time, I’ll share.” His arms tighten around you, and you let yourself relax into his embrace, the warmth of him and the fire lulling you into a blissful haze.

The snow continues to fall outside, blanketing the world in quiet, but inside the inn, the earlier chaos has given way to something softer, deeper, and undeniably real. For now, the case and the danger can wait. Tonight, it’s just you and Sam, and that’s more than enough.

[burntsecrets]

Winter's Embrace

Pairing: Clark Kent (Smallville) x Reader Word Count: 780 words Prompt: @fluff-cember day 8: sparkling snow Summary: Clark surprises you with a moonlit walk through the snow-covered Kent farm, creating a magical moment under the stars. As the snow sparkles around you, he takes a leap of faith and asks the question that will change both your lives. Content Warnings: None—fluff, romance, and a proposal.

The air is crisp, biting at your cheeks, but the warmth of Clark's hand in yours keeps the chill at bay. His fingers curl around yours, strong and steady, a silent promise in the winter night. Snow blankets the Kent farm, transforming the familiar fields into a glittering wonderland under the silver moonlight. Each step you take crunches softly in the fresh powder, and your breath fogs the air like wisps of smoke.

Clark glances at you with a crooked smile, his blue eyes catching the moonlight in a way that makes your heart flutter. His scarf is slightly askew, and you resist the urge to adjust it. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low and full of affection.

"I'm perfect," you reply, and it's true. The night feels like something out of a dream, and the way he looks at you makes you forget the cold entirely.

He leads you further into the fields, away from the barn's warm lights and the gentle hum of the farmhouse generator. The world feels still here, hushed by the snow, and all you can hear is the faint rustle of the wind and the rhythm of your heartbeat.

"Close your eyes," Clark says, stopping abruptly.

You laugh softly. "Why? What are you up to, Kent?"

"Trust me." His voice is gentle but insistent, and when you look up into his earnest expression, you can’t help but comply.

You close your eyes, and his hands shift, one of them cupping your cheek while the other moves to your waist. The cold dissipates for a moment, replaced by the soothing warmth of his touch. You hear the faintest whoosh, almost like a breeze, and then feel the gentlest brush of something cool against your nose.

"Okay," he says, his voice softer now. "Open them."

When you do, you’re met with a scene so breathtaking you almost forget to breathe. Snowflakes are falling around you, twinkling like tiny diamonds in the moonlight. They drift lazily, shimmering as if kissed by starlight. You look up and realize the sky is clear, every star burning bright.

"How did you...?" you ask, trailing off as you turn to Clark.

He grins, a little sheepish but impossibly proud. "I might’ve run to the mountains," he admits, scratching the back of his neck. "I grabbed a handful of fresh snow and scattered it. Took a few tries to get it just right."

Your laughter bubbles up, warm and delighted, and you throw your arms around his neck. "Clark Kent, you are unbelievable."

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. "You make me want to be," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, you’re both silent, standing in the softly falling snow, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the farm. The world feels infinite and intimate all at once, just the two of you.

Then he steps back, just enough to reach into the pocket of his coat. Your brows knit in confusion as you watch him pull out a small velvet box.

"Clark..."

He kneels before you, the snow catching in his dark hair, his breath clouding the air. Your hands fly to your mouth, your heart hammering as you realize what’s happening.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "You’ve been my best friend, my partner, my anchor, and my light. Every time I think I know what it means to love you, you prove me wrong and show me it’s even bigger than I imagined." He opens the box, revealing a ring that sparkles just as brightly as the snow around you. "I want to spend every day proving to you how much you mean to me. Will you marry me?"

Tears prick at your eyes, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The words catch in your throat, but you don’t need them. You nod furiously, dropping to your knees in the snow to kiss him, your hands framing his face.

"Yes," you finally manage, breathless against his lips. "A thousand times, yes."

His laugh is pure relief and joy as he slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly, and you marvel at how it catches the moonlight.

Clark lifts you effortlessly, spinning you once before setting you down gently. "You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world," he says, his grin wide and unguarded.

"And you’ve made me the happiest woman," you reply, resting your forehead against his.

The snow continues to fall around you as he kisses you again, slow and sweet, a promise sealed under the watchful gaze of the stars. This moment is yours—perfect, infinite, and unforgettable.

[burntsecrets]

Dodging Cupid's Arrows

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester

Word Count: 2630

Prompt: Cupid's Got A Shotgun by Carrie Underwoods

Summary: An encounter with Cupid forces you to face your feelings for the Winchester Brothers.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, unresolved romantic tension, fear of emotional vulnerability, self-doubt, internal conflict, unrequited love, intense emotional introspection, defensive behavior, discussion of emotional scars, mentions of past relationship trauma, slow burn, protective behavior, Cupid intervention, romantic frustration.

The bar’s dim, sputtering light casts a weak glow overhead, barely illuminating the worn wooden tables and the scuffed floor beneath your boots. Shadows cling to the walls like old memories, and you sink deeper into your chair, swirling the last of your whiskey in the glass before taking a slow sip. The liquid burns as it slides down your throat, spreading a fleeting warmth through your chest, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging in your head. It never does.

It’s the same pattern every time, isn’t it? Men with honeyed words slip into your life, leaving behind promises as thin as smoke, promises they never intend to fulfill. Before you know it, you're left standing in the wreckage of something that wasn’t even real, just a mirage of what could have been. All those "almosts" stack up like bricks, weighing heavy on your heart, and even though you’ve never had a real relationship, it feels like you've been left shattered more times than you can count.

The scars are there, even if no one else can see them. They linger in every moment a guy brushes you off, in the hollow smile you force when you know it's not real. You feel the sting in every glance that sizes you up like you’re a prize to be won rather than a person to know. So you’ve built your walls, layering them high and thick until nothing, no one, can break through. Not even him.

Or them.

Sam and Dean Winchester—they didn’t just walk into your life. No, they crashed into it, two forces of nature that bulldozed right through your carefully constructed defenses, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in a way you swore you’d never be again. At first, you tried to play it cool, act like they were just hunters, comrades in arms. But the months blurred together, and now you can’t even tell how long it’s been. And that scares you because losing track means losing control and losing control means letting them in.

And letting them in? That’s not an option.

Even now, you can feel their eyes on you, the weight of their presence lingering in the air like a storm cloud ready to break. Sam’s by the pool table, his lean, tall frame moving with practiced ease as he lines up shot after shot. There’s a calm to him, but it’s the kind that keeps you on edge, like he could switch in an instant and suddenly be dangerous. Then there’s Dean, perched at the bar with a half-empty beer in hand, his eyes flicking between the room and you, constantly scanning for threats, always watching. 

Always watching you.

They’re protective. It should comfort you, but it drives you insane. Because the truth is, no matter how many monsters they face, no matter how many battles they fight, they can’t protect you from what matters most. They can’t protect you from yourself.

You think back to the last hunt, to the ridiculousness of it all—a damn Cupid, of all things. The little winged freak zeroed in on you from the moment you stepped into that abandoned church, those bright, beady eyes tracking you with unnerving precision. He wasn’t cute, not like the Valentine's Day cards would have you believe. No, this thing was more like a demented cherub, armed with arrows dipped in cosmic mischief, and he had you in his crosshairs. You could feel it in the air—the tug, the weight, as though Cupid himself was hell-bent on forcing you to confront feelings you’d buried so deep even you were beginning to forget they existed. Each arrow he loosed sent your heart racing, as if you could sense the emotional mess he was trying to weave. But you dodged them all, every last one, determined not to let some glorified matchmaker unravel everything you’d worked so hard to lock away.

You're not stupid. You know precisely what the little bastard was aiming for. It’s not like you’ve been blind to the way Sam’s gaze lingers on you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, soft and curious, like he’s trying to piece you together. Or the way Dean’s jaw tightens, a flicker of possessiveness in his green eyes, whenever some random guy at a bar edges too close, his whole demeanor shifting to silent warning. You’ve been dodging these unspoken glances for months now, sidestepping their care, their questions, like someone dancing around a minefield. Because you know that once you stop moving, it’ll all explode in your face.

And you’ve had enough explosions in your life.

But there’s only so much running you can do before the inevitable catches up.

“Hey.”

Dean’s gravelly voice slices through the whirlwind of your thoughts, rough but steady, anchoring you as he slides into the seat beside you. His presence is a weight that presses into the air, solid, almost suffocating in its certainty. The chair creaks beneath him, but all you hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat, thundering in your chest.

“Are you alright?” He’s asking, but it’s more than that. It’s the question beneath the question, the one you’ve been dodging for longer than you can remember.

Your heart skips a beat—a betraying thud that echoes in the hollowness you’ve tried to keep locked down. You’d never admit it, not even to yourself, but he makes it impossible to pretend. You glance at him, careful to keep your face neutral, masking the fluttering in your chest with a look you’ve perfected over years of pretending. It’s almost second nature by now—the practiced nonchalance. But with Dean, it’s always been different.

There’s something in the way his green eyes bore into yours, piercing through the walls you’ve built brick by brick, layer by layer. It’s as though he sees right past your armor, straight into that small, fragile part of you that still aches for something real. Something more. But you can’t let him see that. You won’t. So you shove it down, hard, pushing that flicker of vulnerability back into the shadows as you lean casually into your chair. Your body language distant, closed off.

“Yeah,” you shrug, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breathing. “Just tired. Long day.”

Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just watches you with that familiar intensity, and you know—you know—he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. He’s seen you fight, seen you bleed, seen you crawl out of the wreckage of hunts that should’ve killed you. He’s seen you at your worst, and somehow, he still sticks around. He and Sam both do, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? They’ve gotten too close, wedged themselves into your life in ways that make it impossible for you to keep pretending.

Pretending that you don’t care.

Pretending that the way Dean looks at you doesn’t unravel something deep inside.

From across the room, you feel Sam’s eyes on you. His quiet gaze tracks the shift in the atmosphere as he casually leans his pool cue against the table and makes his way over, long strides slow but purposeful. His expression is calm and unreadable, but you see the concern in the tightness of his jaw and the subtle way his brow furrows as he joins Dean at your side.

“You’ve been quiet,” Sam says softly, folding his arms across his broad chest. There’s no judgment in his tone, just that frustrating gentleness, the kind that makes you feel seen when you’d rather stay hidden. “Is it… about earlier? With Cupid?”

The mention of Cupid sends a sharp twist through your stomach. You swallow, forcing down the surge of emotions that threatens to rise, burying it beneath layers of practiced indifference. You won’t let some stupid angel with a bow and arrow undo everything you’ve worked so hard to keep locked away. You won’t.

“I’m fine,” you snap, the words slipping out too fast, too harsh. The crack in your voice betrays you. “That was nothing. Just another hunt.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, and you can feel the weight of Sam’s stare, too, both of them pinning you with that all-too-familiar look. The one that says they’re not buying your crap, the one that makes your pulse quicken, and your chest tighten. You hate that look because it leaves you nowhere to hide.

“Bullshit.” Dean’s voice is low, steady, cutting through the silence with calm certainty. He takes a long sip from his beer, but his eyes never leave yours, and it feels like he’s peeling back every layer you’ve carefully put up to protect yourself. “You’ve been dodging that thing like it was the plague, and don’t think we didn’t notice.”

You clench your hands into fists in your lap, frustration bubbling up like a rising tide. “Look,” you say, your voice sharp, defensive. “I don’t need some magical arrow telling me how I’m supposed to feel. I’m fine the way I am.”

Sam shifts beside Dean, his arms still crossed, but you see the way the muscle in his jaw tenses, the way his hazel eyes soften as they search yours. “It’s not about what you’re supposed to feel,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s about what you do feel.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, it’s all too much. The weight of their concern, the intensity of their gaze, the truth that they’re trying to force you to admit—it presses down on you until you can’t breathe. You stand up abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping loudly against the floor as you push it back. The sound is harsh, jarring in the quiet of the bar, but you barely notice.

“I don’t feel anything, okay?” you snap, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Not for you, not for him, not for anyone. And I won’t let some winged freak tell me otherwise.”

The tension in the air thickens, suffocating, hanging between the three of you like a storm cloud ready to break. Dean stands up slowly, his movements deliberate, his face carefully neutral, but there’s something in his eyes—something raw, something that cuts deeper than you want to admit. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. You can’t think about it. You won’t.

“Y’know,” Dean says quietly, taking a step toward you, his voice low and steady, “you keep saying that, but you don’t believe it. Not really.” He’s close now, too close, the heat of his body radiating off him in waves, and it makes your pulse spike. “You’re just scared.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, your breath catching in your throat. Fear coils tightly around your chest, but not the fear of them. No, it’s the fear of what they’re asking you to do. To let them in. To trust them. To stop running.

And running is all you know how to do.

“I’m not scared,” you whisper, but the words feel weak and empty, even to you.

Dean’s lips twitch into a small, humorless smile, his eyes softening just a fraction as he watches you. “Yeah, you are,” he says, his voice gentler now but no less intense. “And that’s okay. But maybe it’s time you stopped running from it.”

Sam steps closer, his presence steady and calm, grounding you in a way that you don’t want to admit you need. His voice is soft, full of quiet understanding, but there’s an unshakable strength beneath it. “You don’t have to do this alone, y’know,” he says. “We’re here. We always have been.”

The words sink into you, settling deep into the cracks of your carefully guarded heart, and something inside you shifts. Just a little. It’s terrifying, the idea of trusting them, of letting yourself hope, but there’s also something achingly beautiful about it. About the possibility that maybe, for once, you don’t have to be the one to leave first. That maybe, you don’t have to protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak.

But still, the fear—the bone-deep, soul-crushing fear of opening up, of letting someone in only to be left behind again—is overwhelming and paralyzing.

“I can’t,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper now, trembling under the weight of the truth you’re too afraid to admit. “I can’t risk it.”

Dean’s hand reaches out slowly, cautiously, like he knows one wrong move could send you running. But he doesn’t stop. His fingers, calloused from years of hunting, gently find yours, and instead of just holding your wrist, he entwines his fingers with yours, locking them together with a quiet but unspoken promise. The touch is soft yet firm, his thumb grazing the back of your hand in slow, soothing strokes, as if he’s trying to reassure you with every heartbeat. The warmth of his skin against yours sends a shiver up your spine, igniting something deep inside you, something you’ve kept buried for so long you almost forgot it was there.

You feel the weight of his presence settle over you like a blanket, heavy with meaning, but there’s nothing suffocating about it. It’s grounding, steady—safe. And yet, that safety terrifies you because it’s the kind you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve. But Dean, he isn’t giving you a choice. Not this time.

His other hand comes up slowly, his movements deliberate and gentle, as if he’s afraid you might bolt at any second. His palm cups your cheek, warm and rough, but his touch is tender, almost reverent. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, wiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. The simple motion cracks something inside you, and for a moment, it feels like the walls you’ve built so carefully over the years are crumbling under the weight of his touch.

"Maybe you’re not the only one taking a risk here," Dean murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, barely above a whisper. His words hang between you, heavy and raw, filled with all the things he’s never said but has always felt. His eyes search yours, and in them, you see it—the longing, the fear, the desperate hope that you’ll stay, that you’ll finally let them in. That you’ll choose them.

You feel your breath catch in your throat as his fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, anchoring you to the moment. His thumb continues its slow, tender sweep across your cheek, and the tenderness in his gaze is enough to break your heart. This man, this infuriating, stubborn, protective man, who has fought demons and monsters and everything in between, is standing here with his heart wide open, asking you to stop running. Asking you to be with him and his brother in a way that terrifies you more than any hunt ever could.

For the first time, you feel the weight of what’s at stake—not just for you, but for him, for Sam. This isn’t just about you being afraid of getting hurt. It’s about them too, about the risk they’re taking by loving you, by wanting you to be a part of their lives. And it hits you with such force that you almost can’t breathe. They aren’t asking for your walls to come down—they’re asking to stand beside them. To hold you through the fear, through the pain, through whatever comes next.

You stare up at Dean, his hand still cradling your face like you’re something precious, and for the first time, you allow yourself to wonder—really wonder—if maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one with something to lose.

Because you can feel it now—the risk they’re taking, the way they’re holding their breath, waiting for your answer, waiting for you to finally say yes. And in that moment, you realize that they’ve already decided. They’ve already chosen you.

It’s your turn to choose them.

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