winchesterwild78

[winchesterwild78]

Disney and a Soldier

Master List

Characters: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Reader (wife), their child, Lily

Warnings: a little angst, but a sweet fluffy story

A/N: Just a story idea given to me by a friend. I haven’t written in so long, so trying to start back up. I hope you like this.

This story follows Ben and his wife taking their daughter to Disney and Ben is definitely not feeling the trip, but his gruffness starts to chip away as he watches his daughter. 

I do not own the rights to Soldier Boy’s character. This is a work of fiction and all work is my own.  

Minors DNI 18+

"Disney World," Ben grumbled, the words tasting like sawdust in his mouth. He ran a hand over his neatly cropped hair, a familiar gesture of exasperation. Their five-year-old, Lily, oblivious to her father’s protests, was bouncing on the balls of her feet, a well-loved Minnie Mouse doll clutched in her hand. "Minnie will be there, Daddy! And princesses!"

Y/N offered Ben a patient smile. "It's for her, Ben. Think of the memories."

"Memories of waiting in line for an hour to see a guy in a giant mouse suit?" he countered, gesturing vaguely towards the living room where their suitcases sat half-packed. "And for what? To be jostled, sweating, and spending our retirement fund on overpriced trinkets? We could take her camping. See some real nature."

His idea of a good time often involved quiet forests, meticulously packed gear, and a clear objective. Disney World, with its vibrant chaos and endless lines, felt like the antithesis of everything he understood. It wasn't a mission to be accomplished, it was just... a waste of time. Y/N simply shook her head, already imagining Lily's face when she first saw Cinderella’s Castle. She knew, deep down, that despite his grumbles, Ben wouldn't truly stand in the way of their daughter's dream. Or so she thought.

Later that evening, after Lily was tucked into bed, dreaming of castles and talking mice, the grumbling escalated into something more serious. Y/N found Ben in the kitchen, nursing a glass of whiskey, a tight line to his jaw.

"Look, about this trip, Y/N," he started, his voice low, "I've been thinking."

"Thinking what, Ben? That we're not going?" Y/N’s voice had a dangerous edge. They'd discussed this for months. Lily had talked about nothing else.

"Exactly," he stated, planting his feet. "My leave time is precious. We've got missions, new protocols, and frankly, my time is better spent at Vought Tower, dealing with rogue superheroes, not being held hostage by magical princesses and overpriced food. This is a waste of money, a waste of time, and honestly, a waste of my patience."

Y/N stared at him, disbelief battling with rising anger. "A waste of patience? Ben, this is about Lily! It’s about giving our daughter a magical experience she'll remember forever. You really think your 'Vought Tower' missions are more important than that?"

He met her gaze, unyielding. "My job is about order, about keeping things contained. Disney World is the exact opposite of that. It’s chaos in a cheerful wrapper. I’m not going, Y/N. You and Lily can go."

The silence in the kitchen was thick, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. Y/N crossed her arms, her earlier patience completely evaporated. This wasn't just grumbling anymore; this was a line drawn in the sand.

The silence that night was a heavy blanket between them. Y/N tossed and turned, the familiar comfort of Ben's presence beside her replaced by a palpable distance. When the alarm finally buzzed, she was already up, moving through the quiet house, her anger from the night before now a dull ache of disappointment. She folded Lily's sparkly dresses and her own vacation clothes into the suitcases, a knot tightening in her stomach with each item. Could she really do this alone? Did she want to?

The scent of coffee brewing pulled her back to reality. Ben appeared in the kitchen doorway, already dressed in his crisp Soldier Boy uniform – the same uniform that represented the order and duty he championed over fairy dust and parades. His presence, usually a source of strength, felt like a stark reminder of his refusal and rejection.

Her gaze landed on him, and without warning, her vision blurred. Tears welled, hot and stinging. "So," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, "you're really not going?"

He met her eyes, his expression unreadable, though perhaps a flicker of something, guilt or regret, passed through them. "No," he said, his voice firm, unwavering.

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing hard. "Okay," she murmured, turning back to the luggage, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. The dream of their family trip felt deflated, a beautiful balloon that had lost its air.

Just then, the sound of small footsteps pattered down the hall. Lily, freshly woken, burst into the kitchen, her eyes wide with uncontainable excitement. "Mommy! Daddy! Are we going to see Mickey today?" She paused, her bright smile faltering as she took in her father, dressed for work, not for a magical adventure. Her brow furrowed, and her lower lip began to tremble. "Daddy... you're not going?"

The pure, unadulterated heartbreak on Lily’s face was a punch to Ben’s gut. The crumpled joy, the sudden, overwhelming disappointment in her big, innocent eyes – it was more potent than any rogue superhero threat, more disarming than any chaos he'd ever encountered. The fortifications he'd built around his "waste of time" arguments crumbled in an instant.

He looked from Lily's tear-filled eyes to Y/N's resigned expression. The "waste of time" suddenly felt like the most important use of his time imaginable.

He knelt, pulling Lily into a hug. "No, sweet pea," he murmured into her hair, his voice rougher than usual. "Daddy's going. Daddy's definitely going." He glanced over Lily's head at Y/N, a silent apology in his eyes.

A small gasp escaped Y/N's lips, quickly followed by a watery smile. Lily pulled back, her face instantly transformed by a radiant, beaming grin. "Really? We're all going?"

"All of us," Ben confirmed, standing up. "Now, where's my comfortable travel gear? And point me towards the biggest suitcase. We've got a mission to pack for." Lily squealed in delight and threw her arms around his neck.

The tension in the kitchen evaporated, replaced by a flurry of relieved activity. In short order, the final bags were zipped, the last-minute snacks grabbed, and the family was out the door, Ben now leading the charge towards the airport, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. The "waste of time" had become a critical objective.

The airport, usually a vortex of predictable chaos that Ben found manageable, now felt different. He still moved with an almost military efficiency, navigating security and finding their gate with practiced ease. But this time, his hand wasn't just in Lily's to guide her; it was a firm, protective clasp around her small hand, pulling her gently through the crowds. When they finally reached the gate, he didn't just sit; he held Lily close in his lap, letting her point out the planes through the large windows, answering her endless stream of "why" questions with surprising patience. Y/N watched him, a quiet warmth spreading through her chest. This mission, it seemed, already had a positive impact on the soldier boy.

Boarding the plane, Lily's excitement vibrated through the cabin. She pressed her face against the window as they taxied, gasping at the tiny cars and buildings below. "We're flying, Mommy! Daddy, we're flying to Mickey!"

Y/N reached for Ben's hand, and he laced his fingers through hers, a small, comforting squeeze. The familiar touch, after the coldness of the night before, felt like sunshine breaking through clouds.

As the plane leveled off, soaring above the patchwork quilt of towns and fields, Ben leaned closer, his voice soft against the roar of the engines. "Y/N," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the clouds, "I'm sorry. Really. About last night. About... everything." He paused, looking at her then. "I was an idiot. You were right. This isn't about me or my need for order. It's about her." He nodded towards Lily, who was now drawing imaginary castles on the foggy windowpane. "And I promise. From here on out, I'm all in. No more grumbling. No more 'waste of time.' Just... the mission."

A tear, this time of pure relief and affection, pricked at Y/N's eyes. She squeezed his hand back. "Thank you, Ben," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. The flight suddenly felt lighter, filled with a renewed sense of purpose and, dare she admit it, magic.

Stepping off the plane in Orlando, Lily was instantly transported. The airport itself, usually a drab transit hub, felt like the antechamber to a grand adventure. Bright, cheerful decorations hung from the ceilings, and the air hummed with an infectious energy. Lily's big green eyes, already shining with anticipation, grew wide as saucers. A soft gasp left her lips, and a smile, pure and unadulterated, spread across her face, reflecting the magic she already sensed all around them. She clutched her Minnie Mouse doll tighter, as if needing a tangible connection to this unfolding dream.

Stepping off the shuttle at Magic Kingdom, Lily was instantly transported. The air hummed with a different kind of magic here, infused with the scent of popcorn and the faint, joyful strains of parade music. Her big green eyes, already shining with anticipation, grew wide as saucers, taking in every shimmering detail. A soft gasp escaped her lips the moment Cinderella’s Castle came into full view, an impossible, gleaming spire under the Florida sun. She pointed, her arm outstretched, words failing her as she simply radiated awe.

Ben, however, felt a different kind of energy. The sheer volume of people was staggering – a swirling, pushing mass that seemed to defy all logic and order. The humid air pressed in, making his shirt cling uncomfortably. He felt the familiar prickle of irritation begin to surface as families veered abruptly, strollers became hazards, and people seemed determined to cut off their path. He tried to suppress it, remembering his promise on the plane, but his soldier's instincts screamed at the inefficiency, the chaos. He kept a hand around Lily, trying to shield her and carry her, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

Then, it happened. A rogue stroller, piloted by an overly ambitious parent, swerved directly into his path, its wheel catching his ankle with a sharp thud. Ben hissed, stumbling back a step, and the carefully constructed wall around his irritation shattered. "Are you kidding me?" he muttered, eyes narrowing, ready to unleash a carefully worded, yet scathing, remark about spatial awareness.

But before the words could fully form, a small, choked sob cut through the noise. Lily, overwhelmed by the sudden jolt and her father's abrupt anger, crumpled against his chest, her face scrunching up as tears welled in her wide green eyes. "Daddy?" she whimpered, her tiny voice lost amidst the crowd noise.

A sudden, sharp pang of guilt shot through Ben, colder and more potent than any irritation. Her tears, born of his own momentary lapse, were a direct hit to his core. This wasn't a battlefield; this was his daughter's magical day. He looked at her trembling lip, the joy from moments ago utterly eclipsed by fear.

Without a second thought, the grumbling soldier vanished, replaced by the loving father. Ben quickly pulled Lily tighter into his arms, settling her against his chest. "Hey, hey, sweet pea, I'm sorry. Daddy's okay. No more grump," he murmured, his voice softening. He looked over her head at Y/N, a silent apology in his gaze.

"Dumbo?" he asked Lily, spotting the iconic, soaring elephants in the distance. "Want to go on Dumbo?"

Lily sniffled, her tears already beginning to recede as her gaze followed his. "Dumbo?" she repeated, a tentative smile peeking through.

"Yes, Dumbo," Ben confirmed, striding purposefully towards the ride, no longer seeing the crowds as obstacles but merely as background noise to their new mission. Soon, they were seated in their colorful elephant, Lily's tiny hand clutched securely in his. As they began to ascend, higher and higher, her soft giggles filled the air, a sound more precious than any medal. Ben looked at her, truly looked at the unadulterated joy on her face, and felt something inside him finally unknot. This wasn't a waste of time at all. This was everything.

From that moment on Dumbo, something shifted in Ben. The military precision he usually applied to life began to loosen, giving way to a new kind of focus: his daughter's joy. The rest of the day unfolded in a kaleidoscope of bright colors, happy chaos, and pure, unadulterated childhood delight.

There were giggles that echoed through the Haunted Mansion, hushed whispers during the Little Mermaid ride, and the sticky sweetness of melting ice cream that coated Lily's hands and, inevitably, Ben's shirt. He found himself not just enduring the character meet-and-greets but actively participating, squatting down for pictures with Princess Tiana with a surprisingly genuine smile, and even doing a playful little jig when Lily insisted he dance with Mickey and Minnie. The crowds still swirled, and the heat still lingered, but Ben no longer saw them as annoyances to be combated. They were merely the backdrop to the precious moments unfolding right in front of him. He became adept at navigating the throngs, but now it was to ensure Lily got the best view, or to quickly grab a water bottle for Y/N.

As night fell, blanketing Magic Kingdom in a soft, twinkling glow, the atmosphere transformed. Lily, despite the long day, found a fresh surge of energy for the parade. Ben, without a moment's hesitation, lifted her onto his shoulders, giving her a privileged view above the bobbing heads. Her green eyes, wide with wonder, reflected the vibrant floats and glittering lights, and a radiant smile stretched across her face, mirroring the joy in her father's heart. He felt the light weight of her in his arms, her small hands clutching his hair, and understood. This wasn't a waste of time. This was everything.

When the last float passed and the final burst of fireworks lit up the night sky in a grand, sparkling crescendo, Ben gently lowered a now sleeping Lily from his shoulders. He gathered her into his arms, her head nestled against his chest, her soft breaths a rhythm of contentment. As he walked alongside Y/N, making their way slowly out of the park, the earlier grumbling, the resistance, the arguments, all felt like distant echoes from another lifetime. He looked down at his daughter, then over at Y/N, a quiet understanding passing between them. The mission had been accomplished, far beyond any military objective. It was magical.

The rhythmic hum of the bus carried them back to their resort, a quiet counterpoint to the day's earlier cacophony. Lily, a warm, heavy bundle in Ben's arms, was deep in a dream, her small hand still clutching the ears of her Mickey Mouse headband. The vibrant lights of the park receded behind them, replaced by the hushed glow of the resort's pathways.

As they walked towards their room, the late-night air cool on their faces, Y/N leaned her head against Ben's shoulder. "She had an amazing time," she whispered, her voice thick with contentment.

Ben shifted Lily, nestling her closer. "Yeah," he murmured, a soft smile on his face. "She really did." He looked down at his daughter, then back at Y/N. "You were right. About all of it."

Y/N chuckled softly. "Even about the overpriced churros?"

"Okay, maybe not all of it," he conceded, a faint hint of his old grumble, but this time, it was laced with affection. "But... seeing her face. Especially on Dumbo, and then at the fireworks..." He trailed off, the images replaying in his mind. The sheer, unadulterated joy on Lily's face had been a powerful, disarming force. It had cut through his cynicism, his need for order, and reminded him of something far more important than any strategic objective.

"It wasn't a waste of time, was it?" Y/N asked, not truly a question, but a shared observation.

Ben shook his head. "No," he said, his voice firm and certain. "It was... a mission. A good one." He thought about the crowds, the heat, the constant sensory overload. He should have hated it. But holding Lily on his shoulders, feeling her little hands in his as she laughed, seeing the genuine awe in her eyes – that was a victory more profound than any he'd achieved in uniform.

They reached their room, and Ben carefully laid Lily in her bed, gently pulling the blanket over her. As he straightened, he looked at Y/N, a quiet understanding passing between them. Ben pulled Y/N close and kissed her lips, “I love you, Y/N.” She smiled, “I love you too, Ben.”

This trip, born from a disagreement and undertaken with reluctance, had unexpectedly forged new, precious memories. It had been more than just an amusement park visit; it had been a testament to the quiet power of a child's joy to transform even the most steadfast soldier's heart. Tomorrow, they would head home, but the magic, the giggles, and the quiet understanding forged in the heart of the "chaos" would definitely be coming with them.

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[winchesterwild78]

Misha and the Meet Cute

Master List

Characters: Misha and Rylie

Warnings: a bit of anxiety, nothing too bad

A/N: Just a story for a sweet friend who wanted me to write a story about her and Misha meeting at a convention. No disrespect to anyone, this is a work of fiction.

Minors DNI 18+

Rylie’s palms were sweating, a clammy testament to the sensory overload of her first Supernatural convention. The cacophony of excited chatter, the flashing lights from vendors’ booths, and the faint but pervasive smell of stale popcorn and cheap coffee was a potent cocktail. She clutched her well-worn copy of a Supernatural tie-in novel to her chest, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of humanity. She'd managed to snag a decent spot near the back of the main hall, hoping to avoid the worst of the crush, but even there, the sheer volume of people was dizzying. Her gaze was fixed on a particularly glittery vendor stall, not really seeing the merchandise, but using it as a focal point to prevent her eyes from darting around like a trapped bird.

Suddenly, a warm, slightly accented voice cut through the din, clear and surprisingly close. "Are you alright there? You look a little... overwhelmed."

Rylie jumped, startled, and spun around, nearly dropping her book. Her eyes, still adjusting from the bright lights, landed on a man with an incredibly kind smile and eyes that crinkled at the corners. For a split second, her brain registered "handsome stranger," then, as recognition dawned, her jaw slackened. It was Misha Collins. Not just a Misha Collins, but the Misha Collins, of Castiel fame, standing right in front of her.

He chuckled, a low, melodic sound that sent a jolt through her. "See? I told you. You look like you've seen a ghost. Or, well, maybe an angel." He gestured vaguely at her Supernatural t-shirt, a subtle nod to the show.

Rylie felt a flush creep up her neck. "Oh my god," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry. I just... I didn't see you. And yes, a little overwhelmed is an understatement. It's my first time at one of these." She gestured feebly around the packed hall.

Misha’s smile softened. "It can be a lot, can't it? Especially the first time. Take a deep breath." He demonstrated, a slow, exaggerated inhale and exhale. Rylie, still reeling, instinctively copied him. "Better?" he asked, his gaze genuinely concerned.

She nodded, a shaky laugh escaping her. "Yeah, actually. A little. Thank you." She couldn't believe this was happening. Misha Collins, the man who played one of her favorite characters, was personally giving her breathing exercises.

"Good," he said, and then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, added, "Tell you what, why don't we find somewhere a little quieter? I was just heading for a quick break before my next panel. Unless you're off to see someone else?" He gestured vaguely to the bustling crowds, clearly giving her an out.

Rylie's heart did a little flutter. "No! No, I mean, I'm not... I'm not doing anything right now." Smooth, Rylie, real smooth.

Misha just smiled, a genuine, easy grin that instantly put her at ease. "Great. Follow me, then. I know a secret path to a less-crazed corner." He winked, and Rylie, still slightly dazed, found herself falling into step beside him, the overwhelming chaos of the convention suddenly seeming a little less daunting.

Rylie followed Misha, a surreal warmth spreading through her as he expertly navigated the throngs of people. He was surprisingly adept at it, a seasoned pro weaving through a sea of fans, yet somehow managing to make her feel like she wasn't just another face in the crowd. He led her down a less-trafficked corridor, past a service entrance, and then through an unmarked door that opened into a surprisingly quiet green room area. It wasn't completely silent – she could hear the distant murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of something falling – but it was a vast improvement from the convention floor.

"See?" he said, pushing the door open wider for her. "A little sanctuary." He gestured to a couple of worn but comfortable-looking armchairs in a corner. "Make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? They probably have some questionable snacks around here somewhere."

Rylie's cheeks flushed again. "Oh, no, I'm fine, really. Thank you, though." She still couldn't quite believe this was happening. She sat down gingerly in one of the armchairs, feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland.

Misha settled into the opposite chair, leaning back with a sigh that seemed to release some tension from his own shoulders. "So, 'first time convention-goer'," he began, a playful twinkle in his eye. "What brought you to the wonderful world of Supernatural fandom?"

Rylie chuckled, relaxing slightly. "Well, I've been a fan of the show for years. My best friend got me into it during a particularly stressful exam period, and it just sort of... stuck. Castiel is actually my favorite character." She immediately regretted adding that last part, fearing it sounded like pandering, but Misha just smiled.

"Good choice," he said with a nod. "He's a complicated fellow." He paused, then leaned forward slightly. "What do you like about him?"

Rylie was surprised by the genuine curiosity in his voice. She found herself talking easily, explaining her appreciation for Castiel's journey of self-discovery, his loyalty, and his often-clumsy attempts at understanding humanity. Misha listened attentively, occasionally interjecting with a thoughtful "Hmm" or a knowing nod. It wasn't an interview; it felt like a genuine conversation between two people who appreciated the same story.

Time seemed to melt away in their quiet corner. They talked about the show, about conventions, and even, briefly, about the challenges of balancing passion with overwhelming situations. Rylie found herself feeling incredibly at ease, the initial shock replaced by a comfortable rapport. She realized, with a jolt, that she hadn't felt overwhelmed in nearly twenty minutes.

"You know," Misha said, breaking into her thoughts, "you've got a good eye for character. Have you ever thought about writing?"

Rylie blinked, taken aback. "Me? No, not really. I mean, I love to read, but..."

He just smiled. "Just a thought. Sometimes, the best insights come from those who simply love the story." He glanced at his watch, and a faint sigh escaped him. "Looks like my break is almost up. Duty calls." He pushed himself up from the chair.

Rylie stood too, feeling a pang of disappointment that their impromptu meeting was ending. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "For everything. For... rescuing me."

Misha chuckled. "Anytime. Seriously, it was nice to meet you, Rylie." He extended his hand, and she shook it, his grip warm and firm. "Don't let the crowds get to you too much. And enjoy the rest of the convention."

Rylie, still buzzing from their unexpected conversation, followed Misha back out into the main hall. The noise and the crowds still hummed, but they no longer felt quite so oppressive. It was as if their quiet interlude had recalibrated her senses, making the chaos more manageable. As they approached the stage area, a flurry of activity was already underway. People were beginning to pack into the seats, eager for the next panel.

Misha turned to her, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know," he began, "it's going to get pretty packed in here. And honestly, it can be even more overwhelming when you're stuck in the middle of a row." He gestured towards the front sections, where a few seats remained open, reserved for staff or special guests. "Why don't you come sit up here? That way, I can keep an eye on you, make sure you don't get swallowed by the fandom." He gave her a reassuring smile.

Rylie's eyes widened. Sitting in the front row? With Misha Collins watching over her? It was almost too much to comprehend. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice a little breathless. "I don't want to be in the way."

"Nonsense," he said, already steering her gently towards the front. "Consider it part of my new 'Convention Comfort Initiative'." He winked, and Rylie couldn't help but laugh. He led her to an aisle seat just a few rows back from the stage, close enough to see every detail, but still far enough to not feel like she was on the stage.

"Here you go," he said, indicating the seat. "Comfy enough? If you need anything, just wave. Or text, if you're feeling shy." He grinned, then gave her a quick, encouraging nod before heading towards the backstage entrance.

Rylie sank into the seat, a sense of disbelief washing over her. She watched as Misha disappeared behind the curtain, and then, a few moments later, reappeared on stage to thunderous applause. From her prime vantage point, she could see every one of his characteristic gestures, hear every one of his witty remarks, and even catch the subtle shifts in his expressions. The overwhelming nature of the convention had transformed into an exhilarating, personal experience. She still had her book clutched in her hand, but now it felt less like a shield and more like a cherished souvenir of the most unexpected meet-cute imaginable.

The panel flew by in a blur of laughter, heartfelt stories, and Misha’s infectious energy. Rylie found herself captivated, not just by his stage presence, but by the subtle glances he occasionally cast her way, a silent check-in that made her feel seen amidst the thousands. When the panel concluded and Misha waved goodbye to the roaring crowd, her initial thought was that this magical day was drawing to a close. She prepared to stand, to re-enter the general flow of convention-goers, feeling a pang of wistful sadness.

But then, as the last of the formal applause died down and the stage crew began to move around, Misha, still on stage, caught her eye. He walked to the very edge of the platform, the lights still bright on him, and leaned down slightly, a conspiratorial smile playing on his lips. "Hey, Rylie!" he called out, his voice carrying clearly in the quieting hall. "That 'Convention Comfort Initiative' isn't quite over yet. You free for some actual sustenance? Drinks and dinner, perhaps?"

Rylie's jaw practically hit the floor. Her heart, which she thought had already performed all the fluttery acrobatics it could for one day, did another dizzying leap. She could feel the eyes of a few lingering fans on them, curious about the seemingly personal exchange. "Me?" she managed, pointing to herself, a dumbfounded expression on her face.

Misha chuckled. "Unless there's another Rylie in the front row I've been charming all day," he quipped, his smile widening. "Come on, meet me backstage in fifteen? I know a place that's definitely not serving stale convention hotdogs."

Rylie, still processing, managed a wobbly nod and a choked-out, "Yes! Yes, absolutely!"

Fifteen minutes later, feeling like she was floating on air, Rylie navigated her way to the designated backstage door. A member of Misha's team, a friendly woman with an earpiece, met her with a knowing smile. "Rylie? Misha said you'd be here. He's just finishing up, he'll be right out."

True to his word, Misha appeared moments later, having changed from his panel attire into a more casual shirt and jeans. He looked refreshed, still vibrant, and his eyes held that same kind warmth. "Ready to escape the madness?" he asked, extending a hand to usher her out of the building through a staff exit.

As they stepped out into the crisp evening air, the distant hum of the convention fading behind them, Misha hailed a discreet car that had been waiting. The driver already knew their destination: a cozy, unpretentious restaurant a few blocks away, clearly chosen for its quiet atmosphere.

Over a delicious meal that was indeed miles better than any convention fare, Rylie found herself talking to Misha not as a fan to a celebrity, but as two people connecting over shared experiences and genuine conversation. They discussed everything from the challenges of creative work to their favorite travel destinations, to the absurdities of life on the road. Misha was a captivating storyteller and an equally attentive listener, asking insightful questions about her life, her passions, and even her initial overwhelm at the convention. He made her feel completely at ease, like they had known each other for ages.

As the evening drew to a close, and the last sips of their drinks were taken, Misha looked at her across the table, a relaxed smile on his face. "You know, Rylie," he said, his voice soft, "I'm really glad you were overwhelmed today. Otherwise, we might not have had this lovely, un-overwhelming evening."

Rylie laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. "Me too, Misha. Definitely me too." She knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn't just a magical one-time encounter. This was the beginning of something truly special, sparked by a meet-cute that was anything but conventional.

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[winchesterwild78]

The Arrangement - I didn't quite get why and how it was arranged in the first place? I mean, I get the big 'why,' but not why it was necessary and how she was put into that position?

Hey. Great question. The arrangement was made by their parents to help with PR and image. I put it in the first few paragraphs. Sorry if it wasn’t clear. I didn’t go into detail about what it was about. Didn’t think it was completely relevant to the story.

[winchesterwild78]

The Arrangement pt 6

Part 5

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: fluffy, child birth

A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one. 

This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family. 

Minors DNI 18+

Returning home from our anniversary getaway, the world felt vibrantly new. The secret of our impending parenthood hummed between Jensen and me, a shared joy that seemed to radiate from us both. Jensen, usually so guarded in public, simply couldn't stop smiling. His face was lit with an unbridled happiness I'd rarely seen, a stark contrast to the weary celebrity who had entered that hospital months ago.

The airport was, predictably, a gauntlet of flashing cameras and shouting paparazzi. But for the first time, their presence didn't feel like an intrusion. We moved through the terminal hand-in-hand, a tangible connection flowing between us. Jensen's smile was genuine, wide and utterly carefree, and his eyes, when they met mine, were full of a love that was impossible to hide. I found myself smiling back, a soft, joyful curve of my lips that wasn't for the cameras, but for him, and for the tiny life growing inside me.

The next morning, the internet was ablaze. Photos from the airport had gone viral, not for scandal or drama, but for pure, undeniable affection. Headlines screamed: "Jensen Ackles and Y/N Ackles– True Love Revealed!" and "Unstoppable Romance! Jensen Ackles Beaming with Wife Y/N at Airport!" Fans buzzed with excitement, captivated by the raw emotion etched on our faces. The captions beneath the candid shots spoke of our "deep connection" and how "in love" we looked. No one mentioned PR, no one questioned the sincerity. The world, finally, was seeing the truth of our newly forged love.

The viral airport photos had been a revelation, a public affirmation of the private love we were cultivating. Jensen’s phone rang almost immediately upon our return, and it was Evelyn, her voice unusually bright. "Those photos, Jensen! They're absolutely brilliant. The public loves it. The narrative has completely flipped."

Jensen just smiled, a private, joyous smile that was solely for me. He walked away a few steps, his voice lowering, though I could still hear him. "That's good, Evelyn. And there's more. Y/N is pregnant." There was a beat of stunned silence on Evelyn’s end, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "But," Jensen quickly added, "we're keeping it to ourselves for now. We'll make a statement when we're ready." To my surprise, Evelyn, perhaps sensing the depth of his conviction or simply recognizing a new, even more potent PR opportunity, agreed. "Understood. My lips are sealed."

As the weeks turned into months, our love deepened with each passing day. The house truly felt like home now, filled with laughter, whispered secrets, and the quiet joy of our shared future. Jensen was utterly devoted, showering me with affection and care. He’d leave my favorite snacks by the bed, surprise me with prenatal massages, and spend hours just talking to my growing belly. Our nights were a sanctuary of passion and profound connection, reinforcing the miracle unfolding within me.

My body began to change, slowly at first, then more rapidly. The morning sickness eventually subsided, replaced by a radiant glow and a blossoming bump that became impossible to hide. Our public appearances became less frequent, a deliberate choice to savor our privacy, but when we did step out, the cameras captured a profound shift. Jensen’s hand was always on my back, his eyes constantly seeking mine, his smile unwavering. The fans and media, already convinced of our "rekindled" romance, began to speculate, attributing my changing figure to a newfound happiness.

By the time I was visibly showing, there was an unspoken agreement between us: it was time. We wanted to share our news, not as a PR move, but as a joyful declaration of our real, unconventional love story. This baby wasn't a scandal to be contained; it was a blessing to be celebrated.

We decided on a simple, heartfelt announcement. Jensen posted a candid photo on his social media – a picture taken by him in our garden, bathed in golden afternoon light. In it, I was laughing, my hands gently cradling my noticeable baby bump, and Jensen's arm was wrapped around me, his head leaning on mine, a look of pure adoration on his face. The caption was short, personal, and utterly sincere:

"Six months ago, we found our way back to each other in the most unexpected way. Today, we're thrilled to share that our love story is about to get even bigger. Baby Ackles coming soon! ❤️"

The internet, once a source of bitter headlines, exploded with an outpouring of genuine joy and congratulations. The journey had been long, painful, and public, but our love, forged in the fires of adversity, had finally given us the truest gift of all.

The day arrived with a flurry of anticipation and a thrilling rush of panic. Labor began swiftly, dramatically, pulling us from the quiet sanctity of our home into the bright, urgent hum of the hospital delivery room. Jensen, who had been an image of calm reassurance throughout my pregnancy, was now a bundle of nervous energy, pacing, wringing his hands, but never, not for a single second, leaving my side.

His celebrity persona was completely absent. Here, he was just Jensen, my husband, a man whose face was etched with a mixture of terror and overwhelming love. He held my hand through every contraction, his grip firm and unwavering, offering whispered words of encouragement, wiping the sweat from my brow, and enduring my occasional, pain-fueled snappiness with infinite patience. He watched, utterly mesmerized and a little horrified, as my body worked its miracle.

Hours blurred into an eternity of effort and exhaustion. And then, finally, after one last, powerful push, a cry filled the room. A tiny, indignant, perfect sound that cut through the pain and pierced straight to our hearts.

"It's a girl!" the doctor announced, her voice warm with triumph.

Jensen's head snapped up, his eyes already red-rimmed from lack of sleep, filled with tears. He watched, transfixed, as the nurses whisked our daughter away for a quick clean. When they finally placed her, a tiny, squalling bundle, on my chest, my arms instinctively wrapped around her. She was impossibly small, warm, and perfect, with a shock of dark hair and green eyes that were still unfocused but already held the promise of endless wonder.

Jensen leaned over me, his face alight with an emotion so profound it brought fresh tears to my eyes. He gently touched her cheek, his fingers trembling. "Our daughter," he whispered, his voice thick with awe, a sound I had never heard him make before. He kissed my forehead, then kissed our baby's tiny head, tears now freely streaming down his face. In that moment, holding our daughter, the journey from a loveless, arranged marriage to this boundless, overwhelming love felt complete. She was the tangible proof that from brokenness, something incredibly beautiful could truly grow.

The first few days with our daughter were a blur of sleepless nights and overwhelming love. We spent hours just gazing at her, mesmerized by her tiny fingers and toes, her perfect little sighs. The world outside the hospital room, with its lingering headlines and public scrutiny, felt a million miles away. All that mattered was this tiny, miraculous life we had created together.

Deciding on a name felt monumental, a first shared decision for our new, real family. We considered many, whispering possibilities to her in the quiet of the night, but one kept coming back to us, resonating with the improbable journey we had taken.

A week after her birth, nestled safely back in our home, we decided it was time to share our joy with the world. We wanted to announce her name, to let everyone know the incredible gift we had received. Jensen, with a soft smile, drafted the post himself, ensuring it captured the essence of our unique story.

He chose a beautiful, candid photo taken just yesterday: me, propped up in bed, looking tired but radiant, holding our daughter close, her tiny hand clutching my finger. Jensen was leaning over us, his eyes, so often guarded in the past, now overflowing with a profound, tender love as he gazed at our baby girl.

The post went live across his social media channels, reaching millions in an instant:

"From an unexpected beginning, our love found its true path. Today, our journey of falling for each other has led us to our greatest blessing. Welcome to the world, our beautiful daughter, Aurora June Ackles. Born June 12th, weighing 7 lbs, 3 oz. Every day with her is a new dawn. Our hearts are full. ❤️"

The internet, which had once been a source of such pain and public judgment, now overflowed with an outpouring of genuine warmth. Fans, colleagues, and even the media, seemed genuinely touched by the raw honesty and overwhelming joy radiating from the announcement. Aurora June Ackles, our little miracle, was not just a testament to our love, but a symbol that even from the most broken beginnings, something truly beautiful and real could blossom.

The announcement of Aurora's birth sent ripples of joy across the internet, a stark contrast to the scandals that had once defined our public narrative. But for Jensen and me, she was more than just a public relations triumph; she was the tangible embodiment of our hard-won, genuine love.

Life settled into a rhythm dictated by tiny yawns and urgent cries. The house, once filled with the ghosts of a loveless marriage, now echoed with the sounds of lullabies and cooing. Jensen, the celebrated actor, transformed effortlessly into a doting father. He was endlessly patient, whether it was changing diapers with surprising dexterity or spending hours rocking Aurora to sleep, singing melodies with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes. We learned to navigate sleepless nights with shared laughter and a deeper appreciation for each other’s presence.

Our love, forged in the crucible of public scrutiny and private heartbreak, continued to deepen. Aurora was a constant reminder of the incredible journey we’d taken. Every time Jensen looked at her, then at me, there was a profound understanding in his eyes – a silent acknowledgment of the path that led us from a desperate, arranged marriage to this boundless, real love. Our family was small, imperfect, and wonderfully ours, a testament to the fact that even from the most broken beginnings, something incredibly beautiful and true could blossom.

The End

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[winchesterwild78]

The Arrangement pt 5

Part 4

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: fluff (finally), surprises await them

A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one. 

This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family. 

Minors DNI 18+

Months of careful, quiet rebuilding had reshaped the very foundations of our relationship. The house, once a cold stage for our public performance, now held the echoes of shared laughter and hushed confessions. The pretense had dissolved, replaced by a tentative, then growing, genuine affection. Jensen's eyes no longer held distant politeness when they met mine; they held warmth, understanding, and a deepening desire.

One crisp autumn evening, after a long conversation about our childhoods – a topic we'd never dared to touch before – a comfortable silence settled between us. We were in the living room, the fire casting dancing shadows on the walls, a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. He reached for my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. His thumb stroked my skin, a gesture that had become second nature, filled with an easy intimacy.

He turned to me, his gaze intense, vulnerable, and utterly sincere. "I..." he began, his voice low, "I never thought... I never imagined I could feel this with you."

My heart pounded in response, acknowledging the truth in his words, for I felt it too. The air thickened, charged with unspoken emotions that had been building, layer by careful layer, over the past weeks. I leaned in, drawn by an undeniable pull, and he met me halfway.

This kiss was different from others we had shared. It began softly, tentatively, a question and an answer, but quickly deepened into something fervent, urgent, and deeply desired. It was a kiss born of shared history, of pain overcome, and of a profound, blossoming connection. It was filled with need – a need for closeness, for intimacy, for the physical expression of everything that had been painstakingly rebuilt between us. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him, and I clung to him, pouring all my unspoken feelings into the embrace.

The night unfolded with a tender inevitability. We moved from the living room to his bedroom, the room that had once housed his infidelity, but now felt like a space of profound redemption. Every touch was deliberate, every caress infused with a raw honesty and a reverence for the intimacy we had finally found. There was no rush, only a deep, mutual exploration, a confirmation of the emotional bonds that had formed.

Finally, as dawn painted the sky in soft hues, I drifted off to sleep, my head nestled against his chest, his arm securely wrapped around me. The rhythmic beat of his heart beneath my ear was the most comforting sound I had ever known. We had finally made love, not out of obligation or pretense, but from a place of genuine, burgeoning affection. And as I lay there, safe in his arms, the weight of a lonely marriage finally lifted, I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was irrevocably, truly falling for him.

That night of shared passion was a turning point, a silent agreement to discard the old pretenses and build something real from the shattered pieces. The very next day, I moved my things into Jensen's room. My clothes mingled with his in the closet, my books found a home on his nightstand, and my presence became a comforting constant in his personal space.

Every night became a new discovery. We explored each other's bodies with a tender curiosity, each touch and kiss deepening the profound connection that had blossomed between us. We made love not just with our bodies, but with our souls, whispering confessions and dreams in the quiet intimacy of the darkness. The physical closeness mirrored the emotional vulnerability we had finally found, solidifying the love that had emerged from the ashes of a forced union.

As the weeks stretched into months, our relationship solidified into something beautiful and undeniable. We started venturing out in public together again, but this time, the dynamic was entirely different. We no longer cared about the cameras in the same way; we were simply being ourselves. He’d still flash his famous smile, but now, his eyes would always seek mine, a silent testament to the genuine happiness he found by my side.

Jensen, who had once been so guarded, now delighted in sharing glimpses of our authentic life. His social media, once a carefully curated feed of red carpet events and professional triumphs, began to feature candid photos of us. There were snapshots of me with a messy bun, absorbed in a book on the sofa; us laughing over a burnt dinner in the kitchen; or a tender shot of him kissing the top of my head, or my lips, completely unposed. These weren't PR stunts; they were moments of true bliss, shared freely, without the need for explanation or justification. His fans, initially shocked by the paternity scandal, slowly began to embrace this new, more human Jensen, and by extension, our unconventional love story.

As our first wedding anniversary approached, a date that once symbolized the beginning of my despair now represented a triumphant turning point. Jensen, ever the grand gesture enthusiast, planned something truly significant. "It's not just about a year of being married," he'd said, pulling me into a hug, his eyes shining with a familiar intensity, "it's about the past few months of actually falling in love. And we deserve to celebrate that. Big."

The anticipation buzzed between us. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that whatever he had planned, it would be a celebration of our hard-won happiness, a testament to the real, undeniable love that had blossomed where only loneliness had once resided.

The grand celebration Jensen had planned for our anniversary turned out to be the most intimate gesture of all. He booked a private getaway, a secluded villa nestled on a sun-drenched coast, eerily similar to the Tuscan villa where our loveless honeymoon had unfolded. But this time, everything was different. There were no camera flashes, no forced smiles, just the two of us. It was a deliberate act of reclaiming that painful memory, imbuing it with the burgeoning love we now shared.

We spent our days exploring hidden coves, laughing as we cooked meals together in the sun-drenched kitchen, and simply existing in the blissful quiet of each other's company. The nights were filled with whispered secrets and tender touches, each moment a testament to the journey we had embarked on. This was our real honeymoon, a testament to a love forged in the fires of scandal and personal reckoning.

One morning, a few days into our serene escape, a subtle wave of nausea washed over me. I dismissed it at first, attributing it to the rich food or the change of scenery. But as the days passed, the feeling persisted, accompanied by an unfamiliar fatigue that settled deep in my bones. I started noticing things—a heightened sense of smell, a strange aversion to my favorite coffee, a tenderness I couldn't explain.

A quiet suspicion began to form, growing stronger with each passing hour. My period was late. More than late. My mind reeled, doing quick calculations, connecting the dots between the tender nights we had shared and these unexpected symptoms. It was too soon, too impossible, given the history of our beginning.

My heart began to pound with a frantic, hopeful rhythm. Later that day, while Jensen was out arranging a private boat trip, I slipped away to a small pharmacy in the nearby town. My hands trembled as I bought a pregnancy test, the box feeling impossibly heavy in my palm.

Back at the villa, I locked myself in the bathroom, my breath catching in my throat. I followed the instructions, my eyes fixed on the small window. The wait felt like an eternity.

Then, slowly, almost miraculously, two clear lines appeared.

I was pregnant.

An audible gasp escaped my lips, but this time, it was one of pure, unadulterated shock and overwhelming joy. A wave of emotions crashed over me: disbelief, fear, but most profoundly, an immense, blossoming love. A secret of my own, a tiny, precious life, growing inside me, a true symbol of the real, unexpected love that had blossomed between Jensen and me. This wasn't a PR baby; this was our baby, a testament to a love that had defied all odds.

The little plastic stick with its undeniable two lines lay hidden in my travel bag, a monumental secret pulsing between Jensen and me. I spent the rest of the day in a haze, the beauty of the private villa, the warmth of the sun, and Jensen's easy laughter all magnified by the incredible news. I knew I couldn't keep it from him, not after everything we'd built.

That evening, as twilight painted the sky in soft mauves and oranges, we lay tangled in the crisp sheets of our bed, the quiet stillness of the villa wrapped around us. His arm was draped over me, his hand resting gently on my hip, a familiar weight of comfort and intimacy.

"Jensen?" I whispered, my voice a little shaky.

He hummed, pressing a soft kiss to my hair. "Hm? Everything okay, love?"

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was it. "I was just thinking," I began, trying to keep my voice casual, though it trembled slightly, "about... about children."

His body tensed imperceptibly against mine. The topic, loaded with the pain of Isabella's false claim, was still a sensitive one. "What about them?" he asked, his voice cautious.

"I mean," I continued, gathering my courage, "do you... do you still want them? Someday? A family?" I turned slightly in his arms, looking up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction in the dim light.

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, processing the question. Then, his eyes met mine, softening. "After everything with Isabella, it's been hard to even think about it," he admitted, his voice low. "But yeah. Someday, with the right person... more than anything, I want a family. A real one. A family built on truth and love." He paused, his thumb gently caressing my arm. "Why do you ask?"

My breath hitched. This was my moment. The words tumbled out, a mix of fear and overwhelming joy. "Because, Jensen," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes, "that day in the hospital, when you thought you'd lost me... you changed my life. And our love... our love has grown into something so real." My voice broke slightly. "And now... now we're going to have a baby."

He froze. His arm stiffened around me. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, searched my face in the fading light. "A... a baby?" he whispered, the words barely audible.

I nodded, tears now freely flowing down my cheeks, tears of relief and burgeoning happiness. "Yes," I confirmed, a soft, joyful sob escaping me. "Our baby. I'm pregnant."

My whispered confession hung in the stillness of the villa, "I'm pregnant." Jensen's eyes, wide with disbelief, searched my face, trying to reconcile the impossible with the miraculous. He lay motionless for a long moment, his arm still around me, but his body rigid with shock. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves outside and the frantic beat of my own heart.

Then, slowly, a tremor started in his arm. His breath hitched, a soft, disbelieving laugh bubbling from his chest. It wasn't the cynical, public laugh, but a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that deepened into a joyful sob.

"Pregnant?" he whispered again, the word tasting new and sacred on his tongue. He pulled back slightly, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs brushing away the lingering tears on my cheeks. His eyes, though still swimming with surprise, were now alight with overwhelming happiness. "Our baby?"

I nodded, a watery smile spreading across my face.

And then, the dam broke. He pulled me into a fierce, joyous embrace, burying his face in my hair. His entire body shook with silent laughter and profound emotion. "Oh, my God," he murmured against my temple, his voice thick with tears. "Oh, my God, Y/N. This is... this is incredible."

He pulled back again, his hands moving to cup my stomach, a gesture of awe and tenderness. A radiant smile, so genuine and unburdened, stretched across his face, lighting up his eyes. "A baby," he repeated, his voice filled with wonder. "A real family. With you." The joy radiating from him was palpable, a stark contrast to the despair that had once defined our marriage. In that moment, surrounded by the quiet love we had built, a new chapter, one filled with the promise of a truly loving family, began.

Part 6

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[winchesterwild78]

The Arrangement pt 4

Part 3

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: mention of accident and injury, tension, paternity is established

A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one. 

This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family. 

Minors DNI 18+

Days blurred into an agonizing continuum. The hospital room, with its hushed beeps and sterile air, became Jensen's entire world. He didn't leave your side, not for a moment. He slept fitfully in the uncomfortable chair, his hand never straying far from yours. He watched the subtle rise and fall of your chest, memorized the rhythm of the heart monitor, and prayed with a desperation he hadn't known he possessed.

In those long, quiet hours, his mind became a relentless, brutal reel of their shared past. He replayed every cold glance, every dismissive word, every night he’d spent in the master bedroom while you, his wife, lay alone in the guest room. He remembered your dignified silence, your forced smiles for the cameras, the quiet strength with which you'd endured his emotional abandonment. The raw, desperate plea you'd uttered in the driveway – "You have her and I have no one" – echoed in his ears, a damning indictment.

His heart, once so calloused by fame and self-preservation, began to crack, then shatter, under the weight of his own cruelty. He saw now, with horrifying clarity, the quiet grace with which you had handled everything. You never publicly lashed out, never sabotaged his image, never played the victim despite being cruelly cast in that role. You simply endured, until you couldn't anymore.

The world outside the hospital room continued its frantic spin. His phone, which he kept on silent, still buzzed with calls and texts from Evelyn, from publicists, from concerned colleagues. And then there was Isabella. She called repeatedly, her messages growing increasingly agitated, demanding his presence, his explanation for abandoning her just when she needed him most.

He finally answered one of her calls, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I can't talk right now, Isabella," he'd said, cutting off her impending tirade. "I'm at the hospital. Y/N was in an accident."

"An accident? Jensen, what about me? What about the baby?" her voice had risen, indignant.

Jensen's gaze flickered to your still face, your quiet vulnerability. "My place is here," he stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "With her." He hung up, the finality of the click a stark period to that chapter of his life.

In the terrifying stillness of your unconsciousness, Jensen finally, truly, understood the depth of what he had lost. It wasn't just a convenient partner, a PR shield; it was a woman of immense quiet strength, a connection he had carelessly discarded, and a love he had never deserved. He had chosen fame, image, and fleeting passion over true companionship, and now, he might pay the ultimate price.

A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes, a constant, low hum that permeated my entire being. Sounds were muffled, distant, like whispers through water. I felt heavy, as if submerged, and the air against my skin was cool, unfamiliar. Slowly, painstakingly, my senses began to re-emerge. The scent of antiseptic, faint but distinct. The rhythmic beep... beep... beep that seemed to pulse through my very bones.

My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, glued shut, but a sliver of light, diffused and soft, registered behind them. I tried to move, a futile attempt that sent a sharp pain through my side. A small groan escaped my lips, barely a sound.

Then, a sudden shift in the air beside me. A warmth against my hand, a subtle pressure. My eyes fluttered, resisting, then slowly, painstakingly, forced themselves open.

The first thing I registered was the sterile white ceiling. Then, slowly, my gaze drifted to the side. There, slumped in a chair beside my bed, his head resting on his hand, was Jensen. His usually impeccably styled hair was a mess, his face shadowed with stubble, lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes. He looked utterly disheveled, completely unlike the polished celebrity I knew.

His hand was clasped gently around mine, his thumb resting on my knuckles. His eyes were closed, but even in sleep, there was a tension to his jaw, a weariness that permeated his entire being.

My breath hitched. Jensen. Here. By my side. The last time I saw him, I was driving away, leaving him standing in the driveway, breaking free from the very prison he now occupied with me. A wave of confusion, then a ripple of something akin to fear, washed over me. What had happened? Why was he here? And why did he look so utterly broken?

My vision cleared slightly, the sterile outlines of the hospital room coming into sharper focus. The dull ache behind my eyes was still there, but now, a new sensation superseded it: the warmth of Jensen's hand holding mine. I studied his face, the unfamiliar lines of exhaustion, the shadow of stubble. He looked nothing like the composed, distant husband I knew. He looked… vulnerable.

A quiet sound escaped my lips before I even realized I was forming it. "Jensen?" My voice was a dry, raw whisper, barely audible, as if it belonged to someone else.

His head snapped up instantly, his eyes flying open. The glazed exhaustion in them cleared in a flash, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated shock, then an overwhelming rush of relief. His grip on my hand tightened, almost painfully.

He blinked once, twice, as if checking that I was real. His lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out. Then, a ragged breath escaped him. "Y/N?" His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion, unlike anything I had ever heard from him. He leaned closer, his face inches from mine, his eyes searching, desperate. "You're... you're awake."

The room was still hazy, the beeping monitors a dull rhythm. My body ached, a deep, pervasive soreness. The confusion was overwhelming. My last clear memory was driving away from the house, from him, from that suffocating life. Now, here he was, looking utterly wrecked, yet undeniably present.

My throat felt like sandpaper, but the question pushed its way out. "What happened?" I croaked, my voice a barely audible whisper, a testament to my weakness.

Jensen flinched, as if the question were a physical blow. His hand, still holding mine, trembled slightly. He averted his gaze for a moment, staring at the sterile wall opposite us, before slowly turning back to me, his eyes filled with a fresh wave of pain and regret.

My whispered question, "What happened?" hung in the sterile air, and Jensen flinched, as if the words were a physical blow. His hand, still clasping mine, trembled, and he averted his gaze for a moment, staring at the sterile wall opposite us before slowly turning back to me, his eyes filled with a fresh wave of pain and regret.

He took a shaky breath, his voice low and raspy. "You... you were in an accident. A few days ago." He paused, his gaze fixed on my bandaged head. "You hit a deer. The car... it was pretty bad. They found your emergency contact. They called me."

His eyes met mine, raw and exposed. "When I got here," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "they told me... they told me they weren't sure if you were going to make it." A shudder ran through him, and his grip on my hand tightened almost painfully. "God, Y/N, I was so scared. I've never been so scared in my life."

He closed his eyes for a moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I thought... I thought I'd lost you. For good. After everything." He opened his eyes again, and the depth of his remorse was palpable. "I haven't left your side since. I couldn't."

His explanation of the accident, coupled with the raw admission of his fear, left me stunned. The image of the deer, the crunch of metal, the possibility of not making it – it was all a terrifying blur. But it was his confession of fear, the genuine terror in his eyes, that truly reached me. It was so unlike the detached man I had known.

My hand, still cradled in his, instinctively tightened. I looked at his exhausted face, at the stubble on his jaw, at the deep lines of worry etched around his eyes. He had stayed. He had been here, by my side, while I was lost to the world.

"Thank you," I rasped, the words barely more than a whisper. My voice was still weak, but the gratitude was immense, a profound surge in my battered heart.

Without a moment of conscious thought, without hesitation, he leaned down. His lips, rough from what felt like days without proper care, pressed softly, chastely, against my forehead, right above the bandage.

A soft gasp escaped my lips, a sound of surprise and something else entirely. This kiss was different. It wasn't the performative kiss for cameras, or the distant peck exchanged in passing. This kiss held no pretense, no obligation. It was simply… warm. Gentle. Filled with a tenderness I hadn't felt from him, a genuine emotion that reached deep inside me and settled in the broken spaces. It felt different. Completely different.

The gentle pressure of Jensen's lips on my forehead lingered, a soft warmth that seemed to spread through my bruised and aching body. My quiet gasp hadn't been one of pain, but of profound, unexpected shock. This kiss was unlike any he had given me since our early, pre-arranged days. It held no pretense, no performance. It felt... real.

He pulled back slowly, his eyes, still heavy with exhaustion, searching mine. The question was implicit in his gaze: Did I overstep? Did I hurt you?

"The baby," I rasped, the word coming out before I could censor it. It felt like the elephant in the room, the undeniable truth that had shattered everything. My voice was still weak, a dry whisper, but the question was firm. "Isabella's pregnant. What... what about that?"

Jensen flinched, his jaw tightening. He looked away, staring at the sterile white wall for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. The silence in the room stretched, punctuated only by the steady beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor.

"She... she's pregnant, yes," he finally confirmed, his voice low and tight. "I spoke to her after I got the call from the hospital. I told her I couldn't be there. That I had to be here." He turned his gaze back to me, his eyes filled with a raw honesty I'd never seen before. "She's... not happy. She understands I'll be there for the child, of course. But... what we had... it's over."

He paused, then continued, his voice heavy with a self-reproach that was startling. "I told her, Y/N. I told her my place was here. With you. I told her because it was the truth. It is the truth." He ran a hand through his already messy hair. "I know that doesn't excuse anything. It doesn't excuse months of... of what I put you through. Of being so utterly blind to it all."

He squeezed my hand gently. "This marriage," he began, his voice barely a whisper, "it was always supposed to be for show. For PR. I knew that. But I never stopped to think about what that meant for you. For what it would feel like to actually live it, every single day, with no... no real connection. I saw your grief in the driveway that night, Y/N. I saw it. And I was too much of a coward to address it then." He looked away again, his gaze fixed on the IV drip. "And then this happened. And the thought of losing you... it made me see everything with a clarity I never had before."

He finally turned back to me, his eyes pleading. "It was a loveless marriage, Y/N, because I made it one. I was cruel. I was selfish. And I am so profoundly sorry for that. For all of it. For putting you through that hell." He swallowed hard. "I took you for granted. I took your grace for granted. And I took the peace of mind you quietly provided for granted. Until it was all almost gone."

The raw honesty of his confession hung in the air. This wasn't the man playing a part; this was a man laid bare by fear and regret, finally articulating the pain he had inflicted.

His raw confession hung in the air, thick with unspoken pain and regret. He had finally seen it, finally admitted to the cruelty of our situation. My hand, still clasped in his, tightened instinctively, a surge of unexpected emotion swelling within me.

"Jensen," I whispered, my voice still weak but laced with a newfound understanding.

Our eyes met, and in that shared gaze, something shifted. The barriers that had stood between us for so long seemed to falter, if only for a moment. He leaned in slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, the stubble on his jaw just inches from my face. I could feel his breath, warm and soft, on my lips. My heart quickened, a fragile butterfly fluttering in my chest. He stopped, just before closing the distance, leaving the air between us charged with unspoken questions and a hesitant, undeniable pull.

My breath hitched, waiting.

Then, slowly, almost reverently, he closed the final inch. His lips, soft and tentative, met mine.

This was not the practiced, public kiss of our wedding photos. It wasn't the distant, polite brush of our rare, forced appearances. This kiss was fragile, a feather-light touch that spoke of vulnerability and aching tenderness. There was no demand, no expectation, just a profound gentleness that seemed to acknowledge every tear I had shed, every lonely night I had endured.

It was a kiss of apology, of understanding, of a silent plea for forgiveness. It was a kiss that tasted of hospital antiseptic and Jensen's desperate fear, but also, surprisingly, of a nascent hope. My own lips parted slightly, a soft, involuntary response, and I felt a tear slip from the corner of my eye, not of pain, but of a complex, overwhelming emotion I couldn't yet name. It truly felt different. It felt like the beginning of something, or perhaps, the mending of something that had been profoundly broken.

Weeks turned into a quiet, determined recovery. The hospital, once a place of dread, became a symbol of a fragile new beginning. When the doctors finally cleared me to leave, it wasn't to the anonymous hotel, but back to the house, with Jensen by my side. The house, however, felt different now. The vast spaces still echoed, but there was a nascent warmth, a tentative understanding growing between us.

We started over, slowly, deliberately. The media frenzy continued outside our gates, but inside, we built a fragile sanctuary. We had real conversations, long into the night, stripped of pretense. We talked about the cruelty of the arranged marriage, the crushing loneliness I had felt, and his admitted blindness to my pain. Jensen confessed the suffocating weight of his own public persona, and the fear that had truly gripped him when he thought he'd lost me. It wasn't always easy; there were still awkward silences, residual hurts, and thoughts of neglect to overcome. But the conversations were genuine, marked by a quiet vulnerability from Jensen I had never thought possible.

Crucially, this delicate rebuilding happened away from the public eye and, most importantly, away from Isabella. She called, sometimes even showed up at the gates, demanding to speak with Jensen. But he remained steadfast. He explained, patiently but firmly, that his focus was entirely on me and that his relationship with her was over, save for the impending co-parenting of their child.

As Isabella’s pregnancy progressed, the public speculation escalated. Evelyn, despite her initial fury, was still Jensen's agent, and the situation was spiraling beyond control. One afternoon, she arrived at the house, her face grim.

"The studio, the endorsements, my professional reputation... this can't drag on, Jensen," she stated, her voice tight with exasperation. "The whispers are killing us. For everyone's sake, we need a definitive answer." She turned to me, her expression softening infinitesimally, a silent acknowledgment of my return and our apparent truce. "They're demanding a paternity test, Jensen. It's the only way to put an end to this speculation. To clear your name, and by extension, hers."

Jensen looked at me, a silent question in his eyes. He knew what this meant, not just for his career, but for our fragile, nascent peace. He knew the confirmation of paternity would forever link him to Isabella in a way he was trying to distance himself from. But he also knew Evelyn was right; the public needed an answer.

"Do it," I said, my voice quiet but firm. I had watched him, truly watched him, over these past weeks. His remorse felt genuine, his presence by my side unwavering. Whatever the results, I knew where I stood with him now, a place far more real than any public facade.

So, the arrangements were made. Jensen went, alone, to provide the sample. I stayed behind, pacing the quiet halls of the house, my heart a knot of anxious anticipation. I stood by his side silently, waiting for the results, knowing that this single piece of paper held the power to either clarify our future or plunge us back into chaos.

The day the results were due to arrive was excruciating. The air in the house was heavy, thick with unspoken anticipation. We sat in the study, a room we now often used for our quiet conversations, away from the prying eyes of staff. Jensen's laptop sat on the polished mahogany desk, a silent, ominous presence.

At precisely 3:00 PM, an email notification popped up. "Paternity Test Results - Case Ref. #..."

Jensen's hand hovered over the trackpad, his jaw tight. He looked at me, his eyes reflecting a mixture of dread and grim acceptance. I reached across the desk and took his hand, my fingers intertwining with his. My own heart hammered against my ribs, a nervous tremor running through me. This wasn't just about his image anymore; it was about our fragile, new reality.

He took a deep breath, squeezing my hand once, then clicked. The email opened, a plain document with a few lines of text. His eyes scanned it, moving quickly, then stopping. His pupils dilated, and his face, already pale, drained of all color.

Then, an audible gasp, sharp and disbelieving, left both our lips simultaneously.

His grip on my hand tightened, almost painfully. My eyes, still fixed on his stunned face, slowly drifted to the screen.

"The probability of paternity is 0%."

The baby isn't his.

The words shimmered on the screen, impossibly clear, impossibly real. Isabella's public confession, the media storm, the shattered marriage, my departure, his desperate fear – it had all been built on a lie. A profound, shocking silence fell over the room, broken only by our ragged breaths. We stared at the screen, then at each other, a dizzying mix of disbelief, relief, and a dawning, complex understanding washing over us.

The words on the screen, "The probability of paternity is 0%," seemed to leap out, hitting us both with the force of a physical blow. An audible gasp had escaped both our lips, a shared expulsion of disbelief and sudden, profound shock.

Before I could even process the magnitude of the revelation, before my rational mind could catch up, my body reacted. My hand, still clasped tightly in Jensen's, pulled him forward, and before he could register what was happening, my lips found his.

It wasn't a gentle, exploring kiss like the one in the hospital. This was a kiss born of raw need and desperation. It was fierce and messy, a desperate claiming, a release of weeks of agonizing tension and months of unspoken pain. Tears, hot and blinding, streamed down my face as a tidal wave of pure relief washed over me, so potent it left me shaking. The threat of the other woman's child, the final, crushing weight on our fractured life, had been lifted.

I pulled back slightly, my forehead resting against his, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My eyes, swimming with tears, met his stunned gaze. He was silent, motionless, clearly reeling from the double shock of the paternity results and my impulsive kiss.

"I'm so sorry," I choked out, the words tumbling over each other, "I'm so sorry the baby isn't yours." My voice was thick with emotion, but the meaning was clear. "Because... because she cheated on you."

His eyes widened, reflecting a complex mix of surprise, confusion, and a dawning understanding. He was stunned by my apology, an expression of genuine bewilderment crossing his face. He'd likely expected anger, vindication, even a triumphant relief. But not sorrow for him. Not for the man who had been so blind, so cruel. It was a moment of profound revelation, stripping away another layer of the carefully constructed walls between us.

The aftermath of the paternity test revelation was swift and brutal for Isabella, but for us, it felt like the first breath of clean air in years. Evelyn, quickly seizing the narrative, issued a cold, concise statement to the press: "Mr. Ackles confirms that DNA testing has conclusively shown he is not the biological father of Ms. Isabella Johnson's child. Mr. Ackles wishes Ms. Johnson and her family well during this time and requests privacy." It was a masterclass in PR, painting Jensen as the wronged party, subtly implying Isabella's deception, and shutting down further discussion. The media went into a new frenzy, shifting their focus from Jensen's supposed infidelity to Isabella's dramatic betrayal.

While the storm raged outside, inside the house, a fragile, beautiful quiet began to settle. The shared shock, the desperate kiss, and my unexpected apology had shattered the last remnants of our pretense. We were finally free to just be.

We began to build our relationship, brick by painful, exhilarating brick. There were no grand gestures for the cameras, no forced smiles for the public. Instead, it was in the small, quiet moments that a genuine connection, a true affection, started to bloom. Jensen started leaving little notes for me, tucked into the book I was reading or beside my morning coffee. He cooked surprisingly well, and we'd eat together in the quiet kitchen, talking about everything and nothing. He listened, truly listened, with an attentiveness that had been absent for so long. He'd ask about my day, about my thoughts, about the books I was reading, and he'd remember the answers.

I, in turn, found myself opening up, sharing vulnerabilities I hadn't dared to expose before. I learned about the immense pressures of his fame, the loneliness that came with constant scrutiny, the way he'd often felt like a product rather than a person. We started taking long, aimless drives again, but this time, he was beside me, his hand sometimes resting on my knee, a comforting, unforced presence. We discovered a shared love for old movies, spending evenings curled on the sofa, simply existing in comfortable silence, or laughing softly at ridiculous dialogue.

He would often find me reading in the sunroom, and just sit, sometimes reaching for my hand, tracing patterns on my skin. One evening, he found me crying softly while watching a particularly sad movie. Instead of turning away or offering a platitude, he simply held me, his arms a strong, safe embrace, letting me lean into his warmth until the tears subsided.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the initial gratitude and relief began to deepen into something profound. The touch of his hand, once a mere prop, became a source of comfort. His laughter, once a public performance, became a genuine joy to hear. We were actually putting in effort, not to maintain an image, but to genuinely understand and connect with each other.

And then, one quiet morning, as I watched him from across the breakfast table, a soft smile playing on his lips as he read the newspaper, it hit me. A warmth spread through my chest, a sense of belonging I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't just gratitude, or even friendship. I was falling for him. And in the way his eyes would seek mine across a room, in the gentle way he touched my arm, in the newfound openness of his conversation, I began to see that, somehow, against all odds, he was falling for me too. The loveless marriage, born of PR, was slowly, miraculously, transforming into something real.

Part 5

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[winchesterwild78]

The Arrangement pt 3

Part 2

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: heartbreak, regret, injury

A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one. 

This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family. 

Minors DNI 18+

He stood his ground, unmoving, a statue of defiance in the glare of the headlights. His jaw was set, eyes fixed on mine, the fear still there, but now mingled with a stubborn resolve.

"Jensen, move," I repeated, my voice cracking slightly. I turned off the engine, plunging the immediate area into a sudden, jarring quiet, broken only by the distant hum of the city. Then, I pushed open the car door and stepped out, facing him fully. Evelyn was still a few feet behind him, looking like she might combust.

"You're free," I pleaded, my voice rising, stripped bare of pretense. The raw pain I had held captive for so long finally spilled out. "I can't do this anymore. You have no idea how hard this has been for me." My arms swept out, encompassing the house, the PR nightmare, the entire suffocating charade. "I'm in a lonely marriage. You have her, and I have no one." My voice broke, hot tears finally overflowing and streaming down my face. "I have to pretend to be in love with you and have your love in return. This is just so cruel. I can't do it anymore."

My chest heaved, each breath a painful gasp. All the silent suffering, all the nights spent crying in the guest room, all the humiliation of their blatant intimacy—it all poured out in those desperate words. I looked at him, truly looked at him, not the celebrity, but the man standing before me, the father of another woman's child, the man who had inadvertently destroyed my life. I was done.

My words hung in the cool night air, raw and exposed, laying bare the profound desolation of my existence. Jensen, bathed in the soft glow of the porch lights, seemed to shrink slightly under the weight of them. His rigid stance softened, and his eyes, which had been so unreadable just moments before, flickered with a genuine, undeniable remorse. It was a brief, potent flash – a recognition of the pain he had caused, a glimpse of the man beneath the polished facade.

He took a hesitant step towards me, his hand reaching out, then dropping. "Please," he murmured, his voice rough, a stark contrast to his usual smooth demeanor. It wasn't the voice of America's most eligible bachelor, but of a man caught in a terrible trap of his own making. "Please, don't go. Don't leave like this."

Evelyn, who had been listening with a mixture of horror and strategic assessment, looked like she was about to intervene, to remind him of the PR implications, but he held her gaze with a silent, almost imperceptible command. His eyes returned to mine, filled with a newfound, aching sincerity.

"I... I know," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know this has been incredibly hard on you. Harder than I ever truly considered." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before meeting my tear-filled eyes again. "And if this is truly what you want... if you truly can't do this anymore... then I won't stop you." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'll let you go."

The words hung in the air, a fragile offering amidst the wreckage. He was giving me the choice, the freedom I craved, but the plea in his eyes, the sudden, raw vulnerability, made the decision feel infinitely more complicated.

His words, "I'll let you go," hung in the air, a fragile offering amidst the wreckage. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something almost hopeful sparked within me. His raw vulnerability was unexpected, a chink in the polished armor he usually wore.

I hesitated. The thought of true freedom, of a life unburdened by this charade, was intoxicating. But then, another thought, colder and sharper, pierced through the sudden haze of his remorse. If he truly felt this remorse, this understanding of my pain, wouldn't he have seen it months ago? Wouldn't he have stopped this slow, agonizing heartbreak before it reached this point?

His words, while seemingly genuine now, were too little, too late. They were born of crisis, not of a deep-seated empathy that had been absent for so long. The image of Isabella, pregnant with his child, seared itself back into my mind, obliterating any fleeting softness I might have felt.

My gaze hardened. "No," I said, my voice quiet but firm, devoid of the earlier tremor. "If you truly understood, you would have seen this cruelty months ago. You would have seen it before it broke me completely."

I turned from him, the last vestiges of my hope dissolving like mist. My hand closed around the cold metal of the car door handle, and I pulled it open. Without another word, without a backward glance, I slid into the driver's seat. The engine purred to life with a comforting familiarity, a promise of escape. I put the car in reverse, the headlights cutting through the darkness, and began to back down the long driveway, leaving the gilded cage, the shattered dreams, and the broken pieces of my heart behind.

The glow of the dashboard lights was my only company as I drove, the rearview mirror showing only the shrinking silhouette of the house, then nothing but the dark, winding road. Each mile I put between myself and that life felt like a breath of fresh air, a small reclamation of the self I had lost. I kept driving until the familiar landscape faded, until I was just a nameless car on a nameless road.

I finally pulled into the parking lot of a modest hotel a few towns over, a place anonymous enough that no one would recognize me. The check-in was blessedly uneventful, the night clerk barely glancing up. Once inside the sterile quiet of my room, I sank onto the edge of the bed, the duffel bag dropping with a soft thud beside me.

My phone, a constant buzzing presence since I'd left, was now a source of immense anxiety. I knew who it would be: Jensen, Evelyn, my parents. Their calls, a frantic symphony of crisis management and desperate pleas, were the last vestiges of the life I was fleeing. With a decisive breath, I pressed the power button. The screen went dark, and a profound silence, deeper and more liberating than any I had known in months, settled over me. For the first time in a very long time, I was truly, utterly alone.

Back at the house, Jensen was left to deal with the immediate and brutal repercussions of my departure and Isabella's bombshell. Evelyn, no doubt, was already in full damage control mode, her voice likely a whip of fury as she strategized with publicists and lawyers. The initial plan of "denying, denying, denying" would now be exponentially harder to sell.

The carefully constructed image of his "unshakable love" for me, the perfect PR marriage, had just shattered on live television and with my very public exit. He wasn't just facing a paternity scandal; he was facing a scandal of deception, of a public facade crumbling in the most spectacular way possible. The media storm would be unprecedented, the whispers of his personal life no longer just whispers but a deafening roar. For the first time, he was truly on his own, the consequences of his choices landing squarely on his shoulders, with no convenient wife to hide behind.

Weeks bled into each other, marked by the quiet rhythm of my new, solitary life. The hotel room became a temporary cocoon. I found a small coffee shop with good Wi-Fi, started exploring the town's local library, and took long, aimless walks by a nearby lake. Slowly, meticulously, I began the arduous task of piecing myself back together. Each quiet morning, each anonymous interaction, was a tiny stitch in the fabric of my healing. The constant hum of my disconnected phone was a distant memory, a freedom I savored.

The fallout of Isabella's confession, as glimpsed through the occasional, furtive glances at news headlines on public screens, was indeed colossal. "Ackles Baby Scandal," "PR Marriage Exposed," "Hollywood's Biggest Lie Unveiled." The headlines screamed, the entertainment world in a frenzy. Requests for interviews, no doubt, were pouring in, but I wasn't there to answer them. I was simply gone.

Back in the house that now felt truly empty, Jensen was living a different kind of silence. The relentless media storm had indeed been unprecedented. Paparazzi camped outside the gates, entertainment news channels ran non-stop specials, and social media exploded with outrage and speculation. Evelyn, a whirlwind of furious damage control, had put a strict lockdown on his public appearances.

Jensen barely left the house. The sprawling rooms, once a symbol of his success, now felt like a gilded cage. He saw the headlines, heard the frenzied chatter on the news. His carefully constructed image, the one he had worked his entire life to build, was crumbling, replaced by unflattering whispers of deceit and betrayal.

The initial shock of Isabella's revelation, and my abrupt departure, had given way to a chilling emptiness. The public condemnation, the relentless scrutiny, it was all overwhelming. But beneath the chaos, a quieter, more insidious realization began to dawn. The quiet hum of my presence, the polite smiles, the public charade we had maintained – they had, in their own strange way, been a constant. Now, that constant was gone.

He walked through the silent halls, sat in the vast, empty living room, and looked at the space on the sofa where I used to sit. He remembered the brief, unreadable flicker in my eyes when I scoffed, the raw pain in my voice as I confessed my loneliness. He remembered the quiet, lonely figure in the kitchen that night.

He had always had Isabella, the passionate, tangible love. But he had also always had me, the stable, if loveless, partner, handling the PR, the public face, the domestic facade. I had been the silent, unflappable anchor in his chaotic life, absorbing the collateral damage of his choices without complaint.

Now, with the house echoing with an unfamiliar quiet, with the public turning on him, and with Isabella's demands for attention and support mounting, Jensen started to realize what he had lost. Not just a convenient wife, not just a PR shield, but the quiet, unassuming woman who had borne the brunt of his choices with a dignity he had never truly appreciated. He was alone with the wreckage, and the weight of it, the true depth of his loss, was just beginning to settle in. The absence of my silent presence was a gaping hole, colder and more profound than he had ever imagined.

The open road had become my solace, the hum of the engine a lullaby to my mending soul. Weeks into my self-imposed exile, I found a fragile peace in anonymity, in the mundane rhythm of a life lived for myself. On this particular afternoon, I was just driving, aimlessly following a backroad that promised nothing but quiet solitude. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. My thoughts drifted, somewhere between the painful past and an uncertain future.

I didn't see the deer. It darted out from the treeline, a fleeting shadow against the fading light. There was a screech of tires, a violent swerve, and then the sickening crunch of metal. The world spun, glass shattered, and then… nothing.

The sterile white walls, the faint smell of antiseptic, the rhythmic beep of machines – these were the sounds and sights Jensen had come to associate with hospitals for PR events, for visiting ailing co-stars. But this time, it was different. This time, the call had been for him.

His phone, which had been a constant source of calls from Evelyn and increasingly frantic reporters, rang with an unfamiliar number. He answered, his voice weary. "Mr. Ackles?" a calm, professional voice had asked. "This is St. Jude's Hospital. We have a patient here, a Y/N Ackles. She was in an accident. We found your number listed as her emergency contact, she has you listed as her husband."

Jensen's blood ran cold. Accident? Y/N? The world outside the house, the chaos of his career, faded into insignificance. "Is she... is she okay?" he'd managed to stammer.

There was a pause, a breath drawn on the other end of the line. "Mr. Ackles, she's sustained significant injuries. She's currently unconscious, and we've moved her to intensive care. We're doing everything we can, but... we're not sure if she's going to make it."

The words were a physical blow, sharper and more devastating than any headline. The detached professional who had handled the PR fallout for weeks was replaced by a man utterly undone. The realization of what he truly stood to lose, of the quiet, dignified woman he had taken for granted, crashed down on him with brutal force. He had lost her once, by his own neglect. Now, he might lose her forever.

He didn't call Evelyn. He didn't grab a bag. He didn't even remember to put on a fresh shirt. The only thought in his mind was getting to her. He stumbled out of the house, ignoring the lurking paparazzi, and fumbled for his car keys. The drive was a blur, his foot heavy on the accelerator, every traffic light a personal affront. His phone buzzed relentlessly with calls from Evelyn, but he ignored them all. Nothing mattered but reaching the hospital. The name St. Jude's Hospital echoed in his mind, a place he barely knew, a place miles from their home, the anonymous haven she had sought. He had to get there. Now.

He burst through the automatic doors of St. Jude's Hospital, the sterile air hitting him like a physical shock. The hushed efficiency of the emergency room, usually a chaotic hub, seemed unnervingly calm. He strode to the reception desk, his voice hoarse. "I'm here for Y/N Ackles," he choked out. "Jensen Ackles. I got a call."

The receptionist, a kind-faced woman, recognized his name instantly, her eyes widening with a flicker of concern. She made a quick call, and within moments, a doctor, a man with tired but gentle eyes, appeared.

"Mr. Ackles? Thank you for coming. She's in the ICU."

The doctor led him through a maze of quiet corridors, the muffled beeping of machines and hushed whispers creating an atmosphere of profound solemnity. Each step felt heavy, a growing dread churning in Jensen's gut. The image of her, vibrant and defiant even in her pain, flashed in his mind.

They stopped before a door marked "ICU." The doctor pushed it open, and Jensen stepped inside.

The room was bathed in a soft, artificial light. There, on the bed, was you. So still. So fragile. Wires snaked from beneath the blanket, connecting you to monitors that displayed an array of fluctuating numbers and rhythmic lines. A bandage, stark white, was wrapped around your head, and your face, usually so expressive, was pale and unnaturally still. The silence in the room was punctuated only by the soft, steady beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor.

Jensen felt a sharp, agonizing pang in his chest. This wasn't the strong, resilient woman he had seen walk out of his life. This was someone broken, vulnerable, clinging to life by a thread. He walked to the bedside, his legs feeling like lead. He reached out a trembling hand, hovering just inches above your arm, not daring to touch, as if afraid he might shatter you further. He saw the bruises, the slight swell of injury, and the raw, undeniable truth of what his neglect had wrought.

The doctor's voice, soft and grave, broke the silence. "She's stable for now, Mr. Ackles, but it's touch and go. We're monitoring her closely."

Jensen could only nod, his throat tight, his eyes fixed on your still form. The weight of his loss, of his monumental failure, pressed down on him, suffocating him. He had never truly understood the depth of your pain until now, faced with the terrifying possibility of forever.

His breath hitched, a silent, ragged gasp escaping his lips as he gazed at your still form. The sterile beeping of the machines was a chilling counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of his own heart. He pulled a chair closer to the bedside, its plastic squeak echoing in the quiet room. He wouldn't leave. He couldn't leave. This wasn't a PR event; this was a raw, terrifying reality.

He slowly, carefully, reached out and took your hand, his fingers dwarfing yours. Your skin felt cool, almost translucent. He ran his thumb gently over your knuckles, a silent apology for every cold touch, every absent glance, every moment he had taken you for granted. The image of you, crying silently in the kitchen, then defying him in the driveway, flashed behind his eyes. The words you’d hurled at him – lonely marriage, you have her and I have no one, this is just so cruel – now echoed with a crushing weight of truth. He saw it now, truly saw it, the depth of the pain he had inflicted. Remorse, sharp and agonizing, twisted in his gut.

After a long moment, he pulled out his phone, his hand still clasped around yours. He had to make calls, but this time, not for damage control.

First, his parents. He dialed, his voice thick with unshed tears when his mother answered. "Mom," he choked out, "it's Y/N. She's... she's in the hospital. An accident. It's bad." He relayed the sparse details the doctor had given him, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Next, his fingers hovered over the number for your parents. He dreaded this call more than anything. He, the man who had supposedly loved their daughter, had allowed her to suffer in silence and now, she was fighting for her life alone, miles from home. He swallowed hard, then pressed call. His voice, when he spoke to your father, was a strained whisper of apology and grave news. "Mr. Smith, it's Jensen. I... I'm so sorry. Y/N was in an accident. She's at St. Jude's. She's... unconscious."

Finally, Evelyn. He knew the call would be met with a barrage of questions about his whereabouts, about the PR nightmare. He didn't care. "Evelyn," he said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual power. "I'm at St. Jude's Hospital. Y/N is here. Critical condition. I'm staying. Handle everything else." He didn't wait for her inevitable explosion, simply hung up, his gaze returning to your still form.

He tightened his grip on your hand, a silent vow passing between them. He wouldn't leave. Not now. Not ever again.

Part 4

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[winchesterwild78]

The Arrangement pt 2

Part 1

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: angst, loneliness, pregnancy

A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one. 

This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family. 

Minors DNI 18+

The bright lights of the studio were a familiar torment. Jensen and I sat side-by-side on a plush sofa, a picture of marital bliss for the cameras. My smile was plastered on, a practiced, aching curve of my lips. Jensen, ever the professional, had slipped seamlessly into the role of devoted husband, his hand resting casually on my knee, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at me. It was a performance so convincing, it almost made me forget the cold reality of our mornings.

The interviewer, a perky woman with an overly enthusiastic demeanor, beamed at us. "Six months in! It's simply wonderful to see you two so happy." She gestured grandly between us. "You’ve truly become a fan favorite couple. Everyone wants to know... what's next for the Ackles-Smith union?"

Jensen chuckled, a warm, inviting sound that made my stomach clench. "Well, we're just enjoying this chapter, really," he began, launching into a well-rehearsed spiel about busy schedules and cherishing quiet moments. I nodded along, chiming in with pre-approved anecdotes about our 'shared love' for obscure documentaries and early morning hikes.

Then, the interviewer leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Speaking of the future," she paused, her gaze sweeping between us, "the fans are absolutely buzzing with speculation. With such a strong, loving bond, is there a pitter-patter of tiny feet in your near future? Are we going to see a little Ackles running around soon?"

The question hung in the air, a sudden, jarring note in our carefully composed symphony. My heart leaped into my throat. Tiny feet? A baby? The thought was absurd, cruel even, given the desolate landscape of our actual marriage. I could feel Jensen's hand still on my knee, but it felt like a lead weight. I dared a glance at him. His smile had stiffened, his eyes betraying a flicker of something unreadable – panic? Discomfort?

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. How were we supposed to answer this? How could we even pretend such a possibility existed when our bed was shared by another woman, and my heart was already crumbling into dust?

The interviewer’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "So, a little Ackles running around soon?"

My breath hitched, my eyes darting to Jensen. His hand, still on my knee, remained perfectly still. I felt a subtle tension ripple through him, a tightening of the muscles that only someone as intimately close as a stage-managed spouse might notice. For a split second, I saw a flash of something akin to panic in his eyes, quickly masked.

Then, Jensen’s famous PR training kicked in. He let out a soft, low chuckle, the kind that always charmed audiences. It was a practiced sound, warm and endearing, but it didn't quite reach the deeper notes of genuine amusement. He squeezed my knee, a gesture of faux affection that was purely for the cameras, and turned his gaze to the interviewer.

"Well, you know," he began, his voice smooth and confident, "we're both incredibly blessed with our careers right now. And, of course, with each other." He offered me a quick, fleeting smile that was all surface, no depth. "We're focusing on enjoying this amazing journey we're on, building our foundation, and cherishing every moment." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air, then added with a charming wink, "We'll definitely keep everyone updated if there's any big news on that front. But for now, we're just soaking it all in."

It was a perfectly crafted non-answer, deflecting the question without actually denying anything. It hinted at a future possibility without committing to it, maintaining the illusion of a blissful, thriving marriage. I forced myself to nod along, a silent accomplice in the charade, even as my stomach churned with the bitter irony of his words.

Jensen's perfectly PR-polished answer about "building our foundation" and "cherishing every moment" had successfully navigated the child question, but my stomach remained in knots. I kept my expression neutral, nodding as if in agreement, even as the words felt like ash in my mouth.

Then, the interviewer’s bright gaze swiveled to me, her smile unwavering. "And for you," she began, her voice brimming with a performative empathy, "how has it been, being married to America's most eligible bachelor? And," she leaned in slightly, as if sharing a delightful secret, "the thought of having his children?"

The question hit me like a physical blow, stripping away my carefully constructed composure. America's most eligible bachelor. The title, so celebrated, felt like a brand on my skin, marking me as the woman who'd been chosen for convenience, not desire. The irony was suffocating. His children? The thought was a grotesque mockery. How could I even conceive of a child with a man who shared his bed with another woman, a man whose touch was a performance, whose presence in my life was a constant reminder of my own profound emptiness?

My mind raced, frantically searching for a socially acceptable answer, a way to deflect without shattering the carefully constructed facade. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. I could feel Jensen's subtle shift beside me, a barely perceptible tension that told me he, too, was waiting for my response. The cameras seemed to magnify every flicker of emotion on my face, every slight tremor in my hands.

"It's... it's certainly been an experience," I managed, my voice a little breathless, a little too tight. I forced a weak, wavering smile. "Jensen is, of course, incredibly charming, and dedicated to his work. And to our..." I hesitated, searching for the right word, "partnership." The word tasted like dust.

"As for children," I continued, forcing myself to meet the interviewer's expectant gaze, "it's... it's a big step. A truly profound commitment." I gripped my hands in my lap, trying to project a serene thoughtfulness rather than the swirling chaos within. "And like Jensen said, we're really focusing on building that strong foundation first. Making sure we're truly ready for such a monumental responsibility, both as individuals and as a couple." It was another non-answer, a polite evasion, but it felt like a gargantuan effort to even string the sentences together. My palms were sweating, and I could feel a tremor starting in my fingers. The thought of bearing his child, a child that would be part of a family so fractured and fake, was a suffocating weight.

My evasive answer about "building that strong foundation" seemed to satisfy the interviewer. She offered a bright, approving smile and smoothly shifted the conversation, directing questions towards Jensen about his upcoming filming schedule and then to me about managing public appearances alongside my own work. The tension in my shoulders eased infinitesimally as we navigated the safer waters of professional commitments.

We were deep into a discussion about balancing demanding careers with a "newlywed" life when the interviewer's eyes suddenly widened. She reached up, touching her earpiece, her expression morphing from genial interest to stunned surprise. She nodded, listening intently, her gaze flicking between Jensen and me with an unreadable mix of shock and… something else. Almost pity.

"Hold on a moment," she murmured into her mic, then pulled her hand away from her ear. Her smile was gone, replaced by a look of profound awkwardness. She cleared her throat, her voice dropping, losing its usual perky lilt.

She looked directly at Jensen, then at me, her eyes clouded with an almost apologetic glint. "Jensen, Y/N," she began, her voice hesitant, "I'm just being told... there's a story that has just gone viral on the internet. It's... quite significant, and we need your response immediately."

My blood ran cold. A viral story? Now? My heart began to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I saw Jensen's brow furrow, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his face for the first time in the entire interview.

The interviewer took a deep breath, her gaze settling squarely on Jensen. "Isabella just gave an interview," she announced, her voice flat with a sort of morbid disbelief. "And she told everyone... she's pregnant. With your baby."

The words hung in the air, a grotesque echo in the brightly lit studio. The comfortable hum of the cameras suddenly felt like a roar. My breath hitched, a gasp trapped in my throat. The room spun. Pregnant. With his baby. My vision blurred at the edges, the carefully constructed world of our fake marriage shattering into a million sharp, undeniable pieces.

The interviewer's words hung in the air, a cruel, undeniable truth. "Isabella just gave an interview... she's pregnant. With your baby."

My head snapped towards Jensen. His eyes, usually so carefully guarded, were wide with a raw, unadulterated shock that mirrored my own. For the first time, I saw genuine fear in them, not just the practiced discomfort of a celebrity caught off-guard. His carefully constructed facade had crumbled, revealing the man beneath, trapped and exposed.

My throat went bone dry, every muscle in my body seizing. The air in the studio seemed to thicken, making it impossible to breathe. The bright lights felt like a spotlight on my sudden, brutal agony. The distant hum of the cameras suddenly sounded like a roaring judgment.

The interviewer, her face now etched with professional urgency, leaned forward. "Jensen, Y/N," she pressed, her voice unwavering despite the palpable tension. "We need a response. Immediately."

The world tilted, the air thick with the unspoken truth. Isabella was pregnant. With Jensen's baby. My eyes were locked on his, seeing the raw panic mirroring my own, before the interviewer's demand for a response snapped us back to the searing reality of the studio.

Just as the interviewer opened her mouth to press us again, a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the stunned silence. "That's enough for today."

Jensen's manager, a stern woman named Evelyn, strode into the frame from off-camera, her face a mask of controlled fury. She didn't spare a glance for the interviewer, her focus entirely on us. "We will look into this matter and issue an official statement later today," she announced, her voice leaving no room for argument. "The interview is over."

She didn't wait for a reply. Her hand was suddenly on Jensen's arm, tugging him firmly to his feet. Before I could even fully register the sudden shift, her other hand was on my back, ushering me off the sofa with surprising force. The lights of the studio seemed to glare even brighter as Evelyn practically herded us away, past the stunned interviewer and the silent crew.

The last thing I heard before the door swung shut behind us was the interviewer's voice, barely a whisper: "Cut the feed."

We were practically shoved into the waiting black SUV, the leather seats cold against my trembling legs. The door slammed shut with a definitive thud, cutting off the lingering chaos of the studio. Evelyn slid into the front passenger seat, her posture rigid, a phone already pressed to her ear, speaking in hushed, urgent tones.

The driver, a discreet man named Frank, pulled away from the curb smoothly, the city traffic a blur outside the tinted windows. Inside the car, the air was thick, suffocatingly so, with a silence that screamed louder than any argument. Jensen was beside me, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitching. Not once did he look at me. Not once did he acknowledge the shattered remains of my composure. I stared straight ahead, a hollow ache where my heart used to be, the reality of Isabella's pregnancy a relentless hammer against my temples.

The drive home was a blur of quiet dread. Each mile brought us closer to the house that had become my gilded cage, a place where a woman I was forced to call my husband openly loved another.

When Frank finally pulled up to the imposing gates of the estate, the familiar ironwork seemed to mock me. Evelyn was out of the car almost before it stopped, already on a new call, her voice a low, furious murmur. Jensen followed her, his stride long and purposeful, still not looking at me. I lingered for a moment, gathering what little dignity I had left, before stepping out into the cool evening air.

We gathered in the sprawling, impersonal living room, a space that felt more like a hotel lobby than a home. Evelyn hung up her phone, her face grim, her eyes like chips of ice. She didn't mince words.

"This is a disaster," Evelyn stated, her voice sharp and precise, cutting through the heavy silence. She looked directly at Jensen, her gaze unwavering. "Jensen, what the hell happened? You assured me she was discreet, that this was handled." Her voice dropped to a furious whisper. "A live interview? Announcing a pregnancy? Do you have any idea what kind of damage control this is going to require?"

Then her gaze flickered to me, a momentary pause, before returning to Jensen. "We have less than an hour before every major news outlet has this as their lead story. Our legal team is already drafting statements. We're going to deny, deny, deny. Call it a malicious rumor, a desperate attempt for attention on her part. But this is going to be messy. Very, very messy."

She ran a hand through her short, practical hair. "Your image is paramount. We need a solid, impenetrable front. That means you two," she gestured between Jensen and me, "need to be seen together, looking united, devastated by this 'slanderous accusation.'" Her eyes were cold, calculating. "We need to sell the world on your unshakable love more than ever. And I mean ever."

Evelyn's words, "We need to sell the world on your unshakable love more than ever. And I mean ever," hung in the air, a grotesque echo of the lie we lived. My heart, already shattered into a million pieces by Isabella's brutal announcement, felt the full, crushing weight of this loveless marriage. All the carefully constructed walls I'd built around my pain crumbled.

A scoff escaped my lips before I could stop it. It was a raw, involuntary sound, laced with a bitter mix of disbelief and utter despair. It wasn't meant for Evelyn, not really. It was a reaction to the sheer absurdity of the situation, to the cruel cosmic joke that was my life. The sound was small, but in the suffocating silence of the room, it felt like a thunderclap.

Evelyn's sharp gaze immediately snapped to me, her eyes narrowing. Jensen, who had been staring blankly at a spot on the wall, finally turned his head, his own eyes now fixed on my face. The weight of their combined stares was almost unbearable.

Evelyn's sharp gaze immediately snapped to me, her eyes narrowing at my involuntary scoff. For a fleeting second, I thought she might tear into me, demand an explanation for my insubordination. But her focus was too laser-sharp on the crisis at hand, her fury reserved for the monumental mess Isabella had created.

Instead of acknowledging my defiance directly, Evelyn's mouth thinned into a grim line, and she turned her steely gaze back to Jensen, effectively dismissing my emotional outburst. Her voice dropped, becoming even more clipped and imperative.

"This isn't just about denials, Jensen," Evelyn stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We need to counter this with an overwhelming display of devotion. Authenticity, even if it's manufactured." She paused, then delivered the next directive like a cold, calculated blow. "You need to start posting candid pictures. Immediately. Pictures of you two," she gestured between us, her hand sweeping dismissively in my direction, "laughing, holding hands, looking in love. Not just posed red carpet shots. Everyday moments. Breakfast, walking the dog, watching a movie. We need to flood social media with your 'unbreakable bond'."

She looked at Jensen, her eyes boring into his. "Real, unscripted moments. Make them believe it. Make them feel it. We need to bury this 'pregnant girlfriend' story under an avalanche of marital bliss."

Evelyn's demand for "candid" posts, for manufactured intimacy, felt like the final, unbearable straw. My heart, already a mosaic of fractured pain, simply couldn't take any more.

Jensen, his face still pale but hardening into a familiar resolve, met Evelyn's gaze. "Understood," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of any warmth. "I'll get on it." The words were an agreement, a surrender to the relentless machinery of his public life.

But I couldn't. I simply couldn't. The thought of feigning tenderness, of smiling into a camera lens while my soul was screaming, was abhorrent. My legs, which felt like lead just moments ago, suddenly propelled me forward. I pushed myself up from the sofa, the movement stiff and ungraceful.

"I can't," I whispered, the word a raw, guttural sound that was barely audible even to myself. I didn't wait for a response, didn't look at either of them. My eyes were fixed on the doorway, my only escape. The opulent living room, with its heavy drapes and polished surfaces, felt like a cage closing in. I had to get out. I had to breathe.

With a desperate surge of adrenaline, I turned and practically ran from the room, the sounds of Evelyn's sharp intake of breath and Jensen's stunned silence fading behind me as I bolted towards the solitude of my own desperate corner of the house.

The familiar click of my bedroom door shutting behind me was the only sound I wanted to hear. The opulent space, meant to be a sanctuary, had always felt more like a luxurious prison. Now, it was just a temporary staging ground for my escape. Evelyn's words, Jensen's agreement, the thought of smiling for fake "candid" photos while Isabella carried his child – it all coalesced into a single, overwhelming truth: I couldn't do this anymore. This was the final straw that broke me.

My hands moved almost mechanically, driven by a raw, primal need to flee. I pulled a duffel bag from the back of my closet, the one I used for quick trips, and started stuffing clothes into it indiscriminately. A few pairs of jeans, a couple of sweaters, a t-shirt. I grabbed my passport, my wallet, and my phone. No jewelry, no designer clothes, nothing that tied me to this gilded cage. I didn't care about the PR marriage anymore, not about the carefully constructed image, not about the fallout. My heart had shattered, and the pieces were too small to mend, too sharp to ignore. All that mattered was getting out.

The bag was light, reflecting the few material things I truly valued now. I zipped it shut, the sound a small victory. Taking a deep, trembling breath, I walked towards the bedroom door, then down the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing unnaturally loud in the silent house. Each step was a defiance, a reclaiming of myself.

As I reached the grand foyer, the massive front door looming like a gateway to freedom, I saw them. Evelyn stood near the living room entrance, phone still to her ear, her face etched with a fresh wave of frustration. Jensen was a few feet away, leaning against the archway, his arms crossed, his gaze distant.

They both looked up, simultaneously, as I reached the door. Evelyn's eyes widened, dropping her phone arm slowly. Jensen's head lifted, his jaw slacked, his expression morphing from detached pensiveness to utter disbelief. My duffel bag, clutched in my hand, was all the explanation they needed.

"What do you think you're doing?" Evelyn's voice, though hushed, carried the sharp edge of a razor. Jensen just stared, his eyes wide and unreadable.

I didn't answer. I just reached for the doorknob, the cool metal, a promise of liberation.

I yanked the heavy front door open, the cool evening air a jolt against my skin. My heels clicked rapidly across the flagstone path, the duffel bag thumping against my hip with each desperate stride. I fumbled for my car keys, the metal cold and slick in my trembling hand. The familiar gleam of my old, reliable sedan, parked discreetly at the side of the sprawling driveway, felt like a beacon of hope.

Just as my fingers wrapped around the car door handle, I heard them.

"Wait! Get back here!" Evelyn's voice, sharp and furious, cut through the quiet night.

I glanced over my shoulder. They were hot on my heels. Evelyn, her face contorted with a mixture of disbelief and strategic panic, was power-walking across the gravel. Jensen was right beside her, his long strides easily closing the distance, his eyes wide and unreadable in the dim light. They looked like a perfectly orchestrated pursuit, the publicist and the celebrity, but this time, the target was me.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of impending freedom. I ripped open the car door, threw the duffel bag onto the passenger seat, and practically dove into the driver's seat.

"Don't you dare!" Jensen's voice, raw and desperate, reached me just as my hand found the ignition.

My hand twisted the key in the ignition, and with a satisfying growl, the engine roared to life. The familiar vibration of the car beneath me was a tangible connection to my freedom, a defiant heartbeat against the chaos unfolding around me.

"Don't you dare!" Jensen's voice, raw and desperate, cut through the night just as the engine caught.

I looked up, my breath catching in my throat. He was no longer just beside Evelyn; he had moved. Jensen stood directly in front of the car, bathed in the sudden glare of my headlights, his silhouette stark against the dark house. His arms were spread slightly, a human barrier, his face a mask of desperation and something unreadable.

Evelyn skidded to a halt beside him, her chest heaving, her expression a mix of fury and genuine alarm. "Get out of the car!" she practically shrieked, her voice losing all professional composure. "You are making a monumental mistake!"

But my eyes were fixed on Jensen. He was a wall, an obstacle to my escape, a living embodiment of everything I was running from. The cold, empty marriage; the public charade; Isabella's pregnancy; the crushing weight of a life not my own. It all coalesced into a fierce, blinding anger.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles white. My voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady, a low, dangerous growl. "Move, Jensen."

I didn't ask. I commanded.

Part 3

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[winchesterwild78]

The Arrangement

Master List

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, infidelity, arranged marriage

A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one. 

This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family. 

Minors DNI 18+

The ornate invitation, thick with gilded script, felt like a death sentence in my hands. Jensen Ackles. The name shimmered, famous and impossibly handsome, but carried the weight of a life not my own. Our families, both prominent in the entertainment industry, had orchestrated this. Not for love, but for PR, for image, for damage control after some whispered scandal I wasn't privy to. I knew, even before the ink dried on the pre-nup, that this would be a loveless marriage. It broke me before it even began.

The wedding itself was a blur of flashing cameras and forced smiles. Jensen, polite but distant, barely met my eyes. He had a girlfriend, a beautiful actress whose name I’d only seen in tabloids, and he made it clear she wasn't going anywhere. My heart, still foolishly clinging to the hope of connection, ached with a dull, constant throb.

The honeymoon was a cruel joke. A sprawling villa in Tuscany, designed for romance, became a monument to my solitude. Jensen spent most of his time on calls, or away, presumably with her. I explored ancient cobblestone streets alone, ate gourmet meals across an empty table, and cried silent tears into opulent silk pillows.

Back home, in the house that was now ours but never truly mine, the loneliness deepened. Our lives were separate, intersecting only for public appearances, where we’d play the part of the happy couple. But behind closed doors, a chasm yawned between us.

Then came the nights when the chasm wasn't enough. He started bringing her to the house. Not subtly, not sneaking around, but openly, as if daring me to protest. I'd hear their laughter echoing from the living room, her sweet voice mingling with his deep rumble. My stomach would clench. My breath would catch. And then, the undeniable sounds of them, just doors away. Sharing what should have been our marital bed.

Those nights, the guest room became my sanctuary, my prison. I’d lie awake, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, the cold air seeping into my bones. The irony was a bitter taste: I was married to a man who shared his bed, his life, his love, with someone else, all while I was a phantom in my own home.

The old house groaned around me, a symphony of settling timber and whispering drafts. It was sometime in the dead of night, the kind of hour where shadows played tricks and silence felt heavy. I couldn't sleep, not with the faint, unsettling sounds from the master bedroom echoing in my ears. Pushing myself from the lonely expanse of the guest bed, I wandered to the kitchen, a phantom in my own home.

The moon, full and indifferent, poured silver light through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the cold air. I leaned against the counter, the cool granite a small comfort against the heat of my shame and sorrow. A single, silent tear tracked a path down my cheek, then another, and another. My throat ached with unshed sobs, a physical manifestation of the crushing weight on my chest. I hugged myself, as if to physically hold my breaking heart together.

"Can't sleep?"

The voice, deep and startling, shattered the quiet. I flinched, my eyes snapping open to find Jensen standing in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the softer light of the hallway. He was dressed in sweats, his hair mussed, looking more human and less like the polished celebrity I was forced to call my husband. My breath hitched, and I quickly swiped at my face, a pathetic attempt to hide the evidence of my grief.

He stepped further into the room, the moonlight catching the slight furrow in his brow. He saw it, of course. The streaks on my cheeks, the redness around my eyes, the tremble in my lower lip I couldn't quite control. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – surprise? Discomfort? Pity? I couldn't tell, and frankly, I didn't want to know.

"Are you... okay?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost tentative.

The question hung in the air, mocking me. Was I okay? Married to a stranger, living in a gilded cage, my husband sharing his bed with another woman while I cried myself to sleep in a guest room. No, I wasn't okay. Not even close. But I couldn't say any of that. The words were trapped, choked by the lump in my throat. I just shook my head, a slow, desolate movement, and another tear escaped, tracing a path I was too tired to wipe away.

His question, "Are you... okay?" was a cruel echo in the vast, silent kitchen. How could he even ask? Did he truly not see the shattered pieces of me scattered across this cold floor, illuminated by the unforgiving moonlight? My feelings were a tangled mess, a suffocating knot of humiliation, despair, and a raw, aching loneliness.

Humiliation burned brightest. To be caught like this, exposed and vulnerable, by the very man who was the architect of my misery. He had a girlfriend, a beautiful, vibrant woman he openly loved, and here I was, his supposed wife, a tear-stained ghost in the middle of the night. Every cell in my body screamed in protest at the indignity of it all. I felt like a pathetic cliché, the discarded wife, and his mere presence amplified that feeling to an unbearable degree.

Then there was the despair, thick and heavy like the night air. This wasn't just about a bad marriage; it was about the death of a dream I hadn't even realized I held. The dream of a partner, of connection, of warmth in a shared life. That dream had been suffocated before it could even breathe, replaced by this barren reality. Each silent tear was a drop of pure sorrow, mourning a future that would never be.

And the loneliness. Oh, the profound, desolate loneliness. It was a physical ache in my chest, a hollowness that no amount of grand house or expensive wedding could fill. To be so close to someone, sharing a name, a home, a public facade, yet to be utterly, completely alone in my pain. He was standing right there, looking at me, but he might as well have been a million miles away. His question, though perhaps well-intentioned, felt like a chasm opening between us, highlighting the vast, unbridgeable distance.

There was also a tiny, desperate flicker of resentment. Resentment that he got to have it all – the fame, the woman he loved, and the convenient PR marriage – while I was left with the wreckage. Resentment that he seemed so oblivious to the devastation he had wrought, or perhaps, simply indifferent.

I couldn't speak. The words would have come out as shattered fragments, choked by tears and anger. So I just shook my head, a silent acknowledgment of my brokenness, hoping that in that simple gesture, he might grasp the immensity of what I was feeling, even if I couldn't articulate it.

He stood there for a long moment, watching me, his silhouette framed by the moonlight. I braced myself for something – an apology, an explanation, anything. Instead, a soft, almost melancholic smile touched his lips. It wasn't a genuine smile, not one that reached his eyes, but a fleeting, distant expression that offered no comfort, no understanding. He didn't say a word, just held my gaze for another beat, then slowly turned and walked back into the shadows of the hallway, his footsteps fading as he ascended the grand staircase.

The click of the master bedroom door closing was a definitive, brutal sound. It was the final nail in the coffin of my shattered hope, a punctuation mark to the end of any illusion that he might care, even a little. The air in the kitchen, already cold, seemed to drop several degrees.

A ragged, uncontrollable sob tore its way from my chest, hot and violent, unlike the silent tears that had preceded it. It was a primal sound of raw pain, of utter desolation. I crumpled against the counter, my knees giving out, and slid to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself in a desperate attempt to contain the torrent of grief. The moonlight, once soft and ethereal, now felt like a spotlight on my humiliation, my brokenness, my profound, aching loneliness. He had seen me, truly seen me, and offered nothing but a hollow smile before retreating to the arms of the woman he loved. And that, more than anything, was the most painful truth of all.

The next morning, the kitchen felt strangely quiet, the early light doing little to dispel the lingering chill from the night. I was nursing a mug of lukewarm tea, my eyes gritty from lack of sleep, trying to construct some semblance of normalcy for the day ahead. The taste of the tea was bitter, a fitting parallel to the taste in my mouth. I had scrubbed my face raw, trying to erase the evidence of last night's breakdown, but the ache in my chest remained.

Then I heard it. The familiar murmur of voices, growing louder as they approached the kitchen. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. I gripped the mug tighter, my knuckles white. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

The double doors swung open, and they stepped in, bathed in the gentle morning light. Jensen, looking impossibly put-together even in a casual t-shirt and jeans, his eyes a little tired but otherwise betraying nothing. And beside him, she. Her name was Isabella, a cascade of sun-kissed hair and a smile that seemed to radiate genuine happiness. She was dressed in one of Jensen's shirts, too big for her, making her look endearingly rumpled and utterly at home.

They were laughing about something, a shared intimacy that felt like a physical blow. Isabella leaned her head on Jensen’s shoulder, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his arm. They looked like a couple in a magazine spread, effortlessly beautiful and deeply connected. The air crackled with their comfortable presence, a stark contrast to the brittle silence that usually surrounded me.

Jensen’s gaze flickered to me, a brief, unreadable glance before it slid away. Isabella, however, offered a bright, almost apologetic smile. "Good morning!" she chirped, her voice warm and friendly, making the knife twist deeper. "Did you sleep well?"

The question was innocent, yet it felt like a barb, a cruel reminder of my lonely night. I managed a tight, polite nod, unable to force words past the lump in my throat. I watched as Jensen moved to the coffee machine, his movements fluid and familiar, while Isabella went to the fridge, their morning routine already seamlessly intertwined. They were playing house, in my house, in what was supposed to be our home.

Isabella's bright "Good morning!" and her innocent, "Did you sleep well?" twisted the knife deeper. Did I sleep well? The words echoed in my mind, dripping with bitter irony. How could I sleep well when my husband was in the next room, sharing our marital bed with another woman? My throat tightened, a wave of nausea washing over me. Every fiber of my being screamed at the injustice, the sheer audacity of their blatant happiness in my space. The humiliation was a physical ache, a hot flush that spread across my cheeks. I wanted to scream, to shatter the idyllic scene they were creating, to expose the sham of our marriage. But the words caught in my throat, choked by a cocktail of despair and fury.

I forced a tight, brittle smile, a mask I'd perfected over these six months. "Good morning," I managed, my voice barely a whisper. My gaze, however, found Jensen. He was pouring coffee, his back to me, seemingly oblivious to the radiating pain in the room. This was it, the perfect moment to remind him. The only leverage I had in this twisted arrangement was the carefully constructed public image we presented.

"Jensen," my voice, though still quiet, held an edge of steel. He paused, mug in hand, and slowly turned to face me. His eyes, usually so expressive on screen, were unreadable. "Don't forget," I continued, making sure my voice carried, "we have that interview later today. The one about 'our journey' and 'our wonderful first six months of marriage.'"

The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. Isabella, who had been reaching for a fruit bowl, froze, her hand hovering in mid-air. Her bright smile faltered, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before she quickly composed herself. Jensen's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and his eyes, for a fleeting moment, met mine with a sharp, cold glint. The unspoken challenge was clear between us: We have a show to put on. And I was just the unfortunate co-star. 

Part 2

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[winchesterwild78]

Crazy

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x F!Reader

Summary: Jensen is trying to work but you love to drive him crazy.

Warnings: Smut. Oral (M Receiving). Dom!Jensen. Semi-Public (In Front Of Others Without Them Knowing). Rough Sex. Slapping. Some Pet names. No Use Of Y/N.

A/N: We were being very horny in a gc with some friends of mine and we started talking about this scenario, so I had to write it. Also ignore the stupid dates and random words, I just threw like big meeting words in it.

masterlist — taglist

Jensen sat back in his chair, the screen of his laptop casting cool blue light across his face.

He looked effortless — one arm resting on the desk, the other lazily curled near his chin, fingers brushing his jaw while his agent and the showrunner rattled off potential dates for the next month of production.

“We’re tentatively thinking the 10th through the 24th,” the showrunner said. "You good with that?"

“Depends on flights,” Jensen replied, tone smooth, even. “And whether I get a bed that isn’t moving for more than two days.” His voice was calm and professional.

You entered the room without a word.

You didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t speak.

You just sank slowly to your knees and slid beneath the desk between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body through his joggers.

He didn’t look down.

But his thigh twitched the moment your fingers brushed the inside of it.

Still, he kept talking.

“If we’re going into press immediately after the shoot,” he said, “I want my call times locked by the 5th.”

Your hands slid higher, slow, steady, deliberate.

He clicked mute.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he muttered, low and sharp.

Your mouth was already on him.

You pressed your lips right where he was already starting to harden beneath the soft fabric of his joggers. His hips shifted — reflex, not choice. His knuckles tightened against the desk.

You smiled. And kissed him again.

"You're fucking crazy, y'know that?" He murmured.

You traced the shape of him with your mouth, kissing slow and patient, until he was fully hard and straining against the fabric. Then your fingers hooked his waistband, tugged it down just enough to free him.

Thick. Hot. Already leaking.

You wrapped your hand around him and stroked once, slow and tight.

Then took him into your mouth.

He didn’t breathe for a second. Then he let out a low, harsh exhale and clicked back to unmute.

“If we push press to the week after, I can flex the 29th and 30th,” he said, his voice raspier now, just a hair off. “But I need confirmation by end of day.”

You swallowed him deeper.

His hand slid under the desk and into your hair. Not guiding. Just holding. Anchoring. Like he needed the contact to survive the storm you were pulling him into.

You sucked him slow and deep, your rhythm perfect, your tongue circling with precision. He tried to stay still. Tried to keep the mask on. But his thighs flexed, his hand trembled, and you could feel how badly he wanted to lose control.

Muted again.

“You keep going like that,” he growled, “and I’m gonna come all over your tongue with three people still watching me.”

You moaned around him.

His cock twitched hard in your mouth.

“You like that?” he said, breath breaking. “Knowing they’re listening while you take me apart under the desk?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your mouth was too full, too busy wrecking him inch by inch.

He clicked unmute again, barely hanging on.

“Uh...yeah,” he said, voice rough, strained. “I’m good with that.”

No one on the call noticed. They had no idea what was going on beneath the camera.

But you felt everything. The way his muscles tensed, the heat building fast beneath his skin, the way his hips started to roll against your mouth, searching for friction he knew he shouldn’t chase.

Muted.

“Fuck. I’m gonna—”

And then he did.

He came with a stifled groan, hand clamped over his mouth, thighs shaking around you as his cock pulsed his hot cum against your tongue. You swallowed every drop, held him there, let him ride it out while he came completely undone.

The meeting ended with a quiet click.

And then silence.

His chest rose and fell. He looked down at you.

Eyes dark. Mouth parted.

“Get out from under that desk,” he said, “and bend the fuck over it.”

You didn’t even get the chance to stand.

Jensen grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you out from under the desk, his grip firm, possessive, not cruel, but firm. He was done pretending to keep it together. The moment that meeting ended, he snapped.

“You want to act like a little fucking distraction,” he growled, voice low and dangerous, “then you’re gonna take what you fucking asked for.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he turned you around and shoved you down onto the desk. Papers scattered. Your hands hit the wood hard, legs trembling.

He didn’t undress you carefully. He yanked your pants down fast, rough, baring you completely, his palm dragging across your ass as he kicked your legs farther apart.

“Stay there. Don’t move.”

The warning in his voice was sharp enough to sting. He wasn't playing around any longer.

You heard the sound of his joggers hitting the floor, and then he shoved inside, thick and deep, in one brutal thrust.

You cried out, your hands clawing at the edge of the desk. He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask. Didn’t soothe.

He just grabbed your hips and started using you.

His pace was relentless, deep, pounding thrusts that sent the desk rattling under your body, your breath punched out of you with every slam. His fingers dug into your waist, holding you in place like he owned you. You are his.

“Thought you were so fucking clever, huh baby girl?" he snarled, fucking you harder. “Sitting under that desk, moaning around my cock while I’m trying to talk.”

You tried to answer but couldn’t.

He reached up, grabbed your hair, yanked your head back just enough to growl in your ear.

“You wanted my attention, yeah? Like the little slut you are," His hips slammed forward. “Now you’ve got all of it.”

You choked out a gasp, pleasure blooming fast inside you. Your body was already close, already raw and wet from everything before, and now he was wrecking you, ruining you with each punishing thrust.

“You’re dripping,” he hissed. “You fucking like this, huh? My fucking slut."

You nodded frantically, your voice broken. “Yes. God, yes—”

He smacked your ass hard.

“Louder.”

“Yes, Jensen—!”

His hand wrapped around your throat and pinned you flat against the desk, his body caging you in while he thrust deeper, angrier. His cock filled you completely, slamming into that spot that made you scream.

“Good girl,” he growled. “You don’t get to be quiet now.”

You came first, back arching, breath breaking, your orgasm crashing through you so violently your knees gave out. But he held you up. Fucked you through it.

And he didn’t stop.

Not until you were whimpering and pleading under him.

Only then did his rhythm falter. His grip tightened. A vicious growl ripped out of his chest as he came, hard, deep inside you, every muscle locked down as he emptied himself with a final punishing thrust that left you gasping.

Then silence. Just your bodies. Breathless. Sweat-covered. His cock still inside you. His hand still holding you down.

Then his voice, ragged and low against your ear.

“You want to pull that stunt again?” he breathed. “Next time, I won’t be this nice.”

A/N: I went to SPN NJ this past Sunday and I miss it so much. Jensen and Jared give such good hugs. Ugh I miss them.

tags: @animelucky @mystic-writings @magster196 @soldierboysdoll @caplanbuckybarnes @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @mostlymarvelgirl @waynes-multiverse @deanspookiebear @multiversefanfics @chevroletdean @skywalker0809 @winchesterwild78 @cas-is-my-angel7

[winchesterwild78]

Cracked Reflection

Master List

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: body insecurities, angst, sadness

A/N: I’ve been away dealing with life. Really stuck in my head lately. I went to the Jersey Con this past weekend and I had a great time. However, my insecurities started to play in my head. I’ve been on a VERY long journey of trying to love myself, lose weight, and just accept all of me. It’s been hard. I honestly felt really good about myself, then the photo ops. The photos started to crack away at my acceptance of myself. I wrote this to help…it helped a little. 

Minors DNI 18+

The fluorescent lights of the convention center hummed, a stark contrast to the thrumming excitement in Y/N’s chest. Today was her birthday, and it felt like a rebirth in more ways than one. Months of disciplined eating and grueling workouts had paid off. She’d shed some weight that had clung to her for years, the weight that had fueled her deepest insecurities. She’d even splurged on a new, form-fitting Supernatural-themed shirt for the occasion – a subtle nod to her fandom and a bold declaration of her newfound confidence. Her friends, bless their supportive hearts, had gushed over how amazing she looked all morning. And for the first time in a long time, Y/N believed them.

The Supernatural convention was a sensory overload of cosplayers, fan art, and the electric buzz of shared obsession. Y/N felt like she was floating, riding a wave of exhilaration. She posed for dozens of pictures with her friends, laughing freely, striking playful stances. Each click of the camera felt like a tiny victory. This was it. She’d done it. She was finally comfortable in her own skin.

Then the first batch of pictures started appearing on the photo op table. Y/N searched through them for her pictures, a knot forming in her stomach. She found the first one, a wide shot of her and her friends in front of a “Moose and Squirrel” banner. Her breath hitched. All she saw was the slight curve of her stomach, the way her arm seemed to bulge just a little, the harsh angle of her jaw. It was like looking at a stranger, a stranger who had somehow stolen her excitement and replaced it with a familiar, gnawing shame.

“You look amazing!” her friend said. Y/N stared at the picture, then back at her friend. How could they see that? All she saw were the flaws, magnified and glaring. Every triumph she’d felt moments before shriveled into dust. Her smile faltered.

The day wore on, each new photo a fresh wound. She tried to dismiss them, to tell herself it was just bad lighting or an unflattering angle, but the old voices in her head were back, louder than ever. You’re still not good enough, thin enough, pretty enough. You’ll never truly be happy with yourself.

The moment for her Jensen Ackles photo op arrived. This was it, the highlight of her birthday weekend, the culmination of her fandom dreams. She’d planned her pose, a simple hug pose. She stepped forward, her heart thumping, meeting his kind eyes. He smiled, that famous crooked grin, and she felt a flicker of the earlier joy. The flash went off.

Later, huddled in a quiet corner, Y/N finally looked at the picture. There he was, Jensen, looking impossibly perfect. And there she was, next to him, all her perceived imperfections screaming for attention. Her carefully chosen outfit suddenly felt too tight, her smile too forced, her face too round and pronounced double chin. The image was a cruel mirror, reflecting every insecurity she thought she’d conquered. A hot, stinging wave of tears welled in her eyes, blurring the picture. She bit her lip, trying to hold them back, but it was useless. A sob tore through her, raw and uncontrolled.

Her friends rushed to her side, their voices a concerned murmur. “What’s wrong, Y/N? You look great, really!” But their words couldn’t penetrate the wall of self-loathing that had just crashed down around her. She buried her face in her hands, the sobs racking her body.

A ripple went through the crowd. Whispers reached her ears, then a warm, comforting hand on her shoulder. She looked up, her vision still blurry with tears, to see Jensen Ackles kneeling beside her, his expression filled with genuine concern.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice even more soothing in person. “Are you okay?”

Y/N could only shake her head, fresh tears streaming down her face. She felt mortified, exposed, but his gaze was unwavering, compassionate.

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice gentle but firm, “we’re our own harshest critics. And sometimes, what we see isn’t what everyone else sees. You’re beautiful, exactly as you are.” He paused, offering a small, reassuring smile. “And you know what? That was a really great pose.”

His words, simple yet profound, began to chip away at the fortress of her despair. She still saw the flaws, but for the first time, she also saw the kindness in his eyes, the genuine care. And maybe, just maybe, her friends weren't just being nice. Maybe they actually saw what he saw.

Y/N sniffled, her gaze still fixed on the floor. "Thank you, Jensen," she choked out, her voice raspy. "That… that means a lot." But even as the words left her mouth, they felt hollow. His kindness was a balm, but it couldn't erase the burning image of the photo from her mind, or the bitter taste of disappointment that coated her tongue. She managed a weak, watery smile, trying to convey gratitude, but the chasm of her insecurity felt just as wide, just as impossible to cross. She was grateful for his empathy, truly, but it was like trying to patch a gaping wound with a band-aid. The pain was still there, throbbing and raw.

Jensen, ever perceptive, seemed to understand. He didn't push, didn't offer more platitudes. He simply squeezed her shoulder gently. "Take your time," he said, his voice quiet. "Be kind to yourself." Then, with a nod to her friends, he rose and gave her a moment of privacy.

Her friends enveloped her in a group hug, their comforting words a soft murmur against her ears. But even their unwavering support, which she knew came from a place of genuine love, couldn't pierce the fog of her self-criticism. She felt like a fraud, a person who had spent months building herself up, only to crumble at the sight of a few pixels. The convention, once a beacon of joy, now felt like a cruel spotlight, illuminating every perceived flaw. She knew they saw a happy, confident woman, but all she could see was the ghost of her former self, whispering doubts in her ear.

The journey home was a blur of muted colors and hushed conversations. Y/N sat by the window, the passing scenery a meaningless smudge. Her friends tried to engage her, their voices soft and concerned, but her responses were monosyllabic, her gaze distant. She felt hollowed out, a deflated balloon that had soared so high only to crash spectacularly. The vibrant energy of the convention, the triumphant feeling of her birthday, had been replaced by a pervasive numbness, a heavy cloak of disappointment that settled deep in her bones.

Back in the quiet sanctuary of her house, the silence pressed in on her. She walked through the familiar rooms like a ghost, touching nothing, seeing everything through a film of sorrow. The celebratory balloons her friends had left that morning seemed to mock her from the corner of the living room. Her new shirt, still draped over a chair from her hurried undressing, looked like a costume from a play that had gone horribly wrong.

She wanted to cry, to scream, to release the torrent of pain that churned within her, but the tears wouldn't come. It was a cold, hard ache, a kind of brokenness that settled deep in her chest. She scrolled through her phone, past the untouched convention photos, past the smiling selfies from just this morning, until she found the picture with Jensen. She stared at it again, the familiar self-loathing bubbling up. It wasn't just the picture; it was the entire experience, the entire effort she had put in, feeling like it had all been for nothing.

Sleep offered no escape. Her dreams were fragmented, filled with flashes of the convention, of her reflection in every shiny surface, of Jensen's kind, concerned eyes seeing her deepest shame. She woke feeling as though she hadn't slept at all, the emotional exhaustion weighing her down more than any physical fatigue.

The next few days were a quiet struggle. She went through the motions of her routine, but her movements were sluggish, her thoughts preoccupied. Her appetite vanished, and the idea of working out, which had once been a source of empowerment, now felt like a cruel joke. What was the point if she was still going to see only flaws? She found herself avoiding mirrors, pulling on oversized clothes, and flinching whenever her phone pinged with a new notification, dreading the sight of another picture.

Her friends called, messaged, and even stopped by, offering comfort and trying to coax her out of her shell. She appreciated their efforts, she truly did, but she couldn't articulate the depth of her despair. How could she explain that the very thing she had celebrated – her body, her progress – had become the source of her renewed agony? It wasn't just about a few bad photos; it was about the crushing realization that the internal landscape of her self-worth remained stubbornly unchanged, despite all her external efforts. She was pushing through the pain, yes, but it was a quiet, internal battle, fought on a battlefield of mirrors and memories, and she felt desperately, profoundly alone in it.

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[winchesterwild78]

20 Years of Friendship and Cons

Masterlist

Chapter 3

Characters: Jensen Ackles x Reader, Readers best friend, Danneel (Mentioned), Jensen’s Handler

Warnings: Losing a family member, grief and lots of tears

This is a work of fiction and does not depict real life. Jensen is Married in this Story but on the verge of Divorce from Danneel.

All work is my own, please don't take it or use it, Reblogs and likes are appreciated.

Sunday morning arrived and Jensen woke up first. As he sat up in the bed he saw Y/N and Shannon had both fallen asleep in his room. One on the couch and the other on the floor. He realized that after the nightmare and panic attack they hadn’t left him, and the thought of that made him smile. I need to grab a quick shower before everything starts. He thought to himself as he got up. 

Jensen grabbed clothes from his bag and headed for the shower. As he got in he let the water run down his back. He started thinking about everything that’s happened since yesterday morning, the phone call, Danneel leaving and taking the kids, and  the panic attacks. He couldn’t believe that in one day his life went to hell so quickly. Then he realized the one good thing that came out of this trainwreck was Y/N and Shannon. They were there for him and they stayed with him so he wasn’t alone last night. This was something new for him because Danneel always left when he needed her the most, and she didn’t seem to care when he had panic attacks. Now he had two people that were there for him, two people that cared that he had panic attacks. They took the time to ground him and help him through those attacks and be there for him. He smiled to himself and finished his shower.

In the next room Shannon rolled over on the couch and saw Jensen was gone. Then she heard him in the shower. She decided to get up and order breakfast for herself, Jensen and Y/N. Grabbing the hotel phone she placed an order for room service. As she ended the call, she started thinking about everything that happened yesterday, starting with the upgraded rooms, finding out Jensen was missing, finding him and talking him down from his panic attack. Even staying in his room for the night. Which led her to this moment ordering breakfast for Jensen. 

Sitting on the couch Shannon looked around the room and took in everything. She noticed one of Jensen’s hoodies laying over the chair in the corner. She stood up and made her way over to the chair and picked up the hoodie. Shannon hugged it close to her chest breathing in his scent. When she quickly became overwhelmed with all the bottled up emotions she had. She gripped the hoodie tighter and sat down on the bed. 

Jensen came out of the bathroom. They both looked at each other, and Jensen instantly dropped what was in his hands and made his way to Shannon and sat down beside her on the bed. Taking her hand in his he gently asked, “Shannon, what happened? Why are you crying and holding on to my hoodie like it’s a life line?” concern filling his voice. 

“It’s nothing, but it’s everything. You’ve been my life line forever Jensen, and if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have met Y/N. She wouldn’t be my best friend/soul sister. We met at a time when I needed her the most. It was the 6th anniversary of my mother’s death and I was missing her so much. I was also dealing with some other things too and Y/N’s comment and message was exactly what I needed to bring me out of the funk. 

Being here today, being with Y/N and now helping you brought all that back. When I saw your hoodie laying on the back of the chair, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to just hold something of yours, but then this happened. I’m sorry, it was like a dam broke in me when I was holding it. I felt safe, almost like it was healing. Being able to hold a piece of you Jensen, now that’s everything”. 

As Shannon finished talking, Jensen reached up to wipe away the few stray tears that had fallen down his cheek. He moved closer to Shannon and wiped away her tears too. “Shannon, I can’t begin to understand the loss of a parent, but I know the feeling of losing someone you are close to. I was close to my Papaw Ackles and  I spent a lot of time at my Papaw and Meemaw’s house growing up. He taught me so much, like how to fix just about anything, how to fish and even how to treat a woman. I wanted to be just like him. The stories he would tell were amazing too. He was just an amazing person and man. The day I found out he passed away, I had just started on the set of Dark Angel. We had filmed my first scene and they called cut. I went to my trailer and as soon as I closed the door my phone rang. I answered and it was my Dad. He said my Papaw had passed away peacefully in his sleep. I collapsed onto the couch and started to cry. I ended up being late for the next take and my co-star, Jessica Alba came and she found me crying. She sat down beside me and held me, telling the crew and director we were done for the day. I couldn’t believe that one of the most important men in life was just gone. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him. The next 3 months were a blur. Between his funeral, the will reading and having to clean out his house, everything was overwhelming. That’s when I found all the pictures I had drawn for him over the years as a kid. He had kept them all. I couldn’t believe he had kept every single one. It blew my mind and filled my heart with joy and sorrow. 

So I definitely know the feeling of losing someone important to you. You’re lucky though, Shannon, you have someone who has gone through something similar. Someone who lost a parent and understands your pain. Don’t ever take her for granted because she will always have your back no matter what.” Jensen said with a smile. 

“Jensen is right Shan, I will always have your back no matter what.” Y/N spoke up from the other side of the room. Jensen took Shannon’s hand and said, “We will both have your back no matter what, Shannon.” As Jensen finished saying that, he started feeling nervous and giddy, he hadn’t felt that since the day he met Danneel and he knew that he was falling in love with Shannon. 

He knew he had to make the first move, so he slowly leaned in and kissed Shannon. At first she was a bit taken back by the kiss, but she instantly returned it. Jensen pulled away from the kiss in a panic, “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, I..I…I’m so sorry, I’m such an idiot.” Jensen said as he got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

Shannon was up and followed behind him, “Hey Jensen, it’s okay don’t worry about it, it happened. I wasn’t exactly telling you to stop either. We are both responsible. Please don’t worry about it, nothing has changed between us because of it. Jensen, please open the door and let me in.” As Shannon pleaded, the door unlocked and opened slightly, she opened it farther and found Jensen sitting on the floor. “I’m not even divorced yet, no wonder why Danneel wants to leave me, I’m so messed up,” Jensen said as he slammed his fist through the garbage can next to him. 

Shannon moved towards him and touched his arm, “Hey, Jensen. Please look at me.” Jensen looks up at her and she sees the tears pricking his eyes. Her heart clenched in her chest. “Please, Jensen, don't cry. That kiss wasn’t a mistake. I wanted it too.” Shannon leans in, sits on her knees and positions herself between Jensen’s legs, she cups his face. Jensen leans into her touch. She starts to close the distance but stops before her lips touch his. “I’ll stop and walk away if you don’t want this. We forget all of this if this isn’t something you want. I promise.” Jensen shakes his head, “I don’t want to stop.” He closes the distance and their lips meet again. This time no hesitation from either of them. Shannon stands and helps Jensen up. When he stands he pulls her into his arms, “Thank you, Shannon. For everything,” she nodded and smiled softly at him, “You’re welcome, Jensen.” 

As they both returned to the main hotel room Shannon’s phone started ringing. “I’m just going to take this call okay, Jensen.” “No problem Shannon go ahead.” Shannon took her phone and went back into the bedroom and answered it. “Hello,” Shannon said with concern. “Hey Shan, it’s Dad,  I’m calling to let you know Grandma passed away last night in her sleep and I didn’t want you to find out through social media. I figured I should be the one to tell you.” “Thanks dad, for phoning and letting me know. I’m grateful that you told me and I didn’t find out through social media. I just can’t believe she’s gone.” “I know baby, but she’s not in pain anymore. She’s in a better place now.” “I know Dad, it’s just hard but I do have to go now okay. We will talk more after I get back from the convention, okay?” “Okay, bye sweetheart.” 

As Shannon ended the call, she made her way back to Jensen and Y/N in the other room where they were waiting for her. As she saw Jensen, the dam broke and she collapsed onto her knees and started crying. Jensen rushed to her side, “Hey, hey, what’s going on Shannon, what happened?” Jensen asked as he and Y/N helped her to the couch. “That call was my Dad. He called to tell me that my Grandmother passed away last night in her sleep. I just can’t believe she’s gone. She was always there for me when I needed her. Especially after I lost my mother.” Shannon said through tears. Both Jensen and Y/N grabbed one of Shannon’s hands and held them in theirs. “Shan, I completely understand what you’re feeling right now. I lost my grandmother when I was 18 and I was really close to her. She's in a better place Shan, and she will always be right here in your heart. Plus you have all the wonderful memories of her,” Y/N said as she consoled Shannon.

“Like Y/N said, you have so many wonderful memories with your Grandmother. You can look back on them, and I bet that she will be looking over you from up there.” Jensen says as he points towards the sky. About an hour had passed and Shannon had cried so hard she collapsed from exhaustion and had fallen asleep while Jensen was holding her. 

“Hey Y/N can you grab my phone for me, I need to call my handler,” Jensen asked Y/N. Once Jensen had his phone he dialed his handler’s number and waited for them to pick up. “Hey Sarah, it's Jensen, I’m calling to let you know that a family emergency came up so I will be late to the convention today”. “Okay we will see you when you get here, I hope everything is okay and that you're okay”.  A half an hour later Shannon woke up in Jensen’s arms and turned to face him. “Thank you Jensen, just thank you.” “You don’t have to thank me Shannon, you were there for me when I needed someone, and I will always be here for you,” he says as he kisses her temple. With a sigh of contentment Shannon relaxed his arms.

Later that afternoon Jensen headed to the convention and Y/N and Shannon made their way down there slowly. Jensen arrived earlier so he could catch up on things he missed. Shannon and Y/N made their way there and  as they were waiting for the elevator, Shannon turned to Y/N and smirked, “His kiss was incredible, I think I’m falling for him, he’s amazing. He loves with all his heart and he’s so kind and caring. He’s everything I’ve wanted in a man and a partner.” “Shannon, I want it too. I was hooked the first time I saw you in the park. I knew you were the one and everything that happened last night and this morning sealed that feeling for me.” Jensen said as he came up slowly from behind, surprising Shannon and Y/N. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you both, but I wanted to let you know that I’m on my way to the stage, and I’ll be looking for you in the crowd,” “Okay Jensen, we will see you in there. Good luck,” Both women said. Jensen went with his handler and we headed into the venue to find our seats for the panel. Taking our seats the music started and the lights dimmed as Jensen took the stage.

Permanent Tag List

@winchesterwild78 @n-o-p-e-never @barnes70stark @deansimpalababy @ironreviewangel @thej2report @implala67stellawinchester @lyarr24 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @bobbdylan @benscumgluzzer @foxyjwls007 @lessons-of-red

[winchesterwild78]

✨Beyond his true fate - Part 1/14✨

Summary: Sequel to "His true fate".

(Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.)

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, tough topics

Word Count: 5779

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

Day 1 Jensen stared at his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his call log. Five missed calls. Five times he let it ring until it went to voicemail. Five times he hoped, prayed, begged that you would answer.

You didn’t. Your last message had been clear: “Jensen, please. I need space”.

He hadn’t replied. What could he say? That he didn’t want to give you space? That he wanted to get in his car and drive straight to wherever you were, pull you into his arms, bury his face in your neck and apologize until his voice gave out?

Instead, he shoved his phone into his pocket and turned toward the living room, where Zeppelin was currently attempting to stack pillows taller than himself. Arrow was chasing JJ around the couch with a stuffed animal.

Jensen forced himself to smile. Forced himself to laugh when Zeppelin collapsed into the pillows. Forced himself to focus on them and not the aching hole in his chest where you used to be.

But that night, after he tucked them in and the house was quiet, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the spot where you should be. Where you belonged. And for the first time in a long time, he felt truly, completely alone.

Day 3 He found one of your sweaters in the laundry. He hadn’t noticed it before, tangled up in the mix of clothes from before you left. It still smelled like you.

He sat on the couch with it in his lap for hours, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers, his chest aching so damn bad he could hardly breathe.

Jensen had never been the kind of man to hold onto things like that. He wasn’t sentimental about clothes or perfume or little trinkets. But right now? Right now, he would have given anything to hear your voice. To hear you hum under your breath while cooking, to feel your fingers thread through his hair when he sat on the couch beside you, to have your body pressed against his at night—warm, soft, real.

But all he had was this damn sweater. And a silence that was suffocating.

Day 5 Jensen took the kids out for ice cream, trying to distract himself with their laughter. It worked for a little while. Zeppelin got chocolate all over his shirt, Arrow declared she was officially “too old for baby flavors” and got something she hated, and JJ? She barely said anything.

She was watching him.

And later, when the other two had gone to bed, she sat beside him on the couch, arms crossed, her sharp eyes way too knowing. “You look like shit, Dad”, she finally said, her tone blunt.

Jensen scoffed, running a hand over his face. “Thanks, kid”.

“Are you gonna fix it?”.

Jensen looked at her then, feeling the weight of everything press down on his chest. “I don’t know”, he admitted.

Day 7 The kids went back to Danneel’s today. The house was too quiet after they left.

Jensen paced the kitchen, his phone in his hand, your number pulled up for what felt like the hundredth time.

Just one message. Just one call.

But every time, he stopped himself. Because if you wanted to hear from him, you would have called by now.

Instead, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink.

Then another. Then another.

By the time he stopped, his head was heavy, his limbs sluggish, and the only thing he could think about was the way your lips felt against his. The way your voice sounded when you whispered his name in the dark. The way you had looked at him the last time you spoke—broken, distant, done.

He didn’t deserve to call you. Didn’t deserve to beg.

Day 9 The whiskey burned going down, but he barely felt it anymore.

Jensen sat on the couch, staring at the dark TV screen, the bottle sitting half-empty on the table beside him.

He had ignored his emails. Ignored his agent’s calls. Ignored everyone except the bartender from the local place he had gone to earlier that night just to get out of the house.

But none of it mattered. Because no matter how much he tried to distract himself, the only thing he could think about was you. And the fact that he had no idea if you were coming back.

Day 12 Jensen hadn’t shaved. Had barely slept. He was a mess, and he knew it.

The couch had become his bed, the bottle of whiskey his closest companion. Every time his phone buzzed, he snapped his head toward it, hoping—praying—it was you.

But it never was.

Day 14 Jensen barely registered the sound of knocking at first. His head was pounding, a dull ache from too many sleepless nights and too much whiskey. He had half a mind to ignore it—until the knocking turned into full-blown pounding.

Groaning, he rubbed his hands over his face and pushed himself off the couch, stumbling slightly as he made his way toward the door. He swung it open without checking, expecting maybe the mailman, maybe a delivery—hell, maybe even you.

Instead, it was Jared.

Jensen blinked, his vision hazy. “What the hell are you doing here?”.

Jared gave him a once-over, his expression unimpressed. “Checking to see if you’re dead”.

Jensen scoffed, stepping back so Jared could walk in. “I’m fine”.

Jared shut the door behind him and immediately let out a low whistle, taking in the disaster that was Jensen’s living room. The coffee table was cluttered with empty glasses, the bottle of whiskey still sitting there, and a blanket was thrown haphazardly over the couch—the only place Jensen had been sleeping.

“Yeah”, Jared muttered. “You look great”.

Jensen rolled his eyes and dropped back onto the couch. “Why are you really here?”.

Jared exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “Because you’re a miserable fuck when you’re heartbroken, and I figured you’d be too stubborn to reach out for help”.

Jensen scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not heartbroken”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Really? So, this”,—he gestured around the room—"this is just your new aesthetic?”.

Jensen shot him a glare, but Jared wasn’t fazed. Instead, he dropped onto the armchair across from him, leaning forward slightly. “Look, man”, Jared said, his voice softer now, more serious. “I know you. And I know you’re hurting. But you can’t just sit here drowning yourself in whiskey and self-pity, waiting for her to come back”.

Jensen’s jaw clenched. “She won’t even talk to me”.

“Yeah, because she’s hurting too”, Jared shot back. “And from what I can tell, she’s not the one who fucked this up”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He knew Jared was right. He didn’t need to hear it.

Jared leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Jensen, do you even want this kid?”.

Jensen’s stomach twisted, and for a moment, he couldn’t even answer.

Jared shook his head. “That’s the problem, man. You’re waiting for some grand epiphany, but that’s not how it works. You either step the fuck up, or you lose her. It’s that simple”.

Jensen let his head drop back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. His chest felt tight, his mind racing, his heart a mess. “I don’t know how”, he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jared exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Then figure it out. Before it’s too late”.

Jensen closed his eyes, his fingers gripping the blanket on the couch. Because deep down, he knew—he was already running out of time.

Jared leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Alright, enough”.

Jensen barely cracked an eye open. “Enough of what?”.

“This”, Jared gestured around the disaster of a living room. “This whole pathetic, self-loathing, whiskey-drenched thing you’ve got going on. It’s over”.

Jensen scoffed, running a hand through his messy hair. “What, you gonna fix my life, Jare?”.

Jared didn’t flinch. “No, you are. Because I’m not letting you sit here wallowing while (Y/N) is out there figuring out if she can live without you”.

Jensen’s stomach twisted. He already knew the answer to that. You could.

Jared stood up, towering over him with that stubborn-as-hell look Jensen had seen too many times. “Get up”.

Jensen groaned. “Dude—”.

“No. Get the fuck up”.

Jensen blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the edge in Jared’s tone.

Jared gestured at him. “You look like hell, man. When’s the last time you shaved?”.

Jensen rubbed a hand over his scruff, glaring. “I don’t know. Who gives a shit?”.

Jared let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. You don’t give a shit. And that’s why you’re losing her”.

That one landed deep.

Jared didn’t let up. “You say you don’t know how to do this? Fine. But sitting here doing nothing sure as hell isn’t helping”. He pointed toward the stairs. “So go shower. Shave. Clean this place up. And when you’re done, we’re gonna figure out how to make this right”.

Jensen exhaled heavily, rubbing his hands over his face.

Jared stepped closer. “You don’t get to be the victim here, Jensen. You did this. But you can still fix it”.

Jensen looked up at him, his jaw clenching. He wanted to snap back, to tell Jared to fuck off, to say he was too exhausted, too broken. But deep down, he knew his friend was right. So, without another word, he pushed himself off the couch and trudged toward the stairs.

“Atta boy”, Jared muttered, shaking his head as Jensen disappeared toward the bathroom.

As the water hit his face, Jensen let out a slow breath. He had to fix this. Before it really was too late.

Jensen ran a towel over his face, exhaling as he walked back into the living room. He felt a little more human—showered, shaved, wearing clean clothes—but inside, he was still wrecked.

Jared was sitting at the kitchen table now, arms crossed, watching him expectantly. He had cracked open a beer but hadn’t touched it yet.

Jensen sighed, dragging out a chair before dropping into it. “Alright”, he muttered. “Let’s hear it”.

Jared lifted a brow. “Hear what?”.

Jensen gestured vaguely. “Whatever lecture you’ve been dying to give me”.

Jared shook his head. “Nah, man. I’m past the lecture phase. Now, I just want the truth”.

Jensen looked down at his hands, jaw clenched. He wasn’t ready for this. But at the same time? He was fucking exhausted from running from it.

Jared leaned forward. “What are you so scared of?”.

Jensen swallowed hard, his throat tight. He ran a hand over his face before finally forcing the words out. “I swore I’d never do this again”.

Jared didn’t say anything, just let him talk.

“After the twins, after everything with Danneel…”, Jensen exhaled heavily, gripping the edge of the table. “I told myself I was done. No more kids. No more sleepless nights, no more stress, no more feeling like I’m failing at being a dad when my career is pulling me in a hundred different directions”.

Jared nodded slowly. “So when (Y/N) told you she was pregnant—”.

Jensen let out a humorless laugh. “I panicked. I shut down. Because I knew what was coming”. He shook his head, staring at the wood grain of the table. “The late nights. The exhaustion. The pressure to be everything all at once”.

Jared’s voice was quiet but firm. “And the difference this time?”.

Jensen hesitated, his chest tightening. “This time… I can’t fuck it up”.

Jared frowned. “What do you mean?”.

Jensen looked up at him, his green eyes stormy with emotions he hadn’t let himself feel until now. “I already screwed up one marriage, Jared. My kids already have to split their time between two homes. And now I’ve got this—this perfect, amazing woman who actually loves me for who I am, and I’m fucking ruining it”.

Jared exhaled. “Jensen—”.

Jensen shook his head. “I don’t get a redo if I mess this up. (Y/N) deserves more than that. This baby deserves more than that”. His voice cracked slightly. “And I’m so goddamn scared that I don’t know how to be enough for them”.

Silence settled between them.

Then, Jared leaned back, crossing his arms. “Okay”, he said simply.

Jensen blinked. “Okay?”.

Jared nodded. “Yeah. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, it’s time to do something about it”.

Jensen let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so fucking easy”.

Jared smirked. “It’s not. But neither is sitting here feeling sorry for yourself”. He tilted his head. “You love her?”.

Jensen’s chest ached. “More than anything”.

Jared nodded. “Then prove it”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He knew Jared was right—he had to do something. He had to prove to you that he wasn’t just going to keep running, keep shutting down when things got hard.

But how the hell was he supposed to fix something that felt this broken?

Jared studied him carefully, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. His tone was different this time—slower, more deliberate. “Have you ever thought about proposing?”.

Jensen’s entire body tensed. His green eyes snapped to Jared’s, his breath hitching for just a second before he forced himself to scoff. “Jesus, Jared”, he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m trying to fix things, not push her away even more”.

Jared didn’t flinch. “I’m not saying you gotta do it tomorrow. I’m just asking… have you thought about it?”.

Jensen looked away, jaw tight. His hands clenched into fists on the table. “No”, he said automatically. Then, softer, almost to himself, “Not really”.

Jared hummed like he didn’t quite believe him. “Okay. And why not?”.

Jensen let out a humorless laugh. “Because marriage is right next to ‘another baby’ on my list of things I swore I’d never do again”. His voice was rough, bitter. “I barely survived it the first time. You really think I’d be dumb enough to sign up for that shit again?”.

Jared’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded like he had expected that answer. “And yet”, he said slowly, tilting his head, “you´re kinda willing to do the whole baby thing again for (Y/N)”.

Jensen opened his mouth, then shut it.

Jared leaned forward, his voice even. “So maybe this isn’t about marriage itself. Maybe this is about the fact that Danneel took that idea, chewed it up, and spit it out until all you see when you hear ‘marriage’ is something ugly”.

Jensen clenched his jaw, his chest tightening. Jared wasn’t wrong.

When he thought about marriage, he thought about fights behind closed doors. About feeling like a failure no matter what he did. About a relationship that had turned into nothing but resentment and obligations.

But when he thought about you?

He thought about quiet mornings with your legs tangled in his under the covers. The way you absentmindedly played with his fingers while you watched TV. The way you whispered his name in the dark, soft and certain, like you never doubted he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Jensen swallowed hard, rubbing his hand over his face.

Jared was watching him carefully. “I’m not saying you gotta run out and buy a ring right now”, he said. “But if you want to show her that you’re all in? It’s gotta be something big, man. Because right now, she thinks you don’t want this—don’t want her. And if you don’t do something to prove otherwise, she’s gonna walk”.

Jensen’s chest ached. Because that was his biggest fear. Losing you. Losing everything.

He exhaled slowly, his hands still gripping the edge of the table. “I don’t know if I can do marriage again”, he admitted, his voice raw. “But I know I can’t lose her”.

Jared nodded, like that was enough for now. “Then figure out what the hell you’re gonna do about it”.

Another week had passed. Another week full of Jared pushing, prodding, and dragging Jensen through what he sarcastically called “therapy sessions”. Another week without a single word from you.

It was fucking killing him. But at least now, he was trying.

Two days ago, in the middle of another long conversation about what the hell are you doing, man? Jensen had suggested painting the nursery.

It had come out of nowhere. One second, Jared was rattling on about emotional vulnerability or some shit, and the next, Jensen had blurted it out. “I should probably paint the nursery, huh?”.

Jared had frozen mid-sip of his beer, staring at him like he’d just spoken a foreign language. “You what?”.

Jensen had shrugged, playing it off. “She’s not gonna get rid of the baby”. Saying it out loud made something heavy settle in his chest. He cleared his throat. “And even if I still don’t—I mean, I don’t—”. He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck, I don’t want this, man, but I know I have to get there somehow. And I sure as hell won’t let her leave me over it”.

Jared had watched him carefully for a long moment, then simply nodded. “Then we better get some paint”.

Which led them here. To a damn hardware store.

Jensen walked down the aisles with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning rows of paint samples while Jared followed behind, arms crossed like some judgmental therapist. “So… you’re painting the nursery”, Jared mused, eyeing Jensen with an annoyingly smug look. “Big step”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, grabbing a handful of swatches. “It’s just paint”.

Jared scoffed. “Right. And I suppose you just accidentally wandered into the baby furniture section earlier, too?”.

Jensen shot him a glare.

Jared grinned. “That’s what I thought”.

Jensen sighed, glancing at the blues, greens, and neutral tones in his hand. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing”.

Jared clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You got this".

Jensen huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah”. His eyes flickered over the soft pastel colors, and before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed a few cans of paint. “Let’s get this over with”.

Jared didn’t say anything, just smirked knowingly as he followed Jensen to the checkout.

Jensen dipped the roller into the tray, watching the soft, muted green coat the surface before pressing it against the nursery wall. The rhythmic motion—up, down, up, down—was the only thing grounding him, keeping him from spiraling into the thoughts he had been trying to avoid all day.

But the silence made it impossible to outrun them.

It was just him, the paint, and his own fucked-up mind.

He hadn’t told anyone, not even Jared, why he chose green. But he knew. Deep down, he knew.

It was the color of your sweater—the one you always wore around the house, the one he found in the laundry after you left, the one that still smelled like you.

And maybe, on some subconscious level, he thought if he filled this room with something that reminded him of you, maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t feel so terrifying.

Jensen sighed, pressing the roller harder against the wall. The sound of it gliding over the drywall filled the empty house, the scent of fresh paint mixing with the whiskey lingering on his breath.

He still didn’t know how to want this. That was the worst part.

He had spent years swearing he’d never do this again. The sleepless nights, the crying, the constant feeling of never doing enough. He had already lived through it, and he had barely survived it then.

And now? Now, he was older. His patience was thinner. His life was different.

So why the hell was he here, rolling paint onto these damn walls like a man preparing for a future he still didn’t know if he wanted?

Because she’s leaving you. The thought came so fast it knocked the wind out of him.

Jensen froze mid-roll, his grip tightening around the handle. That’s what this was, wasn’t it?

That’s why he had spent the past two weeks drowning himself in whiskey and self-pity. Why Jared had to drag his ass off the couch just to function like a normal human being. Why he was standing in a half-empty nursery at one in the morning, painting walls for a baby he had spent months trying not to think about.

Because for the first time, he felt it.

The empty space beside him. The missing presence of the woman he loved. The gaping hole you had left behind when you walked out of that house.

And if he didn’t fix this—really fix this—he was going to lose you.

Jensen swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he stared at the half-painted wall. He needed to stop being a coward.

The next morning, Jensen woke up stiff as hell, his back aching from falling asleep on the floor of the half-painted nursery. His hands were speckled with dried paint, his shirt a mess, and his head still a little foggy from everything running through his mind the night before.

He had never planned on getting this far.

Never planned on standing in a room he was preparing for a baby. Never planned on thinking about cribs or carpets or curtains.

But here he was.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his face before reaching for his phone. He knew what he had to do, but fuck if he was going to do it alone.

Jensen: I need your fucking moral support today.

It didn’t take Jared long to respond.

Jared: Moral support for what?

Jensen exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his jaw before typing back.

Jensen: Baby store.

Jared: …holy shit.

Jensen: Shut up and get your ass over here.

Jensen locked his phone, rolling his shoulders before standing up and taking a good look around the room. The green walls were dry now, the color softer in the daylight. The room still felt empty as hell, but it was a start. And he was going to make damn sure it didn’t stay empty for long.

Jared was already waiting when Jensen pulled into the parking lot, leaning against his truck with his arms crossed and an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face.

Jensen groaned before even stepping out. “Don’t”, he warned the second his sneaker hit the pavement.

Jared just chuckled. “Oh, I am gonna”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he walked past him, straight toward the entrance. Jared followed, his grin only widening. “I just need a crib”, Jensen muttered. “Maybe a carpet. Some curtains”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot coming from the guy who, just a couple weeks ago, was acting like this baby was an alien invasion”.

Jensen shot him a glare. “Moral support, Jared. Not moral commentary”.

Jared held up his hands in surrender, still grinning as they stepped inside.

The second they entered, Jensen felt like he had been hit with baby shit everywhere. Cribs. Strollers. Little clothes that were way too tiny. Shelves filled with things—things that made his head spin, things he had completely forgotten about from when his own kids were babies.

This wasn’t just picking out a crib. This was preparing for something he had been trying to run from for months.

Jensen swallowed hard, but before he could backtrack, Jared clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning like the bastard he was. “Alright, man. Show me where the cribs are”.

Jensen sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just get this over with”.

Jensen had faced a lot of difficult things in his life. Grueling film schedules. Long flights. Even longer nights. Divorce. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for standing in the middle of a baby store, staring at rows of cribs while Jared fucking Padalecki grinned at him like he had just won the lottery.

Jensen let out a long breath, crossing his arms as his eyes scanned the options. Too many choices. Too many colors. Too many damn cribs that all looked exactly the same.

Jared, on the other hand, was having way too much fun. He leaned against a display, arms crossed, watching Jensen with pure amusement. “Never thought I’d see the day”, he mused, shaking his head. “Jensen Ackles, shopping for a crib. It’s like watching Bigfoot pick out furniture”.

Jensen shot him a glare. “Shut the hell up”.

Jared smirked. “Nah, man, this is too good. Should I call Gen? Maybe get Danneel on FaceTime? This is history right here”.

Jensen groaned, running a hand down his face. “I swear, if you don’t shut up—”.

Jared just laughed, clapping him on the back. “Relax. I’m proud of you, dude”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, pretending to be irritated, but the words did hit somewhere deeper. He didn’t respond to that, though. Instead, he turned back to the cribs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which one of these things is… I don’t know. The best?”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Best at what?”.

Jensen exhaled sharply. “Best at keeping a baby alive, Jared. Isn’t that the whole point?”.

Jared snorted. “I mean, yeah, but it’s not that deep, man. Just pick one”.

Jensen frowned. “It’s not that simple”.

And apparently, it wasn’t—because before he knew it, he was running his hand along the wooden railing of one crib, testing the bars, then moving to another one, checking its sturdiness like he actually knew what the hell he was doing.

Jared watched in amusement as Jensen muttered to himself, comparing features, shaking cribs slightly to test their stability. “Wow”, Jared drawled. “You’re really putting your dad instincts into this, huh?”.

Jensen scoffed but didn’t stop inspecting. “It’s a crib. It’s gotta be solid. What if the kid starts climbing? What if the bars are too wide?”. He frowned at one and moved on to another. “What if it’s got some cheap-ass paint that chips?”.

Jared blinked. “Dude. Babies don’t just come out the womb climbing like monkeys”.

Jensen ignored him, still scanning the options. His eyes landed on white crib—solid wood, no flimsy parts, simple but sturdy. He ran his hand over the rail, nodding to himself.

“This one”.

Jared smirked. “Oh, so now you care about the details?”.

Jensen shot him a look but didn’t argue. Because, yeah, maybe he did care. Maybe picking this crib meant something. Maybe it meant he was trying.

Jared must have sensed the shift, because his smirk softened into something more genuine. “Alright”, he said, nodding. “Let’s get it”.

After the crib was loaded onto a cart, Jensen turned toward the next item on his list. “Curtains”, he muttered.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “You actually giving her a choice on those?”.

Jensen huffed. “She’ll pick everything else. I just wanna get something neutral”.

Jared smirked but didn’t argue, following as Jensen made his way toward the fabric section. And somehow, some-fucking-how, Jensen found himself holding up two different sets of curtains, actually considering shades like it was the most important decision of his damn life. “These?”. He held up a soft gray set. “Or these?”. A muted sage green.

Jared blinked. “Dude. They’re curtains”.

Jensen glared at him. “Yeah, but they gotta match the room”.

Jared snorted. “Alright, Martha Stewart. Go with the green. It matches the walls”.

Jensen grumbled but tossed them in the cart.

Next up: a rug.

Jensen wandered toward the aisle, scanning the options before stopping at one with a soft, plush texture. Simple, neutral, nothing fancy—but it looked comfortable.

While Jensen was focused on loading the cart with the essentials—crib, curtains, rug—Jared had somehow wandered off to another aisle. And that was never a good sign.

Jensen found him standing in front of a display of tiny baby clothes, holding up an impossibly small onesie with a goofy grin. “Man”, Jared muttered, half to himself, half to Jensen. “Maybe I should have another one”.

Jensen groaned. “Oh, hell no. Gen would kill you”.

Jared smirked but didn’t put the onesie back. “I mean… look at these”, he said, holding up a tiny pair of socks between his fingers. “They’re like… this big”. He pinched his fingers together dramatically.

Jensen exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “Jesus, Jared”.

Jared laughed, tossing the socks back into the bin before glancing at Jensen. “You know the gender yet?”.

Jensen shook his head, his fingers tightening on the cart handle. “No. Won’t know for another four weeks or something”.

Jared nodded, his expression turning more thoughtful. “You gonna find out?”.

Jensen hesitated, glancing down at the items in the cart. The crib. The rug. The curtains. The first things he’d actually bought for this baby.

For his baby.

“Yeah”, he admitted, voice quieter now. “I think I wanna know”.

Jared grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “Good. That way, I can get you something really obnoxious”.

Jensen rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Because, for the first time, he realized—he actually wanted to know. And maybe that meant something.

Eventually, Jensen stood in front of the rack, staring at the onesie like it had personally offended him. The design was so familiar, but just… off enough to avoid a lawsuit.

Jared stepped up beside him, taking one look before bursting into laughter. “No way this is legal”.

Jensen scoffed, shaking his head. “Someone at Warner Bros. is definitely gonna lose their shit if they see this”.

Jared picked up the tiny black onesie, reading the white lettering aloud. “‘Saving People, Hunting Things… My Family Business’”. He whistled. “Damn. They really just went for it, huh?”.

Jensen crossed his arms, smirking. “I mean, they changed like, one word. That’s gotta count for something, right?”.

Jared grinned. “Yeah, let’s see how well that argument holds up in court”.

Jensen let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the onesie. He turned it over in his hands, fingers brushing over the fabric. It was small. So damn small. His throat tightened a little. Before he could overthink it, he tossed it into the cart.

Jared’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—seriously?”.

Jensen shot him a look, raising a warning brow. “Don’t”.

Jared bit back a grin, holding up his hands. “Just saying—you’re actually picking out baby clothes. On purpose. This is a big moment”.

Jensen rolled his eyes. “It’s just a onesie, Padalecki”.

“Yeah, yeah”, Jared said, clearly unconvinced. “And the crib was just a crib”. He nudged Jensen’s shoulder. “Admit it, man. You’re getting into this”.

Jensen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing”, he muttered. “But if I let you pick shit, my kid’s gonna end up in a ‘Uncle Jared is my favorite’ onesie, and I refuse to let that happen”.

Jared grinned. “I mean… that can still be arranged”.

Jensen groaned. “We’re leaving”.

Jared laughed as he followed him toward checkout, watching as Jensen—Jensen Ackles—paid for a crib, a rug, and a damn Supernatural-adjacent onesie.

Maybe he wasn’t all the way there yet. But damn if he wasn’t trying.

That night, Jensen sat on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by unassembled crib parts, screws, and an instruction manual that looked like it had been translated into English by someone who had never seen a crib in their life.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders before picking up the first piece of wood, aligning it with another.

Alright. Let’s do this.

The rhythmic process of assembling the crib—slotting parts together, tightening screws, rechecking everything—gave him something to focus on. Something to do. It kept his mind from spiraling into places he didn’t want to go.

But as the frame started to take shape, something inside him shifted.

Jensen sat back on his heels, looking at the half-assembled crib in front of him. It was real now. Tangible. A thing that was going to hold a baby—his baby—in just a few months.

His hands rested on his thighs, his fingers curling slightly as he exhaled.

For weeks, he had pushed this away, refused to let himself think about it too much. But now, sitting here, surrounded by baby furniture and walls he had painted himself, the truth settled in his chest like a weight.

This was happening. No matter how scared he was. No matter how much he hadn’t wanted this. It was real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to want it, too.

He let out a slow breath, brushing his fingers over the wooden frame, imagining tiny fingers gripping the edge one day, little kicks against the mattress, quiet breaths in the middle of the night.

Jensen swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion he wasn’t ready to name. He reached for another screw, tightening the last side panel into place.

And for the first time since you had left, he let himself think about the moment you’d see it. Would you be proud of him? Would you even care? Would this be enough?

He didn’t know. But for the first time in weeks, he knew one thing for sure. He wanted you to come home.

———————————

A/N: Hello and welcome back, lol. I didn't want to keep you waiting for the first chapter any longer, even though I still don't know when I'll post the following chapters. I might post one or two chapters per week, but maybe just one. I don't have a fixed day for that. Just a heads-up in advance.

And of course, please let me know what you think.🥰

-

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[winchesterwild78]

A Day Marked Twice 

Master List

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: death, grief, language 

A/N: Today has sucked. I had to write this to get out of my head. Today is the 7th anniversary of the death of my mother. The ache is still so deep. Driving with my husband today my dad called me to tell me my grandmother, his mom died. I threw my phone on the floor and just got angry. 

If you’re triggered by loss or the process of grief, please don’t read this. 

Minors DNI 18+

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the countryside as Y/N and Jensen drive along a winding road. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and budding leaves. Y/N gazes out the window, the familiar landscape a muted backdrop to the quiet ache in her heart – the seventh anniversary of her mother's passing.

Suddenly, the peaceful hum of the car is broken by the insistent ring of her phone. She glances at the caller ID – Dad. A knot of unease tightens in her stomach. She answers, her voice a little breathy.

"Hey, Dad," she says, trying to keep her tone even.

There's a slight pause on the other end, a hesitation that sends a shiver down her spine. Then, her father's voice, thick with sorrow, fills the car. "Y/N... it's Grandma."

The world seems to tilt on its axis. Y/N's breath hitches. "What? What about Grandma?"

Jensen reaches over, his hand finding hers on the console, his touch a silent anchor.

Her father's words are a muffled rush, each syllable a painful blow. "...passed away... peacefully... this morning..."

The phone slips slightly in Y/N's numb fingers. The vibrant greens and browns of the passing fields blur through a sudden film of tears. The weight of his words settles in her chest, heavy and suffocating. It's not just the loss of her grandmother; it's the cruel echo of another loss, another anniversary tainted by grief.

Jensen pulls the car gently to the side of the road and puts it in park. He turns to Y/N, his eyes filled with concern. She stares straight ahead, the idyllic countryside now a stark reminder of the beauty that continues while her world feels like it's crumbling.

"Y/N?" Jensen's voice is soft, a gentle question.

A wave of fierce, irrational anger washes over Y/N, hot and sharp. "No," she whispers, her voice trembling, "No, no, no." Tears well up, blurring her vision, but they are tears of fury as much as sorrow.

She turns to Jensen, her eyes blazing with a raw, almost accusatory pain. "Why today?" she demands, her voice cracking. "Why on this day? Seven years. Seven years since Mom, and now this? It's not fair!"

The injustice of it all, the cruel timing, feels like a personal affront. It's as if the universe is deliberately twisting the knife, layering one loss upon another on this already agonizing date. The grief for her grandmother is immediate and real, but it's tangled with the fresh rawness of her mother's memory, making the pain feel unbearable.

Jensen's hand tightens gently on hers. He doesn't try to offer platitudes or easy answers. He simply sits with her in the silence, his presence a solid, unwavering force beside her storm. He knows that in this moment, logic and reason won't reach her. She needs to feel the anger, the unfairness, the sheer weight of it all.

Y/N pulls her hand away and clutches her arms to her chest, as if trying to contain the shattering within. "They were supposed to be here," she whispers, her voice thick with unshed tears. "They were supposed to be... and now they're both gone. Both gone." The reality crashes down on her, heavy and absolute.

Jensen doesn't try to reason with her anger or minimize her pain. He simply opens his arms and pulls Y/N close. She collapses against him, her body wracked with sobs. He holds her tightly, one hand stroking her hair, the other firm against her back. He presses soft kisses to the top of her head, each one a silent acknowledgment of her grief, her fury, her profound loss.

He feels the tremors that run through her as she cries, the raw, guttural sounds of a heart breaking anew. He doesn't offer empty words or forced reassurances. He knows that sometimes, the most profound comfort comes not from what is said, but from the unwavering presence of someone who cares.

The countryside, moments before a scene of tranquil beauty, now bears witness to Y/N's anguish. The setting sun casts a golden glow on the dusty roadside, a stark contrast to the darkness engulfing her. Jensen remains a steady anchor in her storm, a silent promise that she doesn't have to face this alone. He lets her cry, lets her release the pent-up grief and anger, knowing that sometimes, the only way through the darkness is to feel it fully.

After a while, the intensity of her sobs begins to subside, though the occasional shudder still runs through her. She remains pressed against him, drawing strength from his closeness.

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken grief. The last rays of the sun fade, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and soft grey. Y/N's breathing slowly evens out, though the occasional hiccup still betrays the depth of her earlier sobs. Jensen continues to hold her, his presence a warm, solid weight beside her.

Finally, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the day, Y/N stirs. She doesn't pull away, but there's a shift in her posture, a subtle acknowledgment of the quiet support surrounding her. Jensen tightens his embrace momentarily before releasing her slightly, allowing her to make her own movements.

Without a word, they get back into the car. The drive home is quiet, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine and Y/N's occasional sniffle. The familiar comfort of their house feels muted, overshadowed by the heavy cloud of grief that has settled over them.

Y/N goes straight to their bedroom. The dim light filtering through the curtains does little to dispel the darkness she feels inside. She climbs into bed, pulling the covers around her like a shield, and the tears start again, softer now, but no less profound. They are tears of exhaustion, of the raw ache of loss, of the cruel reminder of what this day already represented.

Jensen follows her, shedding his shoes and lying beside her. He doesn't try to fill the silence with words. He simply pulls her close, spooning behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist. His presence is a silent reassurance, a warm anchor in the storm of her grief. He rests his cheek against her hair, breathing in the familiar scent, a small comfort in the midst of so much pain.

In the quiet darkness of their room, held in the safe circle of Jensen's arms, Y/N finally begins to drift towards a fitful sleep, the exhaustion of the day and the weight of her sorrow pulling her under. Jensen remains awake for a while longer, listening to her soft breaths, a silent guardian against the darkness.

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[winchesterwild78]

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort of laughter.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in. 

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”  

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you better," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He chuckled. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean chuckled, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

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[winchesterwild78]

20 Years of Friendship and Cons

MasterList

Chapter 2

Characters: Jensen Ackles x Reader, Readers best friend, Danneel (Mentioned) Jensen’s Kids, Clif, Jared Padalecki (Mentioned)

Warnings: Mentions of Panic Attacks, Nightmares, and a lot of tears

This is a work of fiction and does not depict real life. Jensen is Married in this Story but on the verge of Divorce from Danneel.

All work is my own, please don't take it or use it, Reblogs and likes are appreciated.

As we reached the green room, Clif motioned for us to enter. When we entered Jensen was sitting on the floor with back against the couch and his head between his legs trying to breathe. “Jensen it’s Y/N, you’re safe. I’m here with you. Here, breathe with me.” She placed his hand on her chest as she took a deep breath in. Jensen matched her breathing as he felt the steady beat of her heart. “You're doing great Jensen, now can you tell me 5 things you can see?” 

“You, Shannon, the door over there, the water bottles on the table, and my shoes.” You nod and smile, “Good,now 4 things you can touch.” “Your hand, the carpet, how itchy this sweater is right now, and the couch behind me.” Good, let's keep going, 3 things you can hear.” “Your voice, the people outside, and Clif in the hallway.” “Really good Jensen, we're almost done, 2 things you can smell.” Your perfume Y/N, the fresh coffee.” Jensen you're almost there, now 1 thing you can taste.” “My spearmint gum.” 

“You did amazing Jensen, how do you feel now?” “I feel okay, calmer, but I also feel like a complete fool. This never happens in public, my panic attacks happen when I'm alone or at home. I'm sorry you had to see all that, and you had to deal with it, with me,” Jensen said as he kept hitting the pillow in front of him. “Hey, look at me Jensen, it’s normal to have panic attacks, both Shannon and I have them too. That’s actually one of the reasons why Shannon and I are best friends. We both ground each other and help each other through the panic attacks. If we can be your person Jensen, we will always be here for you. You don’t need to be angry or upset with yourself Jensen for having a panic attack.” You whisper as you slowly take the pillow from him. “I just don’t understand why, I’m a good father aren’t I? Why does she want to take the kids from me?”

“Honestly, we don’t know why she’s doing this, but what we do know is that JJ, Arrow and Zeppelin have an amazing father who loves them with all his heart, and would do anything for them. Who would protect them from harm or hurt, and would drop anything that he was doing to be there for them when they needed him.” “If we had to take a guess as to why, she could be jealous of the bond you have with kids because she doesn’t have that same kind of bond.” 

“Now, do you feel okay enough to return to the stage with Jared and finish the panel?” “I think I will be okay, but can you and Shannon stay at the side of the stage? I don’t want you too far from me.” “Of course we can, Jensen we will be right there waiting for you.” “Let’s get you back to the stage,” You said as you offered him your hand, helping him up. 

About 30 minutes later the panel had finished and Jensen made his way over to us, “I have a favour to ask both of you. I don’t think I can be alone tonight. With everything going on I need someone there to make sure I don’t drown in panic attacks. Would you two be willing to stay in my room tonight? I know it’s a big ask, but Jared has his own thing tonight with Gen and the kids. I don’t want him to have to choose between me and them.”

“If it’s going to help you sleep and stay calm, then it’s not a problem, we will stay in your room tonight, right Shan?” “Yes, of course Y/N.” “Thank you both, you don’t know how much this means to me. How much this makes me feel better and gives me a sense of comfort.” “Jensen, you have been our rock for years, and we will be yours now.”

Shannon and I finished up at the convention and decided to head up to our room, to shower and put on comfortable clothes before we headed to Jensen’s room. “Y/N, this whole thing with Danneel taking the kids and leaving him, has really hurt Jensen. I have a feeling there will be more panic attacks tonight and not much sleep.” “We just need to make him comfortable and remind him that he’s safe.” “I guess we should head across the hall to Jensen’s room. Are you ready Shan?” “Ready than I’ll ever be.” Shannon says as we head across the hall.

Jensen seemed to sense us coming because he opened the door just as we reached it. “Thank you for coming and staying with me tonight. My head is not in the right space to be alone tonight. This whole thing with Danneel leaving and taking the kids has me seconding guessing everything right now. So it’s better that I have company tonight. Okay, come on in and get comfortable. We can order room service and just talk.” “That sounds like a good idea Jensen, we are here for you.” You said as you and Shannon make your way inside and set your stuff down. 

Once everyone was settled Jensen placed a room service order for a bunch of appetizers and stuff. “How did you two meet, become friends and stay friends for 20 years?” Jensen asked curiously. 

“Well, Shannon and I met after I commented on one of her fanfiction stories she wrote about you. I fell in love with it and commented and then she responded.  That led us messaging each other then later exchanging phone numbers so we could text. What really connected us was how we’ve both dealt with some of the same struggles. That’s when we realized we were meant to find each other. We’re there for each other and we became instant soul sisters. You Jensen were the main reason we met and we’ve been friends ever since. It’s been 20 years since that day.” Y/N said as she smiled with a few tears falling. “You both wrote fanfiction about me? Was it at least good?” Jensen asked with a sly smile.“Oh yeah, it got lots of views and likes,” Shannon answered.

About 20 minutes later, room service had finally arrived, “Wow Jensen this is a lot of food.” “I got enough so we could snack. I hope that’s okay.” “Yeah, it’s perfectly fine Jensen. It’s good to have variety.” As we snacked on the appetizers, Jensen’s phone started ringing. It was a FaceTime call from his kids. We sat quietly and let him answer the call. “Hey Jaybird, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” “Yeah daddy everything is okay. Arrow, Zeppy and I wanted to hear your voice. We miss you so much, and all momma has been doing is yelling at everyone. When are you coming to get us Daddy?” JJ asked with tears in her eyes. “Daddy and momma have some things to sort out before I can come and get you three. I hope it will be soon though. Daddy loves all of you to the moon and back and that will never change. I promise you that. So, how’s school going Jaybird?” “I had a big math test, but I passed it, and Amber and I have a play date tomorrow,” JJ said with a smile. “How about you two Arrow and Zeppy, what’s new?” “Zeppy and I are going to Macie’s Birthday at the Aquarium,” Arrow said while giggling. “Jaybird, I’m so proud of you for acing that math test, and Arrow and Zeppy, that sounds like so much fun. Well, my babies, daddy has to go now. I will call you tomorrow when I get done with the convention. I love you guys.” “Bye Daddy,” all the kids say. 

“The kids seemed happy Jensen. They really do love their daddy,” Shannon says with a smile. “Yeah, they seemed better than the last time I talked to them,” Jensen said with a smile. “Y/N, Shannon, I think I want to try and get some sleep. It's been a long day, if that’s okay.” “It's okay with us. Shannon and I will be in the other room if you need us.”

Shannon and I were relaxing in the other room for about 2 and a half hours, when suddenly we both heard panicked breathing. We rushed into Jensen’s room and found him sitting up on his bed holding his chest with tears running down his cheeks. “Jensen, you're safe, we are both here. Can you match my breathing? Good, you're doing it. Everything is going to be okay. Just breathe Jensen.” After a few moments Jensen had calmed down and was resting quietly. We stayed with him for the rest of the night, keeping watch and making sure he knew he was safe.

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[winchesterwild78]

✨Turning Heads - 5/5✨

Summary: You were just supposed to act. But from the moment Jensen Ackles knocks on your door, the lines start to blur. The chemistry is real, the scenes are intense—and he's... well, he’s married.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 3450

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

You had spent the entire night tossing and turning, replaying everything in your head—the way Jensen had looked at you, the way he had touched you, the way he had tried to brush it off with that bullshit line:

"Don’t overthink this".

Too late. Because that’s all you had done.

And now, standing on set, forcing yourself to act normal, to keep it professional, to pretend that nothing had changed, you knew it was impossible.

The second your eyes landed on him, your stomach churned.

Jensen was already in full Soldier Boy gear, standing near the set, adjusting his gloves, looking frustrated about something. Probably the exact same thing you were. Because the second he felt your presence, his whole body tensed.

His hands froze mid-adjustment. His jaw tightened. And when he turned to look at you, Fuck. That look. That same flicker of hesitation, of tension, of want—just barely buried under layers of professionalism, forced indifference. But it wasn’t real.

You knew him well enough now to see right through it. Jensen was feeling all of it too.

And suddenly, this scene? This stupid, meaningless, non-intimate scene? It felt fucking impossible. Because now you had to touch him again. Now you had to look him in the eye while cameras rolled. Now you had to pretend that everything was fine, when you both knew it wasn’t.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to take steady breaths as you walked onto the set, forcing yourself to ignore the way Jensen was watching you.

But the second you stepped in front of him, the second you were close enough to touch, it hit you all over again. Yesterday. The way his body had felt pressing into yours. The way his breath had sounded when he lost control. The way his hands had gripped you, held you, like he wasn’t going to let go.

And Jensen felt it too. You saw it in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t. You saw it in the way his lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but thought better of it. You saw it in the way his eyes darkened just a little as he looked at you, like he was remembering everything, just like you were.

The weight of it settled between you, thick and unshakable.

"Alright, places!", Kripke called out, snapping both of you out of it.

You blinked rapidly, stepping into position, forcing yourself to focus.

It was a simple scene—just you and Soldier Boy, tension brewing between your characters, a quiet moment of unspoken something before the chaos exploded around them.

No rough handling. No desperate kisses. Just a touch. A look.

But the moment Jensen touched you, your breath hitched.

His gloved fingers barely ghosted over your wrist, but it sent fire through your skin, memories slamming back into you hard. And when you looked up at him, really looked at him, Jensen’s eyes were not in character. They weren’t Soldier Boy’s. They were his.

The same ones that had been dark with hunger just last night. The same ones that had burned into yours as he pressed into you, as he filled you, as he whispered "You feel so fucking good".

The next few hours were torture.

Not because the scenes were difficult—they weren’t. Not because you weren’t used to long shooting days—you were. But because every time Jensen moved, you felt him. Every time he walked past you, you caught the scent of his cologne—rich, warm, a little smoky, so damn familiar now. Every time he touched you, even for something scripted, his hands lingered for half a second too long.

And every time you looked at him, every time your eyes locked for a little too long between takes, you saw it. The same fucking problem.

By the time Kripke finally called wrap, you were so wound up, so full of confusion and frustration and want, that you barely mumbled a goodbye to the crew before heading straight for your trailer.

You needed space. You needed to breathe. You needed to stop thinking about him.

But apparently, Jensen had other plans. Because the second you opened your trailer door and stepped inside, he was right behind you. Following you inside. Not even asking. Not even hesitating.

You barely turned before the door clicked shut behind him, sealing you alone together in the tiny space. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding, your whole body going rigid as you stared at him.

Jensen’s jaw was tight, his green eyes dark, his hands braced on his hips like he was barely keeping it together. "We need to talk".

You swallowed hard, your back pressing against the small counter behind you as Jensen stood there, taking up too much space, looking at you like he was barely holding himself together. Your pulse hammered in your ears as you mumbled, “We wanted to talk yesterday and ended up—”.

You cut yourself off. Because saying it out loud made it real. Because the second you said it, you would have to acknowledge that talking wasn’t what had happened last night. That whatever this was between you wasn’t going away.

Jensen exhaled through his nose, his hands still firm on his hips, his body tense, his jaw tight. “Yeah”, he muttered, voice rough. “We did”.

You swallowed again, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter, forcing yourself to look at him. “So what do you wanna say now?”.

Jensen ran a hand down his face, inhaling sharply, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. And neither were you.

Jensen stepped forward, just slightly, just enough to make the space even smaller. His voice was low, rough, dangerous. “I don’t know”.

"You’re married, Jensen". The words barely left your lips, your voice barely above a whisper, but they hung between you, heavy, suffocating.

Jensen stilled. His jaw tensed, his hands flexing at his sides like he felt the weight of it, too.

Your breath hitched as the reality of everything you’d been pushing down came crashing in all at once. "I feel so dirty", you whispered, shaking your head, voice cracking as your chest tightened. "So fucking dirty".

Your fingers clenched around the counter behind you, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. "I feel bad, Jensen. I feel so—". You sucked in a sharp breath, your vision blurring, your thoughts spinning. "I never thought I’d be a fucking homewrecker".

Your voice broke on the last word, your stomach twisting, the shame creeping up your throat like something toxic. Because this wasn’t just some affair. This wasn’t some drunken mistake.

This was you—falling for a man who couldn’t be yours. A man who was still going home to his wife.

Before you could spiral any further, before you could push him away, his hands were on you. Big, warm hands wrapping around your arms, steadying you, holding you in place. His grip wasn’t forceful, wasn’t rough, but it was firm—like he wasn’t going to let you drown in this. Like he refused to let you believe that’s what this was.

His voice was low, but strong. "You are not a homewrecker".

You shook your head, your throat burning, but Jensen’s hands tightened, his thumbs brushing over your bare skin.

"Look at me".

You didn’t.

"Look at me, Y/N".

You sucked in a breath, your body trembling, but finally—finally—you lifted your eyes to his.

Jensen exhaled slowly, his fingers still firm on your arms, grounding you, anchoring you. "You didn’t ruin anything that wasn’t already broken".

Your heart pounded. Because it was the first time he had admitted it. The first time he had said it out loud. That his marriage? It was already falling apart.

Your breath hitched, your stomach twisting, because as much as you wanted to believe him—as much as you needed to believe him—something inside you still ached. Because no matter how broken his marriage was, no matter how much he wanted you, it still wasn’t over.

He was still Jensen Ackles. Still a husband. Still a father.

“Y/N”, he murmured, voice softer now, lower. “You really think I’d do this if there was anything left to save?”.

Your stomach dropped. Because fuck—he meant that. The words weren’t just an excuse, weren’t just something he was saying to make you feel better. They were the truth.

You swallowed hard, looking up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. But there was none. Just a man standing in front of you, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him sane right now.

And fuck, that was worse. Because if he had any hesitation, if he had any guilt left, it would be easier to stop this. Easier to pretend this wasn’t what it was.

But instead, Jensen exhaled slowly, his hands sliding from your arms to your waist, holding you there, not pushing, not demanding, just keeping you close.

"But you’re still married". Your voice came out barely above a whisper, but it might as well have been a shout. Because the second the words left your lips, Jensen’s whole body tensed.

His jaw locked, his hands flexing slightly against your hips, his gaze flickering away for just a second—just long enough for you to see the hesitation. “Yeah”, he muttered, voice low, rough, strained. “I am”.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

Did you want him to tell you it didn’t mean anything? That he was leaving her? That you weren’t making the biggest mistake of your life by falling for a man who wasn’t yours to have?

But he didn’t say any of that. Because Jensen wasn’t a liar. Instead, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, looking at you with something achingly raw. “You think I don’t hate myself for this?”, he muttered, shaking his head. “You think I don’t fucking know what this looks like? What it is?”.

Your throat tightened. “Then why did you let it happen?”.

Jensen let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head again. “Let it happen?”. He scoffed, his green eyes dark as they burned into yours. “You really think I had a fucking choice?”.

Your breath caught.

Jensen ran both hands through his hair, his whole body coiled tight like he was holding something in. “I tried, Y/N”, he muttered, voice quieter now. “I tried to push it down, to ignore it, to tell myself it wasn’t real”.

He inhaled sharply, his hands dropping back to his sides, his voice lower.

“But every time I looked at you, every time I touched you, every time I thought about you—”. He let out a slow, shaky breath, his jaw clenching. “It never went away”.

Your heart pounded. You swallowed thickly, your voice shaking. “Jensen—”.

“I know”, he cut in, his voice strained. “I know what this is. I know what it means. I know how fucked up it is”.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his whole body on edge.

“But tell me—”. His voice dropped even lower, his eyes locked onto yours, unblinking. “If I wasn’t married, would you still be running from this?”.

Your breath hitched, your pulse hammering. You didn’t have an answer. Because if he wasn’t married—if there were no vows, no wife, no mess—would you still be standing here, trying to convince yourself this was wrong? Would you still be trying to fight it? Or would you have already fallen?

Your throat tightened, your fingers gripping the counter behind you, your whole body trembling under the weight of his stare. “Jensen…”. You exhaled shakily, looking away, shaking your head. “That’s not the reality”.

Jensen’s jaw flexed, his fists clenching at his sides. “No, it’s not”.

Silence.

Your heart still pounded as you looked back at him, at the way his shoulders were tense, at the way his whole body looked like it was coiled too tight, like he was barely holding himself together. “Then why are you asking me that?”, you whispered, your voice barely steady.

Jensen exhaled harshly, running a hand down his face. “Because I need to know”.

Your stomach twisted.

“Know what?”.

He took a slow, deliberate step closer, closing the space between you again—not touching you, but close enough that you felt it anyway. “If this is just me”, he murmured, voice low, strained. “If I’m the only one losing my fucking mind over this”.

He was not the only one.

Jensen saw it, felt it in the way your body tensed, in the way your lips parted, in the way your chest rose and fell just a little too fast. And for the first time, you saw it—how much this was wrecking him. How much he hated himself for it, how much he had tried to fight it, how much he was still trying to hold on—to what, you weren’t sure.

His marriage? His reputation? His self-control? Or you?

You swallowed hard, your voice barely audible. “You’re not”.

Jensen’s whole body stilled. “What?”.

You inhaled shakily, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “You’re not the only one”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, his head tipping down, his hands gripping his hips like he was trying to steady himself. Like he knew this was bad. Like he knew he should walk away.

But instead, he looked at you. "I like you, Y/N". He took another step closer, his green eyes locked onto yours, serious, weighted, real. "More than I should".

Your chest tightened, your fingers gripping the counter behind you just to stay grounded.

Jensen ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head slightly, like he was still trying to process what the fuck he was even saying. “And with my wife, it’s…”. He trailed off, exhaling heavily, looking away for a brief second before his gaze snapped back to yours. “It’s more to the story”.

Your stomach flipped. You had suspected that much. That it wasn’t as simple as some happy marriage turned bad overnight, that whatever was going on between him and Danneel had been falling apart long before you were ever in the picture.

But hearing him say it?

It made your pulse race, made your breath quicker, made you feel a little less like the terrible person you had convinced yourself you were.

Jensen must’ve seen that flicker of hesitation, because he stepped even closer, his voice dropping to something lower, softer. “I want you to know that you didn’t destroy anything”.

Your throat tightened.

His green eyes darkened, his lips twitching slightly into something that shouldn’t have been a smirk, but was so fucking close to one. “Well”, he murmured, voice rough, teasing, “except sex with anyone else, maybe”.

Your stomach dropped, heat rushing to your face, your entire body going hot at the weight of his words. That was an admission. That wasn’t just some joke.

That was him saying it outright—that no one else had felt like you. That no one else had done to him what you did.

Jensen exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly, his voice low, dangerous, intentional. “You feel it too, don’t you?”.

You didn’t answer, because what the hell were you supposed to say?

Jensen took another step forward, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up just to meet his gaze. His hands flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to touch you, but his eyes—fuck—his eyes told you everything. “Y/N”, Jensen said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “Talk to me”.

Your breath was shaky as you forced yourself to speak. “I don’t know what to say.”

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah. Join the club”.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally, you found your voice. “Jensen, I—”. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to not let them spiral again. “I don’t know what’s happening right now. I don’t know what this is—or what you even want from me”.

Jensen’s jaw tightened, and he ran a hand down his face, exhaling heavily before looking at you again. “I don’t fucking know either”, he admitted, his voice strained, raw, real. “All I know is that I’ve been trying to push this away for weeks, and it’s not working”.

Jensen wasn’t done.

“I know how this looks”, he continued, his voice lower now. “I know what people would think if they knew about this”. He inhaled sharply, stepping even closer, until there was barely a breath of space between you. “But I also know that I can’t fucking pretend anymore”.

Your breath hitched as his fingers finally reached for you, brushing just barely over your wrist. The touch was light, hesitant, but it sent a full-body shiver through you.

“I tried”, he murmured. “I really fucking tried to shake this”.

His fingers slid up your arm, slow, deliberate, until his palm was cupping your jaw. His thumb traced over your cheekbone, his touch gentle but firm, like he was grounding you, like he needed you to hear him.

“I wake up thinking about you”, he admitted, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “I go to bed thinking about you. I get on fucking planes thinking about you”.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, your pulse pounding.

Jensen’s lips parted slightly, his forehead tipping against yours. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do about that”.

Instead of answering, instead of giving in, you let out a shaky breath and whispered, “Jensen… this is a really bad idea”.

Jensen chuckled softly, his breath fanning over your lips. “Yeah”, he murmured. “The worst”.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you stepped away. Because as bad as this was, neither of you wanted to stop.

Jensen's breath was warm against your lips, his fingers still cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing absently over your cheek. Your heart hammered so hard you swore he could hear it.

Just then, his lips brushed against yours, soft at first, just the barest hint of contact, like he was waiting—waiting for you to stop him, waiting for you to tell him this was wrong. But you didn’t.

You leaned in, closing the space between you completely, letting him take. And shit, he did.

Jensen kissed you like he meant it, like he needed it, like he had spent weeks fighting it, only to lose every ounce of self-control the second your lips touched.

His other hand found your waist, pulling you in, pressing your body flush against his. You felt the way his chest rose and fell, the tension in his muscles, the way his hands gripped you like he was afraid you might slip away.

Jensen groaned against your mouth, tilting his head, deepening the kiss, his fingers tightening on your waist. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow. Intentional. Like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. Like he knew this moment couldn’t last.

And maybe it couldn’t.

Maybe this was all it could ever be. A stolen moment. A secret. A mistake you both walked away from.

Or maybe, maybe it was the beginning of something else entirely.

When Jensen finally pulled away, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing uneven, his hands still holding you like he wasn’t ready to let go. And neither were you.

You swallowed, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt, your chest tight.

Jensen exhaled softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "What the fuck are we doing?".

You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes for a second, because fuck, you didn’t have an answer. So instead, you whispered the only truth you knew. "I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop".

"Me neither".

The End.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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