musubi05

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Ashes and Apologies

Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader Summary: The mission went wrong and you're convinced it was your fault. Now you're beating yourself up about it which makes Bucky notice.

Notes: Okay guys, last story for the everyday grind of posting. I'm going to be really busy for a little bit with the start of the school year but i'll do my best to post as much as I can.

The mission was supposed to be routine. Intelligence gathering, minimal contact, in and out without a trace. You'd done it a hundred times before, slipping through shadows like smoke, your footsteps silent on concrete and steel. But this time, everything went wrong.

It started with the guards changing their patrol route fifteen minutes early. Then the security system that was supposed to be down for maintenance came back online just as you were accessing the main server. By the time the alarms started blaring through the building full of innocent people, you were already compromising the entire operation, watching helplessly as your carefully laid plans crumbled around you.

Bucky's voice had crackled through your earpiece, calm but urgent: "Get out of there, now."

But it was too late. The extraction point was blown. The intel was incomplete. Three agents from a allied organization were compromised because of the chaos you'd caused. You'd made it out by the skin of your teeth before the building blew up, Bucky covering your retreat with the kind of precision that reminded you why they called him the Winter Soldier, but the damage was done.

"It wasn't your fault," Steve had said during the debrief, his voice gentle but firm. "Intelligence was wrong about the security schedule. Could have happened to anyone."

But you knew better. You should have been more careful, should have had backup plans for your backup plans. Should have sensed something was off the moment you'd approached the building. The weight of failure settled on your shoulders like a lead blanket, and no amount of reassurance could lift it.

It started three days later. Bucky first noticed when your scream pierced through the walls of the compound at 2:47 AM, sharp and desperate enough to cut through his own restless sleep. He'd been down the hall in seconds, his bare feet silent on the cold floor, but by the time he'd reached your door, the sound had stopped.

He'd stood there for nearly ten minutes, metal hand pressed against the wood, listening to your ragged breathing on the other side. Part of him wanted to knock, to offer the same comfort you'd given him countless times when his own demons came calling. But something held him back—maybe it was the way you'd barely looked at him since the mission, or how you'd flinched when he'd tried to touch your shoulder in the hallway.

The nightmares came every night after that. Sometimes screams, sometimes just the sound of you thrashing against tangled sheets, but always at the same time—2:47 AM, like your subconscious was stuck on repeat, replaying the moment everything went wrong.

Bucky found himself staying awake, waiting for that inevitable sound that meant you were fighting battles in your sleep that he couldn't help you win. He'd gotten used to a lot of sleepless nights over the decades, but these were different. These had him pacing his room like a caged animal, wanting desperately to do something, anything, to take away whatever was eating you alive from the inside.

If the nightmares were bad, the silence during the day was worse.

You'd always been the one to fill comfortable silences with stories, observations, terrible jokes that made him actually laugh despite himself. During missions, you'd keep up a steady stream of commentary that somehow managed to be both professional and entertaining. "Hostile at two o'clock looking very unfriendly," you'd say, or "Note to self: next time we infiltrate a base, remind them to invest in better coffee in their break room."

Now you moved through the compound like a ghost. You still attended briefings, still trained, still did everything that was expected of you, but the light that had always radiated from you had dimmed to barely a flicker. You spoke only when spoken to, and even then, your responses were clipped, professional. The woman who used to tease him about his "old man" references and drag him into ridiculous conversations about whether hot dogs were sandwiches had disappeared, replaced by someone he barely recognized.

It was Nat who pointed it out first, cornering him in the kitchen while you sat at the far end of the breakfast table, mechanically eating cereal and staring at nothing.

"She's not eating enough," Natasha said quietly, her green eyes sharp with concern. "Barely sleeping. And before you ask how I know about the sleeping, the walls aren't that thick, James."

Bucky's jaw tightened. He'd been hoping he was the only one who'd noticed, that maybe he was being overprotective, reading too much into things. But if Nat had picked up on it too...

"Have you tried talking to her?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"She shuts down the moment anyone gets too close to actually talking about what happened. Clint tried yesterday, got about three words in before she found an excuse to leave." Natasha's expression softened slightly. "She'll talk to you, though. She always talks to you."

But that was just it—you weren't talking to him. You weren't talking to anyone, but especially not him. And Bucky was starting to think it wasn't just about the mission. The way you couldn't quite meet his eyes, the way you'd find reasons to leave rooms when he entered them—it felt personal in a way that made his chest tight with panic.

Had he done something wrong during the extraction? Said something in the heat of the moment that had hurt you? The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that somehow, in trying to save you, he'd lost you anyway.

Two weeks after the mission, Bucky found you in the training room at 11 PM, and immediately knew you'd been there for hours. Your hands were wrapped, but he could see the blood seeping through the cloth around your knuckles. The heavy bag swayed violently with each impact, the sound of your fists connecting with leather echoing through the empty room like gunshots.

You were crying.

It was the first real emotion he'd seen from you since everything went to hell, and it broke something in his chest. Your technique was sloppy, wild, like you were trying to beat the guilt out of your own skin. This wasn't training—this was punishment.

He almost went to you then, almost crossed that room and pulled you away from the bag, wrapped you in his arms and told you that whatever you were thinking, whatever you were blaming yourself for, it wasn't worth destroying yourself over. But something in your posture, the desperate way you threw yourself into each punch, told him that you weren't ready. That if he tried to stop you now, you'd just find somewhere else to bleed.

So he watched from the shadows, his heart breaking a little more with each ragged sob that escaped your lips, until you finally collapsed against the bag, your forehead pressed to the leather, your whole body shaking with exhaustion and grief.

You stayed like that for twenty minutes before finally unwrapping your hands and walking out, never knowing he'd been there at all.

It became a routine. Every night after dinner, you'd disappear into the training room and beat yourself bloody. And every night, Bucky would follow, staying just out of sight, making sure you made it back to your room safely. He told himself he was just keeping an eye on you, making sure you didn't hurt yourself too badly, but the truth was more complicated than that.

Watching you fall apart was killing him, but it was the only time he got to see you anymore—really see you, when your guard was down and your pain was honest. It was selfish and probably a little creepy, but he couldn't stop. You'd become his penance, his own form of self-punishment for not knowing how to help you.

The nights stretched into weeks. Your knuckles became a permanent mess of scabs and fresh cuts. You lost weight, the sharp angles of your face becoming more pronounced, your clothes hanging loose on your frame. During the day, you moved like you were underwater, going through the motions of living without any of the substance.

And Bucky watched it all, helpless and heartsick, waiting for something to change, for you to give him an opening, for a miracle that never came.

Until the night you didn't come back.

He'd been waiting in his usual spot near the training room for over an hour. At first, he thought maybe you'd decided to skip a night, finally giving your body the rest it desperately needed. But something felt wrong. You were nothing if not consistent in your self-destruction, and breaking pattern wasn't like you.

By midnight, he was worried. By 1 AM, he was searching the compound. By 2 AM, he was in full panic mode, checking every room, every hiding spot, every place he could think of where you might go to be alone with your demons.

He found you on the roof.

You were sitting on the ledge, your legs dangling over the side, staring out at the city lights below. For one terrible moment, Bucky's heart stopped completely, his mind immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion. But then he saw the way you were sitting—casual, relaxed, like you were just enjoying the view rather than contemplating anything permanent.

Still, he approached carefully, his footsteps deliberately loud on the gravel so you'd hear him coming.

"Hell of a view," he said softly, settling down beside you but staying far enough back from the edge that he wouldn't make you nervous.

You didn't look at him, but your shoulders tensed slightly. "Couldn't sleep."

"Seems to be going around." He studied your profile in the moonlight, taking in the dark circles under your eyes, the hollow set of your cheeks. "You missed your appointment with the punching bag tonight. Starting to think it might file a complaint."

That got a reaction—barely, just the slightest twitch of your lips that might have been the ghost of a smile. But it was more than he'd gotten from you in weeks, so he counted it as a victory.

"Figured my hands could use a break," you said, holding up your bandaged knuckles. Even in the dim light, he could see the blood staining the white cloth.

"Probably a good call." He was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You know, I used to do the same thing. After I got free of HYDRA, when the memories started coming back. I'd find a bag, or a wall, or whatever was handy, and I'd just... let it out. Steve probably replaced more punching bags in those first few months than the rest of the team combined."

You were listening now, he could tell. Your head turned slightly toward him, though you still weren't quite meeting his eyes.

"Did it help?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"For about five minutes. Then I'd remember that the thing I was really angry at, the thing I really wanted to hit, was myself. And you can't punch yourself hard enough to make that feeling go away. Trust me, I tried."

Finally, finally, you looked at him. Your eyes were bright with unshed tears, and the pain in them was so raw, so familiar, that it took everything he had not to reach for you.

"I fucked up, Bucky," you said, and your voice cracked on his name. "I fucked up so badly, and people got hurt because of it, and I can't—I don't know how to live with that."

"People get hurt in this job," he said gently. "You know that. We all know that going in."

"But it was my fault!" The words exploded out of you like they'd been building pressure for weeks. "I should have been more careful, should have had better intel, should have—"

"Should have been psychic?" Bucky interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "Should have been able to see the future? Come on, honey. You're good, but you're not that good."

You shook your head violently, tears finally spilling over. "You don't understand. I was distracted, okay? During the mission, I was... I wasn't thinking about the job. I was thinking about other things, and that split second of not paying attention is what caused everything to go to hell."

Bucky felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What kind of other things?"

You looked away again, your hands clenched into fists in your lap. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why?" The question came out sharper than you'd probably intended, but Bucky could hear the real question underneath: Why do you care? Why are you here? Why won't you just let me hate myself in peace?

He was quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to put into words something he'd been feeling for months but had never been brave enough to say out loud.

"Because I'm in love with you," he said finally, the words coming out quieter than he'd intended but no less true for their softness. "Because watching you tear yourself apart is killing me, and I can't stand by and watch anymore without at least trying to help."

You went very still beside him, and for a moment the only sound was the distant hum of traffic far below.

"That's what I was thinking about," you whispered finally. "During the mission. I was thinking about you, about how you'd been looking at me lately, about whether there was something there or if I was just imagining it. I was thinking about what I'd say if you ever... and then the guards changed their route and I was so busy being distracted by thoughts of you that I missed it."

Bucky felt like he'd been punched in the chest. All this time, he'd been afraid that he'd done something to push you away, when really you'd been blaming yourself for feeling the same way he did.

"So you see?" you continued, your voice getting smaller with each word. "It is my fault. If I'd been focused on the job instead of... instead of personal feelings, none of this would have happened."

"Jesus," Bucky breathed, and then he was moving, sliding closer to you on the ledge, his metal hand coming up to cup your face and turn you toward him. "Sweetheart, no. That's not—you can't blame yourself for being human. For having feelings."

"Three people got compromised because I was daydreaming about my partner like some kind of schoolgirl with a crush," you said bitterly, but you didn't pull away from his touch.

"Three people signed up for this job knowing the risks, just like you did. Just like I did." His thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek, and he was amazed by how right it felt to touch you like this, how perfectly you fit against his palm. "And for what it's worth, you weren't imagining it. The way I've been looking at you, the something you thought might be there—it is. It has been for months."

You searched his face like you were looking for signs that he was lying, that this was some kind of elaborate pity party. But whatever you found there seemed to satisfy you, because some of the tension went out of your shoulders.

"This is a mess," you said, but there was less despair in your voice now, more exhaustion than anything else.

"Yeah, it is," Bucky agreed. "But it's our mess. And messes can be cleaned up."

You were quiet for a while, just looking at him, and he could practically see the wheels turning in your head. Finally, you spoke again, your voice so soft he had to strain to hear it.

"I've been having nightmares. About the mission, about what happened, about all the ways it could have been worse. And in every single one, you don't make it out. You die trying to save me, and it's all my fault."

Bucky's heart clenched. He thought about all those nights he'd stood outside your door, listening to you scream, wishing he could take it away. Now he understood what you'd been screaming about, and it somehow made it worse.

"I'm right here," he said firmly. "I'm fine, you're fine, we both made it out. That's what matters."

"But what if next time—"

"There's no next time," he interrupted. "There's only right now, this moment, you and me on this roof. That's all we can control."

You nodded slowly, like you were trying to convince yourself to believe him. Then, so quietly he almost missed it, you said, "I'm so tired, Bucky. I'm so tired of being angry at myself all the time."

"I know," he said, and he did know, better than most. "I know exactly how that feels. But you don't have to carry it alone anymore, okay? Let me help. Let me share the load."

For the first time in weeks, you really smiled—not the ghost of one, not a pale imitation, but a real, genuine smile that lit up your whole face despite the tears still clinging to your lashes.

"You realize this is probably the worst way to start whatever this is between us," you said, gesturing vaguely to your emotional breakdown and the general mess of the situation.

Bucky laughed, the sound rusty from disuse but real. "Doll, I'm a ninety-something ex-assassin with more baggage than a 747. You having one bad mission doesn't even register on my scale of relationship complications."

That got a genuine laugh out of you, the sound so beautiful after weeks of silence that Bucky wanted to bottle it and save it forever.

"When you put it like that..." you said, and then you were leaning into him, your head finding the space between his shoulder and his neck like it had always belonged there.

He wrapped his arms around you, careful of your injured hands, and for the first time since the mission went sideways, something felt right again. You were still hurt, still dealing with guilt and trauma that wouldn't just disappear overnight, but you weren't dealing with it alone anymore.

"For the record," he said into your hair, "I think about you too. Pretty much constantly, if I'm being honest."

You pulled back to look at him, and there was something lighter in your eyes now, something that looked almost like hope. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, marveling at how such a simple touch could feel so monumental. "And when you're ready—when you've forgiven yourself for being human and making mistakes like the rest of us—I'd like to stop thinking about it and actually full-fill those thoughts about kissing you."

"I'd like that too," you whispered, and leaned back into his embrace.

You stayed like that for a long time, holding each other on the roof under the stars, not talking about the mission or the guilt or the fear, just existing in the same space and breathing the same air. It wasn't a magic cure—Bucky knew better than most that healing wasn't that simple—but it was a start.

And sometimes, a start was enough.

The nightmares still came sometimes, but less frequently now, and when they did, you didn't face them alone. Bucky had moved his room closer to yours (officially for "strategic purposes," though everyone knew better), and on the bad nights, he'd hold you until the shaking stopped and your breathing evened out.

You still trained hard, but the desperate edge was gone. Your knuckles healed. You started eating regular meals again, started talking in briefings, started filling comfortable silences with the stories and observations and terrible jokes that Bucky had missed more than he'd realized.

The guilt wasn't completely gone—Bucky didn't think it ever would be, not entirely. But you'd learned to carry it differently, to let it motivate you to be better rather than destroy you for not being perfect.

And on a Tuesday night in spring, when you were sparring in the training room and you pinned him to the mat with a move he'd taught you, laughing at his expression of mock betrayal, he kissed you for the first time.

It was everything he'd imagined during those long nights of wanting and waiting, and more. You kissed him back like you'd been waiting for it too, like it was something precious you'd been saving up for the right moment.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, and your eyes were bright with something that looked like joy.

"Was it worth the wait?" you asked, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

Bucky smiled, the expression coming easier now than it had in months. "Sweetheart, you're worth waiting a lifetime for."

And as he pulled you down for another kiss, he thought about how sometimes the worst missions led to the best things, how sometimes you had to break apart completely before you could put yourself back together into something stronger.

You'd both been broken, in different ways and for different reasons. But maybe that was okay. Maybe broken things could still be beautiful, still be worth loving, still be worth fighting for.

Maybe broken was just another word for human.

[musubi05]

May I request for Dean Winchester x reader who's insecure about her chest size cuz her boobs are small and she's just relatively flat all around?

Not that she constantly thinks about it or maybe even it's not even that obvious she's insecure but she's really sensitive about it and struggles to feel confident in herself because of it?

╰┈➤ Just The Way You Are

Dean Winchester x reader Summary: After interviewing a stunning witness during a hunt, you can't help but to compare yourself to her. You were just a tiny bit quieter than usual and Dean caught it. Warnings: body insecurities

The interview had gone well – too well, maybe. The witness, Sarah, had been incredibly helpful, providing details about the vengeful spirit that would make the hunt infinitely easier. She was also stunning in that effortless way some women managed – long blonde hair that caught the sunlight streaming through her apartment windows, bright blue eyes, and curves that filled out her sundress perfectly.

You'd tried to focus on taking notes, on the case, on anything other than the way Dean's eyes had lingered just a fraction too long when she'd answered the door. Or how she'd laughed at his jokes, leaning forward in a way that made her cleavage more prominent. Or how small and insignificant you'd felt standing next to her.

"Thank you so much for your time," Dean had said with that charming smile he reserved for witnesses. "If you think of anything else..."

"I'll call," Sarah had promised, her hand briefly touching Dean's arm as she handed him her number – for the case, of course.

The drive back to the motel had been quiet, Sam absorbed in research on his laptop while you stared out the window, arms crossed protectively over your chest. You couldn't stop thinking about the contrast – Sarah's confident posture versus the way you'd found yourself hunching your shoulders, trying to make yourself smaller.

Now the motel room was dimly lit by the flickering neon sign outside, casting shadows across the worn carpet. You sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself as you watched Dean clean his guns at the small table. Sam had gone to grab food, leaving you two alone in the comfortable silence that had become familiar over the months of hunting together.

Dean glanced up, catching your reflective mood. "You okay, sweetheart?"

You nodded quickly, maybe too quickly. "Yeah, just tired."

But Dean Winchester didn't become one of the best hunters alive by missing details. He set down his gun and really looked at you – the way you held yourself, the slight downturn of your lips, how you'd been quieter than usual all day.

"Hey." His voice was softer now as he moved to sit beside you on the bed. "What's really going on?"

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "It's nothing, Dean. Really."

"Uh-huh." He bumped your shoulder gently with his. "And I'm the Pope. Come on, talk to me."

The thing was, you wanted to. Dean had this way of making you feel safe, like you could tell him anything. But this felt too small, too silly to burden him with. Especially when you were surrounded by life-and-death situations every day.

"Sarah," you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "The witness. She was..."

You trailed off, not sure how to articulate the gnawing feeling that had been eating at you since you'd left her apartment. Dean set down the cloth he'd been using to clean his gun, giving you his full attention.

"She was what?"

"Beautiful," you said simply. "Really beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes other women disappear into the wallpaper."

Dean frowned, clearly trying to follow your train of thought. "Okay? And?"

You let out a shaky breath. "And I kept thinking about how I looked standing next to her. How you must have seen the difference between us." You gestured vaguely at your chest, heat flooding your cheeks. "She's everything I'm not. Curvy, confident, the type of woman who fills out a dress the way it's supposed to be filled out."

"Y/n..."

"I saw how you looked at her, Dean. And I don't blame you – I looked at her too. She's the kind of woman men notice. The kind who doesn't have to wonder if she's enough."

Understanding dawned in Dean's green eyes, followed immediately by something that looked almost like anger – not at you, but for you. He moved from the chair to sit beside you on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"Whoa, hold up there." He turned to face you fully. "First of all, yeah, Sarah's attractive. I'm not blind. But you want to know what I was actually thinking when I looked at her?"

You weren't sure you did, but you nodded anyway.

"I was thinking about how she kept interrupting you when you were asking questions. How she barely acknowledged you were there. How she was more interested in flirting than actually helping us solve this case." Dean's jaw clenched slightly. "That's not attractive to me, sweetheart. That's just... shallow."

"But she's—"

"Stop." The word came out sharper than he intended, making you flinch. Dean immediately softened his tone. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. But seriously, Y/n, stop comparing yourself to every other woman we meet."

"It's hard not to," you whispered. "When someone like that exists in the same room as me, I just... I feel invisible. Like I'm not woman enough, not curved enough, not... enough."

"Not enough?" Dean reached out, gently taking your hands and pulling them away from where they were clutching at your sides. "Y/n, you're the most 'enough' person I've ever met."

Despite yourself, you cracked a small smile at his earnest expression.

"There she is," Dean said, his own smile warming his entire face. "Look, I don't know what kind of backwards universe you're living in, but you're not seeing what I see."

"What do you see?" you asked quietly.

"I see the woman who noticed the EMF readings spiked near Sarah's bedroom before I did. I see someone who asked the right questions while I was distracted by..." He paused, looking slightly embarrassed. "Okay, you're right, I was a little distracted at first. But not for the reasons you think."

You raised an eyebrow.

"I was distracted because I kept noticing how she ignored you. How she'd turn her body away from you when you spoke. How she acted like you weren't even there." His voice hardened slightly. "That pissed me off more than I wanted to show."

You blinked in surprise. "Really?"

"Really. And you want to know what else I see when I look at you?" He squeezed your hands. "I see the woman who threw herself between me and a wendigo without hesitation. I see someone who researches for hours to make sure we don't miss anything. I see the person who patches me up after hunts and actually gives a damn if I'm hurt."

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles as he continued. "I see someone beautiful – and before you argue, yeah, physically beautiful too. You think I care about cup sizes or whatever? You think that's what makes someone attractive to me?"

"Most guys—"

"I'm not most guys, sweetheart. And any guy who would make you feel less than perfect doesn't deserve five minutes of your time." His voice was firm, certain. "You're perfect exactly as you are. Every single part of you."

You felt tears prick at your eyes. "You don't have to say that just to make me feel better."

"I'm not." Dean's voice was quiet but intense. "You think I go around telling people they're perfect? Ask Sam – he'll tell you I'm not exactly the touchy-feely type. But with you..." He shook his head. "With you, it's different."

"Different how?"

Dean was quiet for a moment, like he was gathering courage. "Different because I'm crazy about you. Different because every time you doubt yourself, it kills me a little. Different because when I look at you, I see everything I never thought I'd be lucky enough to have."

Your breath caught. "Dean..."

"I mean it, Y/n. All of it." He reached up to cup your face gently. "You want to know what I was really thinking today when I saw you standing next to Sarah? I was thinking how glad I was that you were the one beside me. How she might be pretty, but you're the one who makes me want to be better. You're the one who gets my jokes, who challenges me, who makes me feel like maybe I'm worth something after all."

The sincerity in his eyes was overwhelming. This was Dean Winchester – who fought monsters for a living, who'd been to hell and back, who didn't trust easily or love lightly – looking at you like you hung the stars.

"I've been insecure about it for so long," you whispered. "About not being curvy enough, not being the type of woman who turns heads."

"I know. And I wish I could take that away from you. But maybe... maybe I can help you see yourself differently?"

You leaned into his touch. "How?"

Dean's smile was soft and full of promise. "By showing you every day how absolutely gone I am for you. By making sure you never doubt for a second that you're exactly what I want. By loving every part of you until you can love those parts too."

"You love me?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. I love you. All of you. Especially the parts you think aren't enough – because they're more than enough for me. They're everything."

When he kissed you, it was gentle and reverent, like you were something precious. And for the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt like maybe – just maybe – you were perfect exactly as you were.

[musubi05]

Hiiii could I request some Castiel x Reader?

(I bawled my eyes out from your last post ngl, gonna be rereading that one for a while)

Okay for a little background the reader knows the brothers from previous jobs. They've gotten close enough they just drop by when they have a job close by or just paying a vist.

Okay now the actual scene

Yk how some people greet others with a kiss on the cheek? Yeah, that's how the reader is. So when the brothers drop by to pay a visit or because of another job, reader greets them like they usually do. And just when Dean is about to introduce Cas to reader. Cas leans in a kisses reader on the mouth and thinks he did good.

I feel like this is something Castiel in the earlier seasons would do.

╰┈➤ Greeting Kisses

Castiel x reader Team Free Will x reader (platonic unless it's Cas)

Summary: Castiel misunderstood the cheek kisses but it was worth it for you. Warnings/Notes: None! It's fluff! Yippieee! Also very glad you liked the other Castiel post. Seems like lots of people did so I'm glad I could provide lol.

The familiar rumble of the Impala's engine reached your ears before you even caught sight of the sleek black car pulling into your driveway. You couldn't help but smile as you wiped your hands on a dish towel, abandoning the stack of research books spread across your kitchen table. The Winchester brothers had impeccable timing—you'd just finished brewing a fresh pot of coffee, and the afternoon sun was casting that perfect golden light through your windows that made everything feel warm and welcoming.

You'd known Sam and Dean for about three years now, ever since that messy poltergeist case in Nebraska where you'd accidentally gotten in their way. What should have been an awkward encounter between hunters had instead blossomed into something resembling friendship. They'd saved your life that night, and you'd returned the favor by patching up Dean's dislocated shoulder and providing Sam with some rare lore that had been gathering dust in your personal collection.

Since then, your little house on the outskirts of Lawrence had become something of a waystation for the brothers. Sometimes they'd show up bloodied and exhausted, needing a safe place to recuperate. Other times, like today apparently, they'd drop by just because they were in the neighborhood. You'd grown to cherish these visits—your life as a hunter could be isolating, and having people who understood the weight of the work was invaluable.

The car doors slammed shut in quick succession, and you heard Dean's distinctive laugh carry across the yard. But there was a third voice you didn't recognize—deeper, more measured than Sam's thoughtful tones or Dean's easy banter. A new hunting partner, perhaps? The brothers had mentioned working with other hunters from time to time.

You opened the front door before they could knock, your face already bright with the genuine pleasure you felt at seeing them. "Well, well, if it isn't my favorite pair of troublemakers," you called out, stepping onto the porch.

Dean grinned, that roguish smile that had probably gotten him out of as much trouble as it had gotten him into. "Hey there, sweetheart. Hope you don't mind us dropping by unannounced."

"You know you're always welcome here," you said, meaning every word. You stepped forward to greet Dean first, rising up on your toes to press a gentle kiss to his cheek—a habit you'd picked up during a year abroad in college that had simply stuck. Dean accepted the greeting with practiced ease, having grown accustomed to your European-influenced manners months ago.

You turned to Sam next, who was already leaning down slightly to accommodate the height difference between you. His cheek was warm under your lips, and he smelled faintly of the honey-scented shampoo he favored. "How are you, Sam? You look good—have you been getting enough sleep?"

"More than usual, actually," Sam replied with a soft smile, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "We just wrapped up a pretty straightforward salt-and-burn in Topeka. No complications, no unexpected turns. It was almost boring."

"Boring is good in our line of work," you said, then turned your attention to the third man.

He was standing slightly apart from the brothers, and your first impression was of intensity barely contained. Tall and lean, with dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see everything. There was something otherworldly about the way he held himself—too still, too focused, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. But there was no malice in his gaze as it fixed on you, only curiosity.

His clothing was formal in a way that seemed impractical for hunting—a rumpled beige trench coat over a dark suit and loosened tie. Everything about him suggested someone who existed slightly outside the normal world, which in your experience usually meant one of two things: either he was very good at what he did, or he was completely insane. Possibly both.

"You must be—" you began, stepping toward him with the same welcoming smile you'd given the brothers.

"This is Cas," Dean started to say, gesturing between you and the stranger. "He's—"

But Dean's introduction was cut short as Castiel moved with sudden, decisive action. In one fluid motion, he stepped into your personal space, his large hands coming up to frame your face with surprising gentleness. Before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft but certain, lasting just long enough for you to register the warmth of his mouth and the faint taste of coffee on his breath. His lips were fuller than you would have expected, and there was something almost reverent in the way he kissed you—not passionate exactly, but purposeful, as if this was an important ritual that required his full attention.

When he pulled back, his blue eyes searched your face with what could only be described as satisfaction. "Hello," he said simply, his voice carrying a slight gravelly quality that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "It is good to meet you."

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stood frozen, your lips still tingling from the unexpected contact, trying to process what had just happened. Behind Castiel, you could see Dean's face cycling through several expressions—surprise, amusement, and what might have been secondhand embarrassment. Sam had gone completely still, his eyes wide as he looked between you and Castiel like he was watching a car accident in slow motion.

"Cas," Dean said slowly, his voice carefully controlled in the way that suggested he was trying very hard not to laugh. "What did you just do?"

Castiel turned to look at Dean, his brow furrowing slightly as if the question confused him. "I greeted her," he said matter-of-factly. "As I observed you and Sam doing. Though I believe my execution was more thorough."

"More thorough," Sam repeated faintly, and you caught the way his hand came up to cover his mouth—whether to hide a smile or an expression of horror, you couldn't tell.

"Cas," Dean tried again, running a hand over his face. "Buddy, when we greet her like that, we kiss her cheek. You know, the side of her face? Not her mouth."

The confusion in Castiel's expression deepened, and he looked back at you with what appeared to be genuine concern. "Did I do it incorrectly? You seemed to respond positively to the contact."

Heat flooded your cheeks as you realized he was right—you hadn't pulled away, hadn't protested, had simply stood there and let him kiss you. In fact, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you'd rather enjoyed it. There was something about his complete confidence, his utter lack of self-consciousness, that was oddly appealing.

"I—" you started, then stopped, unsure how to explain that while his technique had been flawless, his understanding of social conventions needed some work. "It's not that you did it wrong, exactly. It's just that usually, when meeting someone for the first time, the cheek kiss is more... appropriate."

"I see," Castiel said, though his expression suggested he didn't see at all. "So the mouth is reserved for more significant relationships?"

"Generally speaking, yes," you managed, acutely aware that Dean was now openly grinning and Sam was making a valiant effort to look anywhere but at you and Castiel.

"Then I have made an error in judgment," Castiel concluded. But instead of looking embarrassed or apologetic, he simply nodded as if filing away this information for future reference. "I apologize for the confusion. Should I greet you again, correctly this time?"

The offer was made with such earnest sincerity that you found yourself charmed despite the awkwardness of the situation. There was something endearing about his complete lack of embarrassment, his willingness to admit mistake and correct it. Most men would have either laughed it off or gotten defensive, but Castiel simply wanted to understand the rules so he could follow them properly.

"That's not necessary," you said quickly, then realized how that might sound. "I mean, the greeting is finished now. We don't need to do it over."

"But it was incorrect," Castiel insisted, his blue eyes fixed on yours with uncomfortable intensity. "I prefer to do things properly."

"Cas," Dean interjected, clapping a hand on the angel's shoulder. "How about we just file this under 'learning experience' and move on? I'm sure our host would like to invite us in sometime today."

You seized on the change of subject gratefully. "Yes, of course! Please, come in. I just made coffee, and I think I have some of that pie you like, Dean."

As you led them toward the house, you were hyperaware of Castiel walking behind you. You could feel his gaze on you, not in a way that made you uncomfortable, but with that same intense focus he'd shown during your unconventional introduction. It was like being studied by a very polite, very attractive scientist.

Your kitchen was large enough to accommodate the three men comfortably, though Castiel seemed to take up more space than his physical form should have allowed. While Sam and Dean settled into their usual chairs at your kitchen table, Castiel remained standing, examining your space with obvious curiosity.

"Please, sit," you offered, gesturing to the remaining chair as you moved to pour coffee. "Make yourself comfortable."

"I do not require comfort," Castiel replied, but he sat anyway, his movements precise and controlled. "However, I will conform to your social expectations."

Dean snorted into his coffee cup. "Don't mind him," he said to you. "Cas is still learning how to people."

"I am not 'learning how to people,'" Castiel corrected with a slight frown. "I am adapting my communication style to better interact with humans in casual social situations."

"Right," Dean said, exchanging a look with Sam. "Totally different thing."

You set a mug of coffee in front of Castiel, noting the way his fingers brushed yours as he accepted it. His skin was warm, warmer than you'd expected, and there was something almost electric about the brief contact. "So," you said, settling into your own chair, "how do you know Sam and Dean?"

The question seemed simple enough, but the look that passed between the three men suggested otherwise. It was Sam who finally answered, his voice careful. "Cas is... he's helped us out on several cases. He's got a unique skill set."

"What kind of skill set?" you asked, genuinely curious. In your experience, hunters were usually eager to share their specialties—whether it was research, specific monster types, or particular weapons. But something in the way they were all looking at each other suggested this wasn't a typical hunting partnership.

"I have extensive knowledge of theological matters," Castiel said after a moment. "And I am... effective in combat situations."

It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. You'd been around hunters long enough to recognize evasion when you heard it. Still, everyone had secrets in this life, and you weren't about to push for information they weren't ready to share.

"Theology can be incredibly useful," you said instead. "I've got a pretty extensive collection of religious texts if you're ever interested. Everything from mainstream Christianity to some pretty obscure Gnostic gospels."

Castiel's eyebrows rose slightly. "You study religious doctrine?"

"Occupational hazard," you replied with a shrug. "Amazing how many monsters have roots in various mythologies and belief systems. I've found that understanding the religious context can be crucial for figuring out how to stop them."

"That is... quite perceptive," Castiel said, and there was something in his voice that suggested genuine respect. "Many humans fail to recognize the connections between their spiritual beliefs and the supernatural entities they encounter."

"Well, I've always been a bit of a research nerd," you said, pleased by his approval in a way that surprised you. "Dean makes fun of me for it, but—"

"I do not make fun," Dean protested. "I appreciate your research skills. I just think you could spend a little less time with your nose in dusty books and a little more time living your life."

"Says the man whose idea of living life is drinking beer and watching Dr. Sexy reruns," you shot back fondly.

"Dr. Sexy is quality television," Dean replied with mock seriousness. "It has everything—medical drama, attractive people, life-or-death situations. What more could you want?"

"A plot that makes sense?" Sam suggested, earning a glare from his brother.

"Your television preferences are... interesting," Castiel observed, his head tilted slightly as he studied Dean. "I do not understand the appeal of fictional medical procedures."

"That's because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life, Cas," Dean said. "Good TV, good food, good music—these are what make life worth living."

"I thought the preservation of human life was what made life worth living," Castiel replied, his expression completely serious.

The comment hung in the air for a moment, carrying more weight than it should have in a casual conversation. You found yourself studying Castiel more closely, noting the way he held himself, the careful way he chose his words, the intensity that seemed to radiate from him even in relaxed moments.

"That too," Dean said finally, his voice softer than before. "Definitely that too."

An comfortable silence settled over the group, and you found yourself refilling coffee cups and cutting generous slices of apple pie to keep your hands busy. There was something about Castiel that made you nervous—not in a bad way, but in the way that meeting someone important might make you nervous. Like you wanted to make a good impression without being entirely sure why.

"So," you said, settling back into your chair with your own slice of pie, "are you boys working a case, or is this just a social visit?"

"Social," Sam said quickly, then glanced at Dean. "Mostly social. We were driving through and thought we'd stop by."

"We wanted to make sure you were okay," Dean added. "You went quiet for a while there, stopped answering texts. Had us worried."

You felt a flush of warmth at their concern. "I'm sorry about that. I was working a case up in Minnesota—turned out to be more complicated than I expected. Spent two weeks in a tiny town with basically no cell service, tracking down what I thought was a simple vengeful spirit."

"What was it actually?" Sam asked, leaning forward with interest.

"Tulpa," you said with a grimace. "Created by a group of teenagers who'd been messing around with some kind of modified séance ritual they found online. Took me forever to figure out why the standard ghost-hunting techniques weren't working."

"Tulpas can be tricky," Castiel said, speaking for the first time in several minutes. "They often manifest with abilities beyond those of typical spirits, depending on the beliefs of their creators."

"Exactly," you said, pleased that he understood. "These kids had watched every horror movie ever made, so their tulpa could do pretty much everything—telekinesis, temperature manipulation, even some limited shapeshifting. It took me three tries to figure out how to disrupt the ritual circle they'd created."

"How did you finally stop it?" Sam asked.

"Convinced the kids to help me," you said. "Turns out, the tulpa was feeding off their fear as much as their belief. Once I got them to understand what they'd created and helped them genuinely want it gone, it was actually pretty easy to dispel."

"Clever," Castiel said, and again you felt that warm glow of approval. "Many hunters would have simply attempted to destroy the entity through force."

"Sometimes force is necessary," you acknowledged. "But I've found that understanding the root cause usually leads to more permanent solutions."

"That's a very mature approach," Sam said approvingly. "A lot of hunters our age are still in the 'kill first, ask questions later' phase."

"Hey," Dean protested. "I ask questions. Sometimes."

"'Where's the thing so I can gank it' doesn't count as asking questions, Dean," Sam replied.

"Does too," Dean muttered, but he was grinning.

You found yourself laughing at their familiar banter, the comfortable rhythm of siblings who'd been teasing each other for decades. But when you glanced at Castiel, you noticed he was watching the exchange with something that looked almost like longing.

"What about you, Castiel?" you asked impulsively. "Do you have any siblings?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His expression went carefully blank, and you saw Sam and Dean exchange another of those meaningful looks.

"I have... had many siblings," Castiel said slowly. "Though our relationships were not like what Sam and Dean share."

There was pain in his voice, carefully controlled but unmistakable. You felt a pang of sympathy, recognizing the tone of someone who'd lost family. In the hunting world, that was unfortunately common.

"I'm sorry," you said gently. "I didn't mean to bring up anything painful."

"It is not painful," Castiel said, though the tightness around his eyes suggested otherwise. "It is simply... complicated."

"Family usually is," you said, thinking of your own complicated history with relatives who couldn't understand your life choices. "But I've found that the family you choose can be just as important as the one you're born into."

You glanced meaningfully at Sam and Dean as you said it, and Dean's expression softened.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It really can be."

Castiel looked between the three of you, and you saw something shift in his expression—a kind of careful hope, as if he was beginning to understand something important.

"The family you choose," he repeated thoughtfully. "I had not considered that perspective."

"It's one of the best parts of this life," you said. "For all the darkness and difficulty, you meet people who understand. People who become... well, who become family."

The afternoon stretched on, conversation flowing more easily as Castiel seemed to relax incrementally. You learned that he was widely read, particularly in theology and philosophy, but had surprising gaps in his knowledge of popular culture. He'd never seen a Disney movie, didn't understand the concept of comfort food, and seemed genuinely puzzled by the idea of doing things simply because they were enjoyable.

"But what is the purpose of recreational activities if they do not contribute to a larger goal?" he asked after Dean had spent ten minutes trying to explain the appeal of fishing.

"The purpose is fun, Cas," Dean said with exaggerated patience. "Relaxation. Taking a break from saving the world."

"But time spent on recreation could be used for more productive activities," Castiel persisted.

"Like what?" you asked, genuinely curious about his perspective.

"Research. Training. Preparing for future threats," Castiel said as if it were obvious.

"And when do you rest?" you asked gently.

Castiel frowned. "I do not require rest in the same way humans do."

"That's not what I meant," you said. "I mean, when do you do things that bring you joy? When do you take time to appreciate beauty, or learn something just because it interests you, not because it's useful?"

The question seemed to genuinely stump him. He sat quietly for a long moment, his blue eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance.

"I... had not considered that such things might be important," he said finally.

"They're not important in a practical sense," you said. "But they're important for the soul. They're what make life worth living, not just worth surviving."

Castiel's gaze snapped to yours, intense and searching. "The soul," he repeated. "You believe humans have souls?"

"Of course," you said, surprised by the question. "Don't you?"

Another loaded look passed between the brothers, and you had the distinct feeling you were missing some crucial piece of information.

"Yes," Castiel said slowly. "I do believe humans have souls. I simply... do not often hear humans speak of them with such certainty."

"Well, in our line of work, you encounter enough evidence to be pretty sure about these things," you said. "Ghosts, demons, the whole spiritual realm—it's hard to deny the existence of souls when you're dealing with them on a regular basis."

"Indeed," Castiel agreed, and there was something almost reverent in his voice.

The conversation moved on, but you noticed Castiel continued to watch you with that intense focus, as if you were a puzzle he was trying to solve. It should have been uncomfortable, but instead you found it oddly flattering. When was the last time someone had paid such complete attention to what you were saying?

As the sun began to set, painting your kitchen in warm golden light, Dean stretched and glanced at his watch.

"We should probably head out soon," he said reluctantly. "Got a long drive ahead of us."

"Where are you headed?" you asked, disappointed that the visit was ending.

"Bobby's," Sam said. "We need to do some research on a case we might be taking in Ohio."

"Well, you're welcome to stay the night if you want," you offered. "I've got a guest room, and the couch is pretty comfortable. Save you guys some driving."

"That's tempting," Dean said, "but we told Bobby we'd be there tonight. Rain check?"

"Of course," you said, standing to walk them out.

The goodbyes were warm but quick—Dean and Sam were obviously eager to get back on the road. But as they headed toward the car, Castiel lingered on your porch.

"Thank you," he said quietly, "for your hospitality. And for your... perspective on family and souls and the importance of joy."

"Thank you for the conversation," you replied. "I hope I'll see you again soon."

"I would like that," Castiel said, and there was something in his voice that made your heart skip a beat.

For a moment, you thought he might lean in again, might attempt another greeting. Instead, he simply nodded and turned to follow Sam and Dean to the car.

You watched from your porch as they drove away, the Impala's taillights disappearing into the growing darkness. It wasn't until they were completely out of sight that you realized you were touching your lips, remembering the unexpected softness of Castiel's mouth against yours.

Something told you that wouldn't be the last time you thought about that kiss, or the intense blue-eyed man who'd delivered it with such innocent confidence. There was something about Castiel that suggested depth beneath the surface, mysteries you found yourself wanting to solve.

As you turned to go back inside, you were already looking forward to the next time the brothers came to visit. And if they happened to bring their mysterious friend with the theological knowledge and the gorgeous eyes, well, that would just be a bonus.

After all, everyone deserved a second chance to make a first impression. Even if the first one had been surprisingly memorable.

[musubi05]

I heard you've started watching Walker. I have a request for you if you'd like to write for him. Could you do something where the reader is Colter Walker's daughter, and Emily was murdered in front of her that night when she was 9 or 10 years old, and now she's a 16 or 17-year-old, very quiet and prone to rage. She's afraid of sudden noises and movements, has nightmares about her mother, and experiences anxiety attacks about what might happen to her father and family. I assume the reader is an only child.

╰┈➤ Still Here

Cordell Walker x daughter!reader Warnings: descriptions of panic attacks / grief of losing a loved one

Notes: Heheheheh been waiting for an excuse to write a Walker story 😫

The coffee mug slipped from your fingers as the front door slammed shut, ceramic shattering against the kitchen floor in a sound that sent your heart racing and your breath catching in your throat. Seven years. Seven years since that night, and sudden noises still made your body betray you.

"Sorry, sweetheart." Your father's voice carried from the entryway, gentle and apologetic. Cordell Walker had learned to move quietly through the house, to announce himself before entering rooms, to speak softly in the mornings. He'd learned a lot of things since you were ten years old and the world had exploded into violence and blood and your mother's scream cut short.

You stood frozen by the kitchen counter, staring down at the broken pieces, your hands trembling slightly. At seventeen, you should have outgrown this. At seventeen, you should have been worried about college applications and prom dates, not whether every unexpected sound meant danger was coming through the door.

"Hey." Your dad appeared in the doorway, his tracker instincts reading the situation immediately. He took in your rigid posture, the broken mug, the way you were breathing just a little too fast. "I'm sorry about the door. Wind caught it."

You nodded, not trusting your voice yet. The rational part of your brain knew it was just the door. The other part—the part that had never quite healed from watching your mother die—was still catching up.

"Sit down. I'll clean this up." Cordell moved slowly, deliberately, keeping his movements visible as he grabbed the broom. It was a dance you'd both learned, this careful choreography of trauma and recovery.

"I'm fine," you finally managed, though you did sink into one of the kitchen chairs. Your voice came out rougher than intended, carrying that edge that had become your default over the years. People at school called you cold, antisocial. They didn't know that every conversation felt like a potential threat, every friendship like another person who could be taken away.

Your father swept up the ceramic pieces with methodical precision. "Bad night?" he asked quietly.

You'd been having the dreams again. Mom calling your name, telling you to run, but your legs wouldn't move. The sound of gunshots. Her hand reaching for you before going still. You'd woken up at 3 AM in a cold sweat, checking and rechecking the locks on all the windows and doors. Then you'd sat in the hallway outside your father's bedroom until dawn, just listening to him breathe, making sure he was still there.

"The usual," you said, which was answer enough. He understood nightmares. He had his own collection.

He finished cleaning and sat across from you at the small kitchen table. The morning light filtered through the kitchen window, highlighting the lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before that night seven years ago. You'd aged him, you knew that. Your trauma had become his burden too.

"I have to go to Montana for a few days. There's a case—"

"No." The word came out sharp, immediate. Your chest tightened as the familiar panic began to claw its way up your throat. "You can't. What if something happens? What if whoever killed Mom comes back? What if they've been watching us, waiting for you to leave? What if—"

"Breathe." His voice was steady, grounding. "Look at me."

You forced yourself to meet his eyes, those same hazel eyes that had held you together through the worst moments of your life. Seven years of just the two of you, seven years of him being the only constant in a world that had proven itself capable of shattering without warning.

The panic attack was building anyway. Your vision started to tunnel, your hands growing cold and numb. You gripped the edge of the table, fighting against the sensation that the world was tilting sideways.

"Count with me," he said, his voice cutting through the static in your head. "Five things you can see."

"The... the coffee maker," you gasped. "Your hands. The window. The salt shaker. The newspaper."

"Good. Four things you can touch."

Your fingers found the smooth wood of the table, the rough denim of your jeans, the cool metal of your bracelet, the soft cotton of your shirt.

"Three things you can hear."

The grandfather clock ticking in the living room. A car driving past on the distant road. Your father's steady breathing.

"Two things you can smell."

Coffee still lingering in the air. The faint scent of your father's aftershave.

"One thing you can taste."

The bitter fear in your mouth slowly faded. "Toothpaste," you whispered.

The panic receded like a tide, leaving you exhausted and embarrassed. At seventeen, you should have better control. At seventeen, you shouldn't need grounding techniques to get through a conversation about your father's job.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded, wiping your palms on your jeans. "I'm sorry. I know you have to work. I know this is important."

"You're more important." The words were simple, matter-of-fact. "You're the most important thing in my world."

That knowledge was both comfort and burden. You were all he had left of the life he'd built before, the family that had been torn apart by violence. Sometimes the weight of being his entire world felt crushing.

"I'll have Liam check on you. And Mrs Henderson next door is always there. And you know the protocols—"

"I know the protocols." Your voice cracked slightly. The protocols: security system armed at all times, check-ins every four hours, never answer the door for strangers, keep the emergency numbers programmed in your phone, always have an escape route planned, never establish predictable routines. A teenager's life built around the reality that evil existed and had already visited your family once.

You'd memorized every exit from every room in the house. You knew which windows opened easiest, which doors could be barricaded, where your father kept his guns. You'd been ten years old when he'd started teaching you these things, ten years old when childhood officially ended.

"Tell me about the case," you said, trying to shift focus away from your own fears. Maybe if you understood what he was walking into, the unknown would feel less threatening.

Cordell hesitated. He'd always tried to shield you from the worst parts of his work, but you weren't a child anymore. "Missing person. A woman. She disappeared from a campground near Glacier National Park."

"Just disappeared?"

"Her car was found abandoned. No signs of struggle, but..." He trailed off, and you could read between the lines. There were always signs if you knew how to look for them. Your father had taught you that too.

"How long has she been missing?"

"Five days."

Five days. In your father's line of work, that was a lifetime. You'd learned enough over the years to know that the first forty-eight hours were critical. After that, the chances of finding someone alive dropped dramatically.

"Her family hired you?"

"Her sister. The local authorities aren't... they're treating it like she just wandered off. But her sister knows better. Says she wouldn't just leave without telling anyone."

You understood that instinct, that bone-deep knowledge that something was wrong even when everyone else insisted everything was fine. You'd felt it the night your mother died, the way the air had felt electric and dangerous hours before the men came to your door.

"You think she's alive?"

Another hesitation. "I don't know. But I have to try."

Of course he did. That was who your father was—the man who found people when no one else could, who brought families closure when the world had forgotten about their missing loved ones. It was noble work, necessary work. It was also dangerous work that took him away from you and put him in the path of the kind of people who killed mothers in front of their children.

"Three days," he said. "I'll call twice a day. And if anything—anything—feels wrong, you call me immediately."

You nodded, already dreading the empty house, the way every shadow would look like a threat, the way you'd probably sleep on the couch with a baseball bat within reach and all the lights on.

"I could come with you," you said quietly, knowing what the answer would be.

"Too dangerous." His response was automatic, protective. "And you have school."

School. Where you sat in the back corner of every classroom with your back to the wall and your eyes on the door. Where you ate lunch alone because making friends meant answering questions about your family, your past, your mother. Where guidance counselors looked at you with concerned expressions and suggested therapy you refused to attend because talking about that night meant reliving it.

Where everyone whispered about Cordell Walker's daughter, the girl who'd seen her mother murdered, the girl who barely spoke and looked at everyone like they might pull a gun. The girl who'd gotten into three fights this year alone, each one triggered by someone coming up behind you too quickly or grabbing your arm without warning.

"I hate school," you said quietly. "I hate pretending to be normal when I'm not. I hate that everyone looks at me like I'm broken."

"You're not broken." His voice was firm. "You're hurt. There's a difference."

"Is there?" The question came out more bitter than you'd intended. "Because it feels the same from where I'm sitting."

You thought about your classmates, going about their normal teenage lives. Worried about tests and crushes and college applications. Planning parties and shopping trips and sleepovers. Living in a world where the worst thing that might happen was failing a quiz or getting grounded.

You couldn't remember what that kind of innocence felt like. Even before that night, you'd been aware of the dangers your father faced in his job. But after... after, you'd learned that danger wasn't something that only existed in his work. It could come to your home, could destroy your family, could turn a normal Tuesday night into a nightmare that would follow you for the rest of your life.

"Tell me about the rage," your father said suddenly.

The request caught you off guard. You looked up sharply, meeting his eyes. "What?"

"You get angry. I can see it sometimes, building up inside you. Tell me about it."

For a moment, you considered deflecting. But something in his expression, patient and understanding, made you want to try putting it into words.

"It's like... it's like there's a fire inside me sometimes," you said slowly. "And it gets so hot I can barely breathe. I want to scream and break things and hurt someone the way we were hurt. I want to find the men who killed Mom and make them pay. I want to stop being afraid all the time, stop jumping at shadows, stop feeling like a victim."

The words came faster now, years of suppressed emotion spilling out.

"I hate that they took her from us. I hate that they took my childhood. I hate that I can't have normal relationships because I'm too scared of losing people. I hate that I can't trust anyone. I hate that I look at every stranger and wonder if they're capable of murder."

Your voice was getting louder, the rage you'd mentioned rising to the surface. "And sometimes I hate you too, because your job is why this happened. Because you're the one who puts yourself in danger every day and leaves me here to worry that you won't come home."

The admission hung in the air between you, raw and honest and terrible. You immediately regretted it, but it was too late to take it back.

Cordell didn't flinch. He'd probably been waiting for you to say it out loud, had probably known you felt it even when you couldn't admit it to yourself.

"That's okay," he said quietly. "That's a normal response to what you've been through. And you're right—my job did make us a target. I've thought about quitting a thousand times."

"But you won't."

"No. Because this is who I am. And because the woman in Montana deserves to be found. Her family deserves answers. Just like you deserved to have your mother's killers brought to justice."

He had been, eventually. Carlos Mendoza confessed to it (a bit to easily in your opinion). He was locked away, but your mother was still dead.

"I know you're angry," he continued. "I know you're scared. I know this isn't the life either of us would have chosen. But we're here, and we're alive, and we have each other. That has to count for something."

You wanted to argue, wanted to point out all the ways this life was insufficient, all the ways trauma had limited your world and your possibilities. But looking at your father's face, seeing the love and concern and exhaustion there, you couldn't bring yourself to be cruel.

"I'm sorry," you said instead. "For what I said about hating you. I don't. I just... I get so scared when you leave."

"I know. And I'm sorry too. Sorry that you have to carry this fear. Sorry that I can't make it better."

"It's not your fault." The words came automatically, because you'd had this conversation before in various forms. It wasn't his fault that monsters existed. It wasn't his fault that one of them had decided your mother was an acceptable casualty. But knowing that didn't make the fear any smaller.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything you couldn't say. That you were terrified every time he left. That you lay awake listening for his truck in the driveway, imagining all the ways his job could go wrong. That sometimes the rage inside you was so fierce you wanted to scream until your throat was raw, wanted to break things until the world felt as shattered on the outside as it did inside your chest.

"Hey." His voice was softer now. "You're stronger than you think. Stronger than I was at your age."

You almost smiled at that. Almost. "You weren't scared of coffee mugs at seventeen."

"No, but I hadn't been through what you've been through." He reached across the table and squeezed your hand briefly. "You survived something terrible, and you're still here. Still fighting. That takes a kind of strength most people never have to find."

The compliment sat uncomfortably, as they always did. You didn't feel strong. You felt broken, held together by routine and hypervigilance and your father's unwavering presence. But maybe that was what strength looked like sometimes—not the absence of fear, but continuing to exist despite it.

"Will you at least text me when you land?" you asked.

"Of course."

"And when you get to the hotel?"

"Yes."

"And when you wake up, and before you go to sleep, and if anything happens, and—"

"I'll text you so much you'll get sick of hearing from me," he promised, and this time you did almost smile.

The rest of the morning passed in careful preparation. Your father packed his bag while you made a list of emergency contacts and double-checked the security system. You tested the panic button he'd had installed in your bedroom, verified that all the windows and doors were secure, and went over the escape routes one more time.

It was a ritual born of necessity, a way of creating the illusion of control in a world that had proven itself to be chaotic and dangerous. You both knew that no amount of preparation could guarantee safety, but going through the motions helped manage the anxiety.

"Liam will be here tonight around seven," your father said, shouldering his duffel bag. "Just to check in, make sure everything's okay."

Liam was one of the few people you could tolerate being around, probably because he never tried to make small talk or ask how you were feeling.

"I know."

"And Mrs. Henderson is expecting you to call her every morning."

"I know."

"And if you have a panic attack, or if the nightmares get bad, you call Dr. Kelly."

Dr. Kelly was the therapist you'd finally agreed to see after the third fight at school. You'd been going for six months now, and while you wouldn't admit it out loud, the sessions had been helping. She understood trauma in a way that felt genuine rather than clinical.

"I know, Dad. I'll be okay."

But even as you said it, you could feel the familiar tightness in your chest starting to build. Three days alone in the house. Three days of every shadow being a potential threat, every noise a reason to grab the baseball bat you kept by your bed.

As your father gathered his things and prepared to leave, you stood at the window watching his truck disappear down the long driveway. The silence of the house settled around you like a familiar weight. Seven years of this life, seven years of being Cordell Walker's daughter, the girl who'd seen too much too young.

☆

The first day was always the hardest. You went through the motions of normalcy—making breakfast, getting ready for school, double-checking that your phone was charged and your emergency contacts were programmed. But underneath the routine, anxiety hummed like a live wire.

At school, you took your usual seat in the back corner of your first-period English class, positioning yourself where you could see both the door and the windows. Mrs. Peterson was discussing symbolism in "The Great Gatsby," but her words washed over you without meaning. Your attention was focused on the hallway outside, listening for any sounds that seemed out of place.

"Miss Walker?" Mrs. Peterson's voice cut through your vigilance. "Would you like to share your thoughts on the green light symbolism?"

Every head in the classroom turned toward you, and you felt heat rise in your cheeks. Being the center of attention always felt dangerous, exposed.

"It represents hope," you said quietly. "Something you can see but can't reach."

"Excellent. And what do you think Fitzgerald is saying about the nature of hope?"

You looked down at your desk, wishing the attention would move away from you. "That it's... that it's usually based on something that doesn't exist. That hoping for things to go back to the way they were is pointless because they never can."

The classroom fell silent, and you realized you'd said too much. Revealed too much of yourself in your interpretation. Mrs. Peterson's expression had shifted from teacher-mode to concerned-adult-mode, and you could practically see her making a mental note to mention this to the guidance counselor.

"That's a very mature interpretation," she said gently. "Though I'd argue that Fitzgerald also suggests that hope, even when it's based on illusion, is what drives us forward."

You didn't respond. In your experience, hope was just another word for setting yourself up for disappointment. Better to expect the worst and be prepared for it than to hope for something better and be blindsided when it didn't come.

The rest of the school day passed in a blur of classes you couldn't focus on and conversations you avoided. At lunch, you sat alone at your usual table in the corner, picking at a sandwich you had no appetite for. Across the cafeteria, you watched groups of friends laughing and talking, and felt the familiar pang of loneliness mixed with relief that you didn't have to maintain those kinds of relationships.

Sarah Martinez approached your table during lunch, her tray in hand and a tentative smile on her face. You tensed immediately. Sarah had been trying to befriend you for months, despite your repeated attempts to discourage her.

"Mind if I sit?" she asked.

"Yes," you said without looking up from your sandwich.

But Sarah sat anyway, either missing or ignoring your hint. "You seem more on edge than usual today. Everything okay?"

The question triggered an immediate spike of irritation. Nothing was okay. Nothing had been okay for seven years. And even if it was, you wouldn't discuss it with someone who barely knew you.

"I'm fine," you said, the words coming out sharper than necessary.

"My mom says your dad's out of town on a case. That must be hard."

The mention of your father sent a jolt of anxiety through you. How did Sarah's mother know about his travel schedule? Who else knew? The questions spiraled quickly in your mind, each one feeding the growing panic.

"Don't," you said, standing abruptly. "Don't talk about my family."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

But you were already walking away, leaving your lunch behind and heading for the bathroom where you could lock yourself in a stall and try to get your breathing under control. The panic attack hit full force this time, your vision tunneling and your hands shaking so badly you could barely get your phone out to call your father.

He answered on the first ring, as he always did when you called during school hours.

"What's wrong?" No hello, no pleasantries. He knew you wouldn't call unless something was seriously wrong.

"I can't... I can't breathe," you gasped. "Sarah Martinez said her mom knows you're out of town and I don't know who else knows and what if someone's been watching the house and—"

"Listen to me." His voice cut through your spiral. "Mrs. Martinez knows because I asked her to keep an eye on things while I'm gone. She's a friend. You're safe."

"But what if—"

"You're safe," he repeated firmly. "Do the breathing exercise. Five counts in, hold for five, five counts out."

You followed his instructions, your breathing slowly returning to normal. Around you, the bathroom felt too small, too enclosed, but the sound of your father's voice made it bearable.

"Better?" he asked after a few minutes.

"Yeah. Sorry. I just... I hate when people know things about us. It feels dangerous."

"I know. But sometimes we have to trust people. Mrs. Martinez has been our neighbor for five years. She's never given us any reason not to trust her."

Logically, you knew he was right. But logic and trauma responses didn't always align. Your brain had learned to categorize everyone as a potential threat, and unlearning that conditioning was an ongoing process.

"How's the case going?" you asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

"I'm following some leads. Can't say much over the phone, but I'm hopeful."

"Be careful."

"Always am. I'll call you tonight after Liam's been by, okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you, kiddo."

"Love you too."

You hung up feeling marginally better, but the rest of the school day was a wash. You couldn't concentrate on anything, jumping at every loud noise and scrutinizing every face in the hallway. By the time the final bell rang, you were exhausted from constantly looking over your shoulder.

The bus ride home was torture. Sitting with your back to other people, unable to see potential threats, while trapped in a metal box that could be targeted or crashed or... You forced yourself to stop that line of thinking and focused on your breathing instead.

When you finally made it home, you went through your security ritual with unusual thoroughness. Checking every window, every door, testing the alarm system twice. Then you called your father to report that you'd made it home safely, made yourself a snack you couldn't eat, and tried to focus on homework that felt meaningless.

Liam arrived at exactly seven o'clock, his knock on the door distinctive enough that you recognized it immediately. Still, you checked the security camera before disarming the alarm and letting him in.

"How're you holding up?" he asked, scanning the living room out of habit.

"I'm okay." It was your standard response, regardless of how you actually felt.

Liam nodded, understanding that you weren't much of a talker. He did a quick walk-through of the house, checking the same things you'd already checked multiple times, then settled in the living room with a book.

"I'll be here until about ten," he said. "Just doing some reading, maybe watching some TV. You don't have to entertain me."

You appreciated that about Liam. He provided security without demanding emotional labor in return. You could exist in the same space without feeling pressured to make conversation or explain your behavior.

The evening passed quietly. You did homework at the kitchen table while Liam read in the living room, the sound of pages turning oddly comforting. Around nine, your father called as promised, and you were able to report that everything was fine.

"Do you want me to spend the night?" Liam asked standing by the front door about to leave as you stood in front of him leaning back against the nearby wall.

You gave him a small smile. Liam was such a great uncle to you, always making sure that you were felt safe but at the same time not babied. "No, I'm okay I promise. Go back to Ben and tell him I said hi."

He chuckled and nodded his head. "Alright, I'll see you later."

"Bye."

After Liam left, the real challenge began. Nighttime was when the house felt most vulnerable, when every shadow seemed to hide a threat and every sound could be someone trying to break in. You went through your bedtime routine mechanically—locking doors, setting the alarm, checking windows, positioning the baseball bat within easy reach.

But sleep didn't come easily. You lay in bed listening to the house settle, interpreting every creak and groan as evidence of danger. Around midnight, you gave up and moved to the couch in the living room, where you had better sight lines and multiple escape routes.

The nightmares, when they finally came, were particularly vivid. Your mother's voice calling your name, the sound of gunshots, the feeling of being frozen in place while danger approached. You woke up gasping and disoriented, the details of the dream clinging to you like cobwebs.

It was going to be a long three days.

But you were still here. Still fighting to get through each moment, each hour, each day. Maybe that was what growing up looked like when your childhood had been cut short by violence—learning to be brave in small moments, learning that survival itself was a form of victory.

You checked the time on your phone: 3:17 AM. In a few hours, your father would call to check in, and you'd be able to hear his voice and know he'd made it through another night safely.

Until then, you'd keep watch. Keep yourself safe. Keep moving forward, one breath at a time.

Still here. Still fighting.

[musubi05]

One Shots

- Cordell Walker x daughter!reader

Still Here (angst)

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Old School Love Letters

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You were just trying to help Bucky clean out his apartment when you found them. Love letters. In a cute old box.

Notes: Doing a little change from Supernatural... Bucky time!!

"This place is smaller than I imagined," you said, brushing your fingers across the windowsill. Dust clung to your skin like a memory.

Bucky let out a half-laugh from behind you. "Yeah… it's not much, but it was quiet. No one really paid attention to me here."

You turned, smiling at the sight of him in a soft gray t-shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His vibranium arm glinted under the fading sunlight as he leaned down to tape a box shut.

"Well, say goodbye to being ignored. The Avengers Compound is the size of an airport and has like - what? Fifty security cameras? You won’t be able to sneeze without someone knowing."

He smirked. "Can't wait."

The two of you had been dancing around something for months now. Your friendship had always been easy - full of sarcastic banter and long nights watching old movies on the Compound’s giant TV - but lately, the air between you had changed. Softer. He lingered longer. You caught his eyes more often. But he hadn’t said anything, and neither had you.

It was supposed to be a normal day. You’d volunteered (been dragged by James) into helping Bucky pack up his tiny Brooklyn apartment to officially move into the Avengers Compound, and the man was not an efficient packer.

"How did you even fit all this in here?" you asked, holding up a third box of old paperbacks.

Bucky shrugged from across the room, folding clothes into a lopsided pile. "Wasn't like I had anything else to do for the last seventy years except collect things and avoid people."

You laughed, throwing a shirt at him. He caught it midair and gave you a rare smile that melted you every single time.

"I mean, fair," you said, "but some of this stuff looks like it belongs in a museum."

"Probably does," he muttered under his breath, half amused, half nostalgic.

The sun was starting to dip lower through the grimy windows, golden light catching in dust particles as you moved an old shoebox off a cluttered shelf. It was plain - worn cardboard, no label - but surprisingly heavy. You sat cross-legged on the floor and pried it open.

Inside were yellowing envelopes, neatly stacked, all addressed to… you.

Your heart skipped.

"Hey, Buck?" you called softly.

He looked up from where he was taping a box labeled 'kitchen?' and saw what you were holding. His eyes went wide, like you'd just uncovered a secret he meant to take to the grave.

"You weren't supposed to find those," he mumbled, looking away, ears turning red.

"They're for me," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, then walked over, crouching beside you. "I wrote them when I couldn't say things out loud. When I didn't know how to tell you what I was feeling… or if I should."

You picked up the top envelope, heart hammering in your chest. The first line on the letter was in his neat, slow handwriting:

I know you’ll probably never read this. Maybe you won’t even want to. But today you smiled at me, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was home.

Tears prickled in your eyes.

"Bucky…" you breathed. Then you read another one:

Y/N, you laughed today when I spilled coffee on my shirt, and I didn’t even mind. That’s how I knew I was gone. I didn’t care about the mess. I only cared that you were laughing.

He gave you a soft smile, a little shy, like the nervousness hadn't completely left his bones even after everything. "I didn't mean for you to find them, but… I'm kinda glad you did."

You set the letter down and looked at him, really looked at him - his steady, storm-blue eyes, the metal arm resting nervously on his knee, his lip between his teeth like he was bracing for rejection.

Instead, you leaned forward and kissed him, slow and certain. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide again but this time for a much better reason.

"You could’ve just told me, you know," you said, voice warm. "I'd have kissed you a long time ago."

"I didn't know if I deserved it yet," he said honestly, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

You smiled, placing the letters gently back in the box.

"Well," you said, standing up and holding out a hand, "good thing you've got a lifetime to figure that out."

He took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

[musubi05]

One Shots

~ Avengers x reader ~

Coming soon...

~ Bucky Barnes x reader ~

Ashes and Apologies (angst)

Old School Love Letters (fluff)

~ Tony Stark x reader ~

Coming soon...

~ Steve Rogers x reader ~

Coming soon...

~ Natasha Romanoff x reader ~

Coming soon...

~ Thunderbolts x reader ~

Coming soon...

[musubi05]

I was the original requester for the platonic cas x reader where he doesn't save us and I just read part two! Its soooo good!!!! Im actually kinda jealous I didn't think to request a part two 😭

Ay your request was so good 😭 there wouldn't have been a part two if you didn't come up with part one. I love writing angst to the max and you set it up amazingly. The one thing that worry me about doing requests is not writing to the requesters expectations. So, I'm glad you liked it!

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Lost and Found

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Dean Winchester x older sister!reader Sam Winchester x older sister!reader Summary: After the coming back with Dean, you have to face Sam now. You have so much to catch up on with him. Warning: talks about death/spoilers in seasons

Notes: I almost forgot to post today 🫢

"Sam," you breathed, your own voice barely audible.

The single tear rolling down his cheek broke something inside your chest. This wasn't the twenty-two-year-old you'd left behind — this was a man who'd been shaped by grief and loss and years of fighting battles you'd never seen. The baby face you remembered was gone, replaced by sharp cheekbones and a jaw that spoke of too many sleepless nights and too much responsibility. But those eyes... God, those eyes were still the same warm hazel that had looked up at you with such trust when he was little.

For a moment, nobody moved. The three of you stood frozen — Sam staring at you like you were a mirage, Dean watching both of you with barely contained emotion, and you trying to reconcile this grown man with the kid brother who used to crawl into your bed during thunderstorms.

Then Sam's knees nearly buckled, and he had to reach out and brace himself against the wall. "This isn't... you're not..." He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut tight before opening them again, like he was trying to wake himself up from a dream. "You're dead. I watched Dean carry your body. I lit the pyre. I scattered your ashes."

His voice broke on the last word, and you could see him struggling to breathe. Dean stepped forward, ready to catch his little brother if he fell, but you were already moving.

"Sammy." The childhood nickname slipped out without thought, and it hit him like a physical blow. You crossed the distance between you in three quick steps, your hands reaching up to cup his face. He was so much taller now that you had to stretch to reach him, and that realization made your heart ache. "Hey, look at me. I'm real. I'm here."

His hands came up to cover yours, and they were so much bigger than you remembered — calloused from years of handling weapons, marked with scars you didn't recognize. His touch was desperate, like he was afraid you'd evaporate under his fingers.

"How?" he whispered, leaning into your touch like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. "How is this possible?"

"Amara," Dean said quietly from behind you. "She brought Y/n back."

Sam's eyes snapped to his brother, then back to you. "The Darkness? But why would she—"

"I don't know," you said softly, your thumbs brushing away the tears that were now flowing freely down his cheeks. "I don't know why, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

That seemed to break whatever dam he'd been holding back. Sam's face crumpled, and he pulled you into his arms so suddenly and so tightly that it knocked the breath from your lungs. His embrace was different from Dean's — where Dean had held you like he was afraid you'd disappear, Sam held you like he was trying to convince himself you were real. His whole body was shaking, and you could feel his tears soaking into your hair as he buried his face against the top of your head.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, the words muffled. "I'm so sorry, Y/n. I should have been faster. I should have gotten to you sooner. I should have—"

"Stop," you said firmly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. Your hands moved to frame his face again, and you could see so much pain in his eyes that it took your breath away. "Whatever you're thinking, whatever you've been telling yourself for eight years — stop. It wasn't your fault."

"But if I had just—"

"Samuel Winchester, look at me." Your voice carried that authoritative tone that used to make him straighten up when he was being stubborn about homework. It still worked — his mouth snapped shut, and he met your gaze. "You were twenty-two years old. You were a baby. It was not your job to save me."

"You saved us," he whispered. "Every day, you saved us. And when it mattered most, when you needed saving, I couldn't—"

"You did save me." The words came out with such conviction that both brothers stared at you. "Every night I spent in Heaven, every moment of peace I had — that was because I knew you two were okay. Because I knew I'd raised you right, and you'd take care of each other. That's what saved me, Sam. Knowing that my baby brothers would be alright."

Sam made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "Baby brothers. God, I missed that. I missed you calling us that."

"Well, you'll always be my baby brothers. Even if you're both giants now." You had to crane your neck to look at him properly, and it made you laugh through your own tears. "Jesus, Sam, what have you been eating? You're enormous."

That got a watery chuckle out of him. "Salads, mostly. Dean thinks I'm crazy."

"You are crazy," Dean said from behind you, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Nobody eats that much rabbit food willingly."

"I like vegetables," Sam protested, and for a moment, he sounded exactly like the kid you remembered — defensive and a little pouty when his older siblings ganged up on him.

"I know you do, Sammy." You reached up and ruffled his hair, or tried to. It was longer than it had ever been, pulled back in a way that actually did make him look distinguished. "I see you kept the mop. Looks good on you."

His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. "You think so? Dean's been trying to get me to cut it for years."

"Don't you dare. I like it." You ran your fingers through the length of it, amazed at how soft it still was. "Makes you look wise. Scholarly."

"See?" Sam looked over your shoulder at Dean with a triumphant expression. "Y/n likes it."

"Y/n used to think your dinosaur obsession was cool too," Dean shot back. "Doesn't mean it wasn't weird."

"Hey, dinosaurs are awesome," you said, defending Sam like you always had. "And so is the hair."

Sam's laugh was pure joy, and you realized how long it had been since you'd heard that sound. In the months before you'd died, his laughter had become rare, weighed down by the pressure of hunting and the knowledge of what was coming with being involved with the yellow eyed demon's plan you'd been trying to prevent. But this laugh was free and genuine, and it made your heart soar.

"I can't believe you're here," he said, his hands still resting on your arms like he was afraid to let go. "I can't believe you're actually here. Do you know how many times I dreamed about this? How many times I wished..."

His voice trailed off, and you could see the guilt creeping back into his expression. You'd seen that look on his face before — usually when he was blaming himself for something that was completely out of his control.

"How many times you wished what?" you prompted gently.

"That it had been me instead," he finished quietly. "That I was the one who died, and you were the one who had to live with it."

Your heart broke all over again. "Oh, Sammy."

"I know it's selfish," he continued, the words tumbling out like he'd been holding them back for years. "I know it's wrong. But I used to lie awake at night thinking about how much better you would have been at taking care of Dean. How much better you would have been at making the hard choices, at keeping us together. I was never supposed to be the older brother. That was your job."

"No," you said firmly. "No, that was never your job. That was never supposed to be anyone's job. We all did the best we could with the hand we were dealt."

You glanced over at Dean, who was watching the exchange with an expression of pain and understanding. He knew exactly what Sam was talking about — the crushing weight of responsibility that had been thrown on him when you died.

"But you want to know something?" you continued, turning back to Sam. "From what Dean's told me, from what I can see right now, you did just fine. You kept each other alive. You kept fighting. You never gave up. That's all anyone could ask for."

Sam shook his head. "You don't understand. The things we've done, the choices we've made... Some of them were so wrong, Y/n. We've made so many mistakes."

"We all have," you said simply. "Making mistakes doesn't make you less worthy of love, Sam. It makes you human."

He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see him struggling with something. Finally, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I started the apocalypse."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with shame and self-recrimination. You could feel Dean tense behind you, and you knew this was something they'd talked about before, probably more than once.

"What do you mean?" you asked quietly.

"Ruby," he said, and the name came out like a curse. "I trusted a demon. I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was saving people. But all I did was break the final seal and let Lucifer out of his cage."

You absorbed this information, turning it over in your mind. The Sam you'd known had always been trusting, sometimes to a fault. He'd always wanted to see the best in people, even when they didn't deserve it. That a demon had been able to manipulate that trust... it hurt, but it didn't surprise you.

"How old were you?" you asked.

"Twenty-five."

"And you were grieving."

"That's not an excuse—"

"It's not an excuse," you agreed. "It's context. You were twenty-five years old, you'd lost your sister, your father and just recently your brother, you were trying to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, and someone came along and told you exactly what you wanted to hear. That doesn't make it right, but it makes it understandable."

Sam's eyes filled with tears again. "People died because of my choices. Millions of people."

"And how many people are alive because you helped stop the apocalypse you accidentally started?" you countered. "Because I'm betting you didn't just break the world and walk away. I'm betting you fought like hell to fix it."

"We did," Dean said quietly. "Sam jumped into the cage with Lucifer to stop the apocalypse. He was willing to be trapped in Hell for eternity to save the world."

Your breath caught. "You what?"

Sam looked uncomfortable. "It was the only way—"

"You were willing to go to Hell. Forever."

"Someone had to—"

"Stop." You held up a hand, and he fell silent. "Just... stop. Both of you, stop with the 'someone had to' bullshit. You were kids. You're still kids, even now. And you've been carrying the weight of the entire world on your shoulders for years."

You looked between your brothers — because that's what they were, even if they were both taller than you now, even if they were both scarred by battles you'd never fought — and you felt a fierce protectiveness rise up in your chest.

"I don't care what you've done," you said firmly. "I don't care what mistakes you've made or what consequences you've faced. You're my brothers, and I love you, and I'm proud of you. Both of you."

Sam let out a shaky breath. "How can you say that? You don't know—"

"I know enough," you interrupted. "I know that you've spent nine years fighting monsters and saving people. I know that you've died and come back and kept going anyway. I know that you've made hard choices and lived with the consequences and never stopped trying to do better. That's all I need to know."

You reached for Dean with one hand while keeping the other on Sam's arm, pulling them both closer. "I know that my baby brothers grew up to be good men. That's all that matters to me."

For a moment, you stood there in the bunker's library, holding onto both of them while they processed your words. The coffee Sam had dropped had left a dark stain on the floor, and there were books scattered on the table behind him where he'd been researching something. The space was warm and lived-in, and it felt like home in a way that motel rooms and the Impala's backseat never quite had.

"I missed so much," you said softly. "Nine years of your lives. I missed watching you grow up, missed being there when you needed me. I missed birthdays and holidays and probably a thousand little moments that mattered."

"We missed you too," Sam said. "Every day. Dean kept your journal, you know. And that bracelet you made me when I was twelve — I still have it. It's in my room."

Your eyes widened. "You kept it? That ugly friendship bracelet I made out of embroidery floss?"

"It wasn't ugly," he protested. "And yeah, I kept it. I... I wore it for a while, after you died. Until the colors faded and the strings started breaking. But I couldn't throw it away."

"I'll make you a new one," you promised, and his smile was brilliant.

"I'd like that."

Dean cleared his throat. "Okay, this is getting way too sentimental for me. Sam, quit crying on Y/n and help me figure out what we're gonna do about sleeping arrangements. The bunker's got plenty of rooms, but we have to wash the sheets. It takes some time."

"I can take the couch for tonight," you offered, but both brothers immediately protested.

"Like hell," Dean said.

"You're taking my room," Sam added. "I'll sleep in the library. I fall asleep at the table half the time anyway."

"I'm not kicking you out of your own room, Sam."

"Yes, you are," he said firmly. "Besides, I want to show it to you. I've got pictures up — some of the ones Dean mentioned. And books. So many books, Y/n. You're going to love it here."

His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself smiling despite your exhaustion. "Okay. Show me around, then. I want to see everything."

Sam's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Really? Okay, come on. The library's just the beginning. Wait until you see the map room. And the kitchen — we have a real kitchen now, with a stove and everything. And the dungeon—"

"Dungeon?" you interrupted.

"For monsters," Dean explained casually. "Sometimes we need to question them before we gank them."

"Right. Of course. Dungeon for monster interrogation. Why wouldn't you have one of those?"

Sam laughed. "It's actually pretty cool. Very medieval. You'll like the sigils — they're carved right into the walls."

As Sam led you deeper into the bunker, chattering about warding and storage rooms and the shower that had actual water pressure, you caught Dean hanging back, watching the two of you with an expression of contentment you hadn't seen on his face in... well, nine years.

"You coming?" you called back to him.

"Yeah," he said, and his smile was soft. "Yeah, I'm coming."

The tour took an hour. Sam showed you everything — the war room with its glowing map table, the kitchen with its industrial-sized refrigerator, the armory with enough weapons to stock a small army, the library with its thousands of books on every supernatural subject imaginable. He was like a kid showing off a treehouse, proud and excited and so genuinely happy that it made your chest ache.

When you finally reached his room, you understood why he'd wanted to show it to you. The walls were covered with photographs — some you recognized from childhood, others that had clearly been taken in the years since your death. There was one of Dean sleeping in the Impala, his face younger and less lined than it was now. Another of Sam himself, grinning at the camera while holding up a college diploma. And there, in a place of honor on his nightstand, was a picture of all three of you from Sam's high school graduation.

"I remember this," you said softly, picking up the frame. In the photo, Sam was wearing his cap and gown, practically glowing with pride. Dean was on his right, looking uncomfortable in a button-down shirt but smiling genuinely. And you were on Sam's left, your arm around his shoulders, beaming like you'd never been prouder of anything in your life.

"It was the last picture we took together," Sam said quietly. "Before everything went to hell."

You studied your face in the photograph — young and optimistic, with no idea what was coming. The John and Sam fight. The 'Dad hasn't been home in a few days' talk. The wendigos. The magic powered kids. The vampire nest. The throat-slitting. The nine years of absence that followed.

"We'll take new ones," you said, setting the frame back down. "Better ones."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Sam's smile could have powered the entire bunker. "Good. Because I want to remember this. All of it. I don't ever want to forget what it feels like to have you back."

Later, after Sam had reluctantly agreed to let you take his room and Dean had disappeared to get some sleep of his own, you found yourself sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, staring at the collection of books on his shelves. Law books, classics, lore texts — it was eclectic and intellectual and so perfectly Sam that it made your heart swell.

There was a soft knock on the door. "Y/n? You okay?"

You looked up to find Sam hovering in the doorway, clearly reluctant to leave you alone even though it was well past midnight.

"I'm okay," you said. "Just processing. This is a lot to take in."

"I know. I'm sorry, I probably overwhelmed you with the tour. I just... I wanted you to see everything. I wanted you to know that we're okay. That we found a real home."

"I can see that," you said gently. "And Sam? You didn't overwhelm me. I loved seeing it all. I loved seeing how happy you are here."

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "Can I... can I stay for a little while? I know you're tired, but I'm not ready to let you out of my sight yet. I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and this will all have been a dream."

Your heart melted. "Of course you can stay."

He settled into the chair by his desk, pulling it closer to the bed. For a few minutes, you sat in comfortable silence, just looking at each other. You were cataloging the changes in his face — the way his jaw had filled out, the small scar by his left ear that hadn't been there before, the laugh lines around his eyes that spoke of happiness despite everything he'd been through.

"Can I ask you something?" he said finally.

"Anything."

"What was it like? Being dead?"

You considered the question carefully. "Peaceful," you said eventually. "It was... warm. Safe. Like being wrapped in the most comfortable blanket you can imagine, but for your soul instead of your body. Time didn't work the same way. Sometimes it felt like minutes, sometimes like centuries, but none of it mattered because I was content."

"Were you... were you watching us?"

"Not exactly. I knew you were okay — I could feel it, somehow. But I couldn't see what you were doing or intervene in your lives. It was more like... like knowing that somewhere in the world, the people you love are breathing and laughing and living their lives. You can't see them, but you know they're there."

Sam nodded slowly. "I used to wonder about that. Whether you could see us. Whether you knew how much we missed you."

"I knew," you said softly. "I felt that too. Your grief, your love — it followed me even to Heaven. It was like having a piece of you with me always."

"I'm glad," he said, and there were tears in his eyes again. "I'm glad you knew we never forgot you."

"How could I not know? You were my whole world, Sam. You and Dean both. You still are."

He was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. "I used to talk to you. Every night for the first year after you died, I'd tell you about my day. About cases we worked, about Dean, about stupid things like the weather or what I had for dinner. I felt crazy doing it, but I couldn't stop."

"You weren't crazy. And I heard you, in my own way. Maybe not the words, but the love behind them — that came through loud and clear."

Sam wiped at his eyes. "God, I can't stop crying. I'm supposed to be the tough hunter now, and I'm falling apart."

"You're not falling apart," you said firmly. "You're feeling things. There's nothing wrong with that. And for the record, you've always been tough. Tough enough to survive losing me, tough enough to keep Dean together, tough enough to save the world multiple times. A few tears don't change that."

"You really think I turned out okay?" The question was vulnerable, uncertain in a way that broke your heart.

"Sam Winchester, I think you turned out better than okay. I think you turned out extraordinary."

His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. "I love you, Y/n. I missed you so much."

"I love you too, baby brother. And I'm never leaving you again."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

As Sam finally settled in to sleep in the chair beside your bed, refusing to leave you alone on your first night back, you found yourself staring up at the ceiling of what was now your room. Nine years. Nine years of life you'd missed, of growing up you'd watched from a distance, of pain and joy and everyday moments that had shaped your brothers into the men they were now.

But they were still yours. Still your baby brothers, even if they towered over you now. Still the kids you'd sung to sleep and helped with homework and protected from monsters both real and imagined.

And tomorrow, you'd start learning how to be their sister again. How to fit into the lives they'd built without you. How to help carry the weight they'd been shouldering alone.

Tonight, though, you were content to listen to Sam's quiet breathing and know that your family was whole again. That whatever came next, you'd face it together.

Just like it was always meant to be.

[musubi05]

Look. I was over myself while reading that team free will where Cas didn't save us. We (yes we) need an ABSOLUTE PART TWO. because you write it the BEST. I ain't joking I am giggling whenever I'm reading ur stories because I love them. I hope u had an amazing trip and rest well. Have an lovely day as yourself!

╰┈➤ Crashing Down

Part 1 Part 2 Team Free Will x winchester!sister reader Summary: You got kidnapped so you called that one person you thought would come immediately. Did that person- angel come? No and it ruined everything. Maybe it was time to forgive after two long months. Warnings: torture/angst/betrayal/yelling Notes: I was actually dying laughing while reading this request. Y'all are so funny, I can't. I had the best trip ever to end the summer. I had no idea if you guys were looking for a happy ending to this story or not buuuutt I decided to give it to y'all.

The scars on your arms have faded to thin silver lines, barely visible unless you know where to look. You trace one absently as you sit in the bunker's kitchen, nursing your third cup of coffee and pretending to read case files. It's become a habit—this unconscious mapping of healed wounds—and you're not sure when it started or why you can't seem to stop.

Dean thinks you're punishing yourself. Sam thinks you're processing trauma. You think you're just tired of pretending everything is fine when it's not.

Two months of careful politeness. Two months of civil conversation and shared meals where everyone talks around the elephant in the room. Two months of Castiel trying so hard to prove he cares that it almost hurts to watch.

He brings you tea every morning now—chamomile with honey, the way you like it. He researches cases for you without being asked. He hovers at a respectful distance during hunts, close enough to help but far enough away that you don't feel trapped. He never tries to heal you anymore, not even small cuts and bruises that would be so easy to fix with a touch.

The other day, he spent six hours in a library in Detroit, tracking down an obscure text about banshee lore because you'd mentioned needing it for a case. When he returned, windswept and slightly dusty, he'd simply placed the book on your desk with a small note: "Thought this might help. -C"

You'd stared at that note for twenty minutes, trying to figure out what you felt. Gratitude, maybe. Or frustration. Or something more complicated that you weren't ready to name.

The thing is, you want to forgive him. The anger that burned so bright two months ago has settled into something duller, more manageable. Exhaustion, maybe. It's hard to stay furious when someone is trying so desperately to make amends, when they look like a kicked puppy every time you enter a room.

But forgiveness feels like betrayal—of yourself, of the girl who screamed his name until her voice gave out. How do you forgive someone for not caring enough to save you? How do you trust someone who has to consciously remember that you matter?

"You're thinking too loud," Dean says, sliding into the seat across from you. "I can hear your brain from the garage."

"Sorry." You don't look up from the case file you're not actually reading. "I'll try to think quieter."

"Smart ass." But there's fondness in his voice. "What's eating you?"

You consider lying, deflecting with humor the way you've been doing for weeks. Instead, you find yourself telling the truth.

"I think I want to forgive him."

Dean doesn't need to ask who you mean. "But?"

"But I don't know how. And I don't know if I should." You finally look up, meeting his green eyes. "What if I forgive him and then something happens again? What if next time—"

"Hey." Dean reaches across the table, covering your hand with his. "There's not gonna be a next time."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do." His voice is firm, certain. "Because Cas learned his lesson. Trust me, he's not making that mistake again."

"How can you be sure?"

Dean is quiet for a long moment, considering his words carefully. "Because I've never seen him hate himself more than he does right now. And I've seen Cas go through some pretty heavy guilt trips."

You think about that—about the way Castiel's shoulders have permanently curved inward, like he's trying to make himself smaller. About the careful way he moves around you, like you're made of glass. About the desperate hope in his eyes every time you don't immediately leave a room when he enters.

"He asked me yesterday if I thought you'd ever forgive him," Dean continues. "First time he's brought it up directly."

"What did you tell him?"

"That it wasn't up to me." Dean squeezes your hand. "But if you want my opinion? I think you've both suffered enough. And I think he'd rather cut off his own wings than hurt you again."

Before you can respond, Sam appears in the doorway, laptop tucked under his arm and that particular expression on his face that means he's found something interesting.

"We've got a case," he announces. "Possible angel activity in Colorado. Witnesses report a man in a trench coat performing 'miracles'—healing the sick, bringing dying plants back to life, that sort of thing."

You and Dean exchange glances. "Gabriel?" you ask.

"That's what I'm thinking. The descriptions match, and Colorado's where we last tracked him." Sam sets his laptop on the table, turning it so you can see the screen. "Small town called Cedar Ridge. Population about three thousand, so if it is Gabriel, he's not exactly keeping a low profile."

"Could be a trap," Dean points out. "Demons might still be looking for him."

"Maybe. But if it is Gabriel and he's out in the open like this..." Sam shrugs. "He might need help considering he never just heals people out of the kindness in his heart."

The irony isn't lost on you—Gabriel, the archangel who'd helped your family countless times, who'd died for them and somehow returned, who'd been hiding for months because demons wanted to use you to find him. The same Gabriel whose location you'd protected even under torture, even when staying silent meant screaming for an angel who wouldn't come.

"I'll get Cas," Dean says, starting to stand.

"No." The word comes out sharper than you intended, and both brothers look at you in surprise. "I mean... let me. Let me talk to him."

Dean's eyebrows raise slightly, but he settles back into his chair. "You sure?"

Are you sure? You're not sure of anything anymore. But maybe that's the point. Maybe forgiveness isn't about being sure. Maybe it's about taking a leap of faith, even when you don't know where you'll land.

"Yeah," you say, standing and smoothing down your shirt. "It's time."

You find Castiel in the library, surrounded by books about angel lore and divine grace. He's been researching obsessively lately—not for cases, but for himself. Trying to understand his own nature, his connection to prayer, the mechanics of how he hears and responds to calls for help. As if understanding the technical aspects might somehow undo what happened.

He looks up when you enter, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. It's the first time in two months that you've sought him out deliberately, and you can see the surprise and hope warring in his expression.

"We have a case," you say, your voice carefully neutral. "Possible Gabriel sighting in Colorado."

Castiel straightens, instantly alert. "Gabriel? Are you certain?"

"Not certain, but likely. Someone matching his description has been performing public miracles in a small town called Cedar Ridge." You hesitate, then take a step closer. "We think he might need help."

"Of course. I'll prepare to leave immediately." Castiel starts to rise, then stops, uncertainty flickering across his features. "That is... do you want me to come? I understand if you'd prefer I remain here while you and your brothers—"

"Cas." You cut him off gently, and the use of his nickname—the first time you've said it in two months—makes him go very still. "I want you to come."

Something shifts in his expression, hope blooming cautiously in his blue eyes. "You do?"

"I do." You take another step closer, close enough now that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tired lines around his eyes. He looks like he hasn't been sleeping, which is ridiculous because angels don't need sleep. But somehow, Castiel has always been more human than he cares to admit.

"There's something else," you continue, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Something we need to talk about. But not here. Not now. After the case, when we get back..."

"Yes," he says immediately, eagerly. "Yes, we can talk about whatever you need to discuss."

You study his face—the desperate hope there, the careful way he's holding himself like he's afraid sudden movement might spook you. Two months ago, you would have seen manipulation in that expression. Now, you just see exhaustion. A tired angel who's been carrying guilt like a stone in his chest, who's been trying so hard to earn forgiveness that he's forgotten how to simply exist.

"Cas?" Your voice is softer now, gentler.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For the tea, and the books, and... all of it. I know you've been trying, and I want you to know that I see it."

For a moment, you think he might cry. His eyes shine with something that looks suspiciously like tears, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion.

"I would do anything to undo what happened. To be the angel you needed me to be."

"I know," you say simply. "And maybe that's enough."

It's not forgiveness, not yet. But it's something. A crack in the wall you've built between you, a possibility of something more. And for now, that feels like enough.

"Come on," you say, turning toward the door. "Let's go save an archangel."

As you walk away, you hear Castiel's footsteps behind you—not the careful, distant following of the last two months, but the confident stride of someone who knows their place in the formation. Someone who belongs.

It's a small thing, but somehow, it feels like everything.

Later, in the Impala:

You're in the backseat with Castiel for the first time since the warehouse. Not by design, exactly—Sam called shotgun before you could claim it—but not entirely by accident either. There's enough space between you that you're not touching, but you're close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him.

"So what's the plan when we get there?" Dean asks, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Walk up and knock on Gabriel's door? Assuming we can find him."

"Gabriel's not exactly subtle when he wants to be found," you point out. "If he's performing public miracles, he wants someone to notice. The question is whether he wants us specifically, or if he's trying to draw out someone else."

"The demons who were looking for him are dead," Castiel says. "You made sure of that when you refused to give them his location."

There's something in his voice—gratitude, maybe, or respect. Recognition of the sacrifice you made, the pain you endured to protect someone else. It's the first time he's directly acknowledged what happened in the warehouse, and the words settle something anxious in your chest.

"Gabriel's family," you say simply. "You protect family."

In your peripheral vision, you see Castiel turn to look at you, but you keep your gaze fixed on the passing landscape outside the window.

"Yes," he says quietly. "You do."

The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence, broken only by Dean's occasional commentary about other drivers and Sam's periodic updates on the case. It's normal, familiar—the four of you heading toward danger together, each lost in their own thoughts but united in purpose.

It feels like coming home.

Cedar Ridge, Colorado - That Evening:

Gabriel is exactly where you expected to find him—holding court in the town's only diner, surrounded by locals eager to hear about his latest "miracle." He's wearing the same face he always does, sandy hair and mischievous eyes, but something about him seems different. More settled, maybe. Less frantic.

"Well, well," he grins when he spots your group in the doorway. "If it isn't the Winchester family reunion. And Castiel! Looking appropriately brooding, I see."

"Gabriel." Castiel's voice is carefully neutral. "We need to talk."

"Oh, do we now?" Gabriel's grin widens, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. "What about? My sudden career change to small-town faith healer? My complete abandonment of stealth and self-preservation? Or maybe..." His gaze shifts to you, and his expression grows more serious. "Maybe you want to talk about why little Winchester here looks like she's been through hell."

The diner falls silent, locals suddenly very interested in their coffee cups. You feel heat rise in your cheeks, aware of the scars on your arms hidden beneath your jacket sleeves.

"Outside," Dean says firmly. "Now."

Gabriel shrugs, tossing a twenty on the table. "Fair enough. But I'm buying everyone pie first. Can't have a Winchester family meeting without pie."

Twenty minutes later, you're gathered around a picnic table behind the diner, the smell of apple pie mixing with the mountain air. Gabriel's demeanor has shifted from performative cheer to something more genuine, more concerned.

"So," he says, cutting straight to the point in a way that's very un-Gabriel-like. "Someone want to tell me why my favorite little Winchester looks like she's been wrestling with demons? Literally, by the smell of it."

"How did you—" you start, but Gabriel waves a hand.

"Archangel senses, kiddo. Plus, you're sitting like someone who's been hurt recently, and Castiel over there looks like he's been flagellating himself for months. Doesn't take a genius to put two and two together."

You glance at Castiel, who's staring at his untouched pie like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"They were looking for you," you say finally. "Demons. They grabbed me, tried to make me tell them where you were hiding."

Gabriel's expression darkens. "And?"

"And I didn't tell them. Obviously." You take a bite of pie, chewing slowly. "But it took Dean and Sam eighteen hours to find me."

"Eighteen hours." Gabriel's voice is deadly quiet. "And where exactly was our feathered friend during those eighteen hours?"

The silence stretches uncomfortably. Castiel still hasn't looked up from his pie.

"Drunk," Dean says bluntly. "Having an existential crisis in a dive bar in Missouri."

Gabriel's head turns slowly toward Castiel, and for a moment, you see the archangel beneath the trickster facade—ancient, powerful, and absolutely furious.

"Drunk," Gabriel repeats, his voice carrying harmonics that make the table vibrate slightly. "You were drunk while she was being tortured. For information about me."

"Gabriel—" Castiel finally looks up, his face pale.

"No." Gabriel holds up a hand. "Just... no. Don't try to explain or justify or whatever it is you're planning to do. Because there is no explanation that makes this okay."

He turns to you, his expression softening. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm so damn sorry. If I had known—"

"You couldn't have known," you interrupt. "You were hiding, like you were supposed to be. This isn't your fault."

"Isn't it?" Gabriel's laugh is bitter. "They were looking for me. They hurt you because of me."

"They hurt me because they're demons and that's what demons do. You didn't make that choice for them."

Gabriel stares at you for a long moment, something like wonder in his expression. "How are you not furious? How are you sitting here, eating pie and being reasonable, when everyone around you failed to protect you?"

It's a good question. Two months ago, you would have been furious. Two months ago, you were furious. But sitting here now, watching Castiel struggle with guilt that's eating him alive, watching Gabriel blame himself for something he couldn't control...

"Because being angry doesn't change what happened," you say slowly, working through the thought as you speak. "And because the people who failed to protect me are the same people who've saved my life a dozen times over. One mistake doesn't erase all of that."

You glance at Castiel, who's looking at you with something like awe.

"Besides," you continue, "being angry is exhausting. And I'm tired of being tired."

Gabriel studies you with those ancient eyes, seeing more than he usually lets on. "You're forgiving him."

It's not a question.

"I'm trying to," you admit. "I think... I think maybe it's time."

Later that night, motel room:

The case, such as it was, resolved quickly once Gabriel explained himself. He hadn't been trying to draw out demons or hunters—he'd simply been helping people because he could, because after everything that had happened, doing good felt like the only way to balance the scales.

"I spent so long running from responsibility," he'd explained over dinner. "Running from Heaven, from my family, from myself. But watching you refuse to give me up, even under torture... it made me realize that some things are worth taking a stand for."

Now you're sitting on one of the motel room's twin beds, having sent Dean and Sam to get ice and snacks—a transparent excuse to give you and Castiel privacy, but one you're grateful for nonetheless.

Castiel sits on the other bed, hands clasped in his lap, looking like he's facing execution.

"I've been thinking about what you said," you begin, your voice quiet in the small room. "About prayers being unclear unless they're from Dean."

Castiel winces. "That wasn't... I didn't mean to imply—"

"No, let me finish." You hold up a hand. "I've been thinking about it, and I think you were lying. Not to me—to yourself."

He looks up, confusion flickering across his features.

"I think you hear all prayers equally," you continue. "I think the difference isn't in the clarity of the signal. I think the difference is in how much you care about the person praying."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" You lean forward slightly. "When Dean prays, you drop everything because you love him. When I pray... when I prayed... you had to make a conscious choice about whether I was worth your attention."

Castiel looks stricken. "You are worth my attention. You're worth everything."

"Then why didn't you come?"

The question hangs between you, the same question that's been haunting both of you for two months. Castiel closes his eyes, his hands clenching into fists.

"Because I was afraid," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Afraid of what?"

"Of caring too much." He opens his eyes, meeting your gaze. "Of having another person I couldn't bear to lose. Dean is... Dean is different. My relationship with him is complicated, tied up in destiny and cosmic purpose and things I don't fully understand. But you..."

He trails off, struggling for words.

"You were supposed to be simple," he continues. "Dean's little sister. Someone I cared about because he cared about you. But then you grew up, and you became... you became important to me in your own right. And that terrified me."

You stare at him, pieces clicking together in your mind. "So when I prayed..."

"When you prayed, I heard you clearly. Every word. Every plea. And I wanted to come to you so desperately that it scared me into paralysis. I told myself your prayers were unclear because acknowledging how clear they were meant acknowledging how much you meant to me."

The confession settles between you like a living thing. You can see the truth of it in his eyes, the self-loathing and regret and desperate hope all tangled together.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," you say finally.

Castiel's face crumples. "I know. I know it is. I know there's no excuse—"

"No, Cas." You stand up, crossing the small space between the beds. "It's stupid because you thought caring about me was something to be afraid of."

You sit down beside him on his bed, close enough that your knees are touching.

"Do you know what I thought about while they were hurting me?" you ask. "I thought about all the times you'd healed my injuries. All the times you'd listened to me complain about cases or school or boys. All the times you'd brought me books you thought I'd like, or sat with me when I couldn't sleep after nightmares."

Castiel is staring at you like you're speaking in tongues.

"I thought about how safe I felt when you were around," you continue. "How you never talked down to me or treated me like I was fragile just because I was the youngest. I thought about how you saw me—really saw me—not just as Dean's little sister or Sam's baby sister, but as myself."

"You did?"

"Of course I did. Because somewhere along the way, without me really noticing, you became one of the most important people in my life. And I think... I think maybe I became important to you too, and that scared you because it wasn't part of the plan."

Castiel nods slowly. "Angels aren't supposed to form individual attachments. We're supposed to love humanity as a whole, not specific humans."

"But you do love specific humans. You love Dean. You love Sam. And maybe..." You take a breath, gathering courage. "Maybe you love me too."

"I do." The words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them back for months. "I love you so much it feels like drowning sometimes. And that night, when I heard you calling for me, I wanted to come to you more than I've ever wanted anything. But I was so afraid of what that meant, of what it said about me and my nature and my purpose..."

"So you chose fear over love."

"Yes." He looks down at his hands. "And you paid the price for my cowardice."

You're quiet for a moment, processing everything he's told you. It doesn't excuse what happened—nothing could excuse eighteen hours of unanswered prayers. But it explains it in a way that makes sense, in a way that feels true.

"I forgive you," you say finally.

Castiel's head snaps up, eyes wide with shock. "You... what?"

"I forgive you." The words feel strange on your tongue, but also right. Like something falling into place. "I forgive you for being afraid. I forgive you for choosing poorly. I forgive you for being an angel who's still learning how to be human."

"I don't deserve—"

"Forgiveness isn't about deserving it, Cas. It's about choosing to let go of the hurt so it doesn't poison everything else." You reach out, covering his hands with yours. "I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of missing you. And I'm tired of both of us walking around like ghosts because we can't figure out how to get past this."

Castiel stares down at your joined hands like he can't quite believe they're real.

"I will never let you down like that again," he says fiercely. "I swear to you, on my grace, on everything I am—if you call for me, I will come. No matter what else is happening, no matter how afraid I am, I will come."

"I believe you." And surprisingly, you do. "But Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Next time you're having an existential crisis about loving people, maybe try talking to someone instead of drinking yourself into oblivion. We're pretty good listeners, you know."

That startles a laugh out of him—the first genuine laugh you've heard from him in months.

"I'll remember that," he says, and then more seriously: "Thank you. For forgiving me. For giving me another chance. I know I don't deserve it."

"You're family," you say simply. "And family forgives each other. Eventually."

You lean forward and wrap your arms around him, feeling him go rigid with surprise before melting into the embrace. He holds you carefully, like you might break, and you can feel some of the tension that's been living in your shoulders for months finally start to ease.

"I missed you," you whisper against his shoulder.

"I missed you too," he whispers back. "More than you know."

You stay like that for a long moment, two damaged souls finding their way back to each other. It's not perfect—there are still scars, still trust that needs to be rebuilt. But it's a beginning.

And sometimes, a beginning is enough.

When Dean and Sam return with enough junk food to feed a small army, they find you and Castiel sitting side by side on the bed, sharing a bag of chips and arguing about the historical accuracy of a documentary playing on the motel's ancient TV.

"Everything okay?" Sam asks carefully.

You look at Castiel, seeing the hope and relief and gratitude in his eyes, and smile.

"Yeah," you say. "Everything's okay."

And for the first time in two months, you actually mean it.

[musubi05]

I love your writing! Can you do a Dean x daughter reader? During a hunt, he is attacked and bitten by a vampire. He bleeds profusely and suffers from anemia for a few days. Dean stays with him day and night and takes care of him. Protective father Dean! Thank you.

╰┈➤Blood and Bites

Dean Winchester x daughter!reader (ft. Uncle Sammy a little) Warnings: blood / medical trauma / hurt/comfort / detailed descriptions of anemia symptoms Notes: We've got a winner!! I'll be posting the stories in order from greatest votes to least. I need to get these draft numbers low again 😭 Anyways... I have never had anemia or witnessed someone have it but I did some research and hopefully this is accurate to how it actually is. Hope you guys like it!

The hunt had gone sideways fast.

What was supposed to be a simple vampire nest cleanup turned into a nightmare when you got separated from Dean and Sam in the abandoned warehouse. You'd followed protocol, stayed quiet, kept your machete ready—but the bloodsucker had been faster than expected, dropping from the rafters like a shadow with fangs.

The bite itself lasted only seconds before Dean's roar of fury echoed through the building, followed by the wet thunk of his blade separating the vampire's head from its shoulders. But those seconds were enough.

"No, no, no," Dean muttered, dropping to his knees beside you as you pressed a hand to your neck, blood seeping between your fingers. The world was already starting to tilt sideways. "Let me see it, sweetheart. Let me see."

Your vision swam as he gently moved your hand away, his face going pale at the sight of the ragged puncture wounds. The vampire had torn rather than punctured cleanly, leaving jagged marks that bled freely. "Dad, I'm okay, it's just—"

"You're not okay." His voice was rough, scared in a way that made your chest tight. The fear in Dean Winchester's eyes was something you'd never seen before, and it terrified you more than the bite. "Sam! SAM, GET THE CAR!"

The next few hours were a blur of Dean's hands pressed firmly against your neck, his voice a constant stream of reassurance even as worry carved deep lines around his eyes. You drifted in and out of consciousness during the ride to the hospital, vaguely aware of Dean's voice getting more and more frantic as he barked orders at paramedics and doctors.

"Animal attack," Sam was saying to someone. "Coyote, we think. She's lost a lot of blood."

The emergency room was a whirlwind of bright lights, urgent voices, and the steady beep of machines. Dean never left your side, his hand finding yours whenever the doctors and nurses would allow it. You caught fragments of medical jargon—"significant blood loss," "hemoglobin dangerously low," "need to monitor for infection."

When they finally moved you to a room, you were connected to what felt like a dozen different machines, IV bags hanging above you like translucent fruit. Dean sat in the chair beside your bed, looking like he'd aged ten years in the span of a few hours.

"Hey," you whispered, throat dry as sandpaper.

His head snapped up, relief flooding his features. "Hey yourself. How you feeling, kiddo?"

"Like I got hit by a truck." Your voice was barely audible. "How bad is it?"

Dean's jaw tightened. "Bad enough. Your hemoglobin's at seven—normal's around twelve for someone your age. They're pumping you full of iron and keeping you here overnight for observation."

The doctor, a tired-looking woman in her fifties, appeared at the foot of your bed. "Miss Smith," Well that's an easy secret identity name to remember. "I'm Dr. Martinez. You're very lucky your father got you here as quickly as he did. You lost approximately thirty percent of your blood volume. We've managed to stabilize you, but recovery is going to take time."

"How much time?" Dean asked, his voice carefully controlled.

"Several weeks, potentially longer. Severe anemia doesn't resolve overnight. She'll need rest, proper nutrition, iron supplements, and close monitoring. Any harsh activity could set back her recovery significantly."

Dean nodded grimly. "Whatever she needs."

That night, as you drifted in and out of medicated sleep, you were dimly aware of Dean's presence—the soft sound of his breathing, the creak of the hospital chair whenever he shifted, the gentle pressure of his hand checking your forehead for fever. Every time you stirred, he was there with ice chips or water, adjusting your blankets, making sure you were comfortable.

Day One

The ride back to the bunker the next afternoon was torture. Every bump in the road sent waves of dizziness through your skull, and by the time Dean helped you out of the Impala, you were green around the gills and shaking.

"Easy does it," he murmured, one arm around your waist as you made your way slowly down the bunker steps. "We'll take it one step at a time."

Your legs felt like jelly, and halfway down you had to stop, gripping the railing as the world spun. "Dad, I can't—"

"Yes, you can." His voice was firm but gentle. "I've got you. Just breathe."

Sam appeared at the bottom of the stairs, concern etched across his features. "Maybe I should carry her?"

"No," you managed. "I can do it."

It took nearly ten minutes to make it to your room, with several stops along the way. Your dad never showed impatience, never rushed you, just stayed steady and supportive at your side. When you finally collapsed onto your bed, you were exhausted.

"Okay, here's the deal," Dean said, pulling the chair from your desk over to your bedside. "Doctor's orders are rest, so that's what you're gonna do. I've got iron pills, plenty of fluids, and Sam's making some kind of health food soup that's supposed to help with anemia."

"You don't have to babysit me," you protested weakly, though the thought of being alone made anxiety flutter in your chest.

"I'm not babysitting. I'm being a dad." He settled into the chair, laptop in hand. "Now, you want some water? Something to eat?"

The mention of food made your stomach turn. "Not hungry."

Dean's expression grew stern. "Kid, you need to eat. Your body's trying to rebuild what you lost, and it can't do that on empty."

"I feel sick."

"I know. But we're gonna start small." He disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a sleeve of saltines and a glass of ginger ale. "Try a few crackers. If you can keep those down, we'll try something else."

The first cracker felt like sawdust in your mouth, but you managed to get it down. Then another. The ginger ale helped with the nausea, and slowly, your stomach began to settle.

"There we go," Dean said with satisfaction. "That's my girl."

The rest of the day passed in a haze of fitful sleep and brief moments of wakefulness. Every time you opened your eyes, Dean was there—sometimes typing on his laptop, sometimes reading, once just sitting quietly and watching you with worried green eyes. He helped you to the bathroom when you needed it, brought you more crackers and ginger ale, and made sure you took your iron supplements even though they made you feel worse.

That evening, Sam brought dinner—a simple chicken broth with rice that smelled better than it tasted to your compromised palate.

"I'm not really hungry," you said after a few spoonfuls.

"Eat what you can," Dean said firmly. "Your body needs the protein."

You managed about half the bowl before exhaustion overwhelmed you again. As you drifted off to sleep, you heard Dean and Sam talking in low voices outside your door.

"...never seen you like this before," Sam was saying.

"Like what?"

"Scared. This scared."

There was a long pause. "She almost died, Sammy. Right there in my arms. If that thing had hit the artery..."

"But it didn't. She's going to be fine."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I need to see it for myself."

Day Two

You woke up feeling worse than the day before. The iron supplements were wreaking havoc on your stomach, and the simple act of sitting up made the room spin violently. Dean was there instantly, steadying you with gentle hands.

"Whoa, easy. What do you need?"

"Bathroom," you managed, and the journey that should have taken thirty seconds stretched into several minutes as you had to stop twice to let the dizziness pass.

When you made it back to bed, you were pale and shaking. Dean took one look at you and grabbed his phone.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Calling the doctor. This doesn't seem right."

Dr. Martinez assured him that severe fatigue and dizziness were normal for someone with your level of anemia, but that didn't seem to ease Dean's worry. He spent the rest of the morning hovering, checking your temperature every hour and watching your every breath.

"Dad, you're making me nervous," you finally said around midday.

"Sorry." He sat back down but didn't stop watching you. "How's the pain?"

The bite wounds still throbbed, despite the antibiotics. "Not great."

He disappeared and returned with the prescribed pain medication and a glass of water. "These should help."

The pills made you drowsy, which was probably for the best. You spent most of the afternoon drifting in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of Dean's presence—sometimes talking quietly on the phone, sometimes typing, always there.

Around dinnertime, he tried to get you to eat again. Sam had made pasta with a simple red sauce, but even the smell made you nauseous.

"I can't," you said, pushing the plate away.

"You have to try. You haven't eaten anything substantial in two days."

"It makes me sick."

Dean's frustration was evident, but he kept his voice gentle. "What about just the pasta? No sauce?"

You managed a few bites of plain pasta before giving up. Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but something in your expression must have stopped him.

"Okay. We'll try again later."

That night was rough. The pain medication wore off around midnight, and the throbbing in your neck woke you up. You tried to go back to sleep, but every position seemed to make it worse. Finally, you gave up and reached for the lamp.

Dean was awake instantly. "What's wrong?"

"Can't sleep. It hurts."

He checked the time on his phone. "You can have another pain pill in two hours. Let me see if ice helps."

He disappeared and returned with an ice pack wrapped in a thin towel. The cold felt good against the inflamed bite marks, and gradually the throbbing eased enough for you to doze.

You woke up a few hours later to find Dean still awake, the ice pack in his hand as he held it gently against your neck.

"Dad, you should sleep."

"I'm fine. How's the pain?"

"Better." You studied his face in the dim light from the hallway. "When's the last time you actually slept?"

"I slept."

"I mean really slept. Not dozed in that chair."

He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

Day Three

The third day brought new challenges. You woke up with a splitting headache that made you sensitive to light and sound. Dean immediately dimmed the lights and spoke in hushed tones, but even that felt like too much.

"Is this normal?" you whispered, pressing the heels of your hands against your temples.

"Headaches can be a symptom of anemia," Dean said quietly, checking the information sheet the doctor had given you. "Something about reduced oxygen to the brain."

The headache made eating even more difficult than before. The smell of food made you nauseous, and chewing seemed to make the pounding in your skull worse. Dean tried everything—toast, crackers, even just broth—but you could barely manage a few sips.

"We need to get some calories into you," he said, worry evident in his voice.

"I'm trying."

"I know you are." He sat on the edge of the bed. "What about a protein shake? Something you can just drink?"

The idea of drinking something thick and creamy made your stomach turn, but you nodded anyway. You could see how worried he was, and the guilt of being such a burden was almost worse than the physical symptoms.

Sam blended up some concoction with yogurt, fruit, and protein powder that was surprisingly tolerable. You managed to get about half of it down before the headache became too much to ignore.

"More pain meds?" Dean asked.

You nodded, and he brought you the pills along with a cool washcloth for your forehead. The combination helped, and you were able to doze for a few hours.

When you woke up in the late afternoon, Dean was on the phone with someone, his voice tense.

"...yeah, I understand that, but she's not eating, she can barely keep her eyes open, and now she's got headaches that are knocking her flat... What do you mean that's normal?"

You listened as he described your symptoms to what was probably Dr. Martinez, his frustration growing with each response.

"Fine. But if she's not better by tomorrow, I'm bringing her back in."

He hung up and noticed you were awake. "Hey. How's the head?"

"Better." It was still pounding, but less intensely than before. "What did the doctor say?"

"That everything you're experiencing is normal for severe anemia." His jaw was tight. "Normal doesn't mean I have to like it."

That evening, Sam suggested you try sitting in the main room for a while instead of staying in bed. "Change of scenery might help," he said.

The journey from your room to the library felt like running a marathon. Dean supported most of your weight, and you had to stop twice to rest. When you finally made it to one of the comfortable chairs, you were exhausted and dizzy.

"This is ridiculous," you muttered. "It's like being ninety years old."

"Hey." Dean's voice was sharp. "Don't. This isn't your fault, and it's not permanent."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you. You're tough. You're a Winchester." He squeezed your hand. "And because I'm not letting you give up."

You stayed in the main room for about an hour, managing to eat a little soup and watch some TV with the volume turned low. It was the most normal you'd felt since the attack, but the exertion of just sitting upright eventually became too much.

Getting back to your room was even harder than leaving it had been. Your legs felt like rubber, and by the time Dean helped you into bed, you were shaking from exhaustion.

"I feel so weak," you whispered, tears of frustration burning your eyes.

"I know." Dean pulled the blankets up to your chin. "But you're getting stronger. Every day, even when it doesn't feel like it."

"How can you tell?"

"Because today you sat up for an hour. Yesterday you could barely manage ten minutes. That's progress."

Day Four

Day four brought a small breakthrough—you woke up without a headache for the first time since the attack. The relief was enormous, and you actually felt hungry for the first time in days.

"Think I could try some real food?" you asked Dean when he appeared with your morning medications.

His face lit up. "What sounds good?"

"Eggs, maybe? And toast?"

"Coming right up."

Dean disappeared into the kitchen, and you could hear him moving around, the sound of the stove clicking on, the refrigerator opening and closing. The domestic normalcy of it was comforting.

When he returned with a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast, it was the best thing you'd seen in days. You managed to eat about half of it before your stomach started to feel full—a good sign, according to the discharge papers.

"This is great," you said around a mouthful of eggs.

Dean's smile was relieved. "Yeah? Good. Real good."

The improvement in your appetite seemed to give you a little more energy too. You were able to stay awake for longer periods, and while you still felt dizzy when you stood up, it wasn't as severe as it had been.

Around midday, you asked if you could take a shower.

Dean looked uncertain. "I don't know, kiddo. What if you fall?"

"I feel gross. It's been four days."

"The bite wounds—"

"Are healing fine. Please, Dad. I'll leave the door unlocked, and you can check on me."

After some negotiation, Dean agreed, but only with strict conditions: door unlocked, shower chair from the bunker's medical supplies, and he'd check on you every few minutes.

The shower was heavenly, even if you had to sit for most of it. Being clean made you feel more human than you had since the attack. Dean had set out fresh pajamas and helped you back to your room afterward, and you noticed he seemed a little less tense than he had been.

"Better?" he asked.

"So much better."

That afternoon, you managed to eat a full bowl of soup and keep it down. Dean looked more hopeful than he had in days.

"Tomorrow we'll try something more substantial," he said. "Maybe some of the famous Winchester surprise."

"That's just grilled cheese."

"Hey, don't knock the Winchester surprise."

For the first time since the attack, you actually laughed. It was weak and short-lived, but it was real laughter, and Dean's answering grin was like sunshine.

Day Five

Day five was a mixed bag. You woke up feeling relatively good—no headache, only mild dizziness, and actually hungry. But when you tried to get up to use the bathroom on your own, your legs gave out completely.

Dean was there in seconds, helping you back onto the bed. "What happened?"

"I don't know. I felt fine, but then..." You stared at your legs in frustration. "They just wouldn't hold me up."

"It's okay. This stuff isn't linear—you're gonna have good days and bad days."

But you could see the worry creep back into his expression, the tension return to his shoulders. After four days of gradual improvement, this felt like a major setback.

Dr. Martinez, when Dean called her, explained that weakness and fatigue could fluctuate significantly during recovery from severe anemia. "Her body is working overtime to produce new red blood cells," she said over speakerphone. "Some days will be better than others."

Dean didn't look satisfied with that explanation, but he accepted it.

The rest of the day, he was extra attentive—helping you to the bathroom, bringing you meals in bed, making sure you didn't try to do anything on your own. It should have been comforting, but instead it made you feel helpless and frustrated.

"I hate this," you said after he helped you eat lunch because your hands were shaking too much to hold the spoon steady. You guys decided to go for a little drive to grab some food and to get some sun.

"I know."

"I hate being weak. I hate needing help with everything. I hate that you're stuck taking care of me like I'm a little kid."

Dean set down the spoon and looked at you seriously. "You think I mind taking care of you?"

"Don't you?"

"Kid, there is literally nowhere else I'd rather be right now. Nothing else I'd rather be doing." His voice was fierce. "You're my daughter. Taking care of you isn't some burden I'm stuck with—it's what I want to do. It's what I need to do."

Tears burned your eyes. "Dad..."

"Hey, no crying in the Impala. House rules."

You laughed, wiping at your eyes. "Since when is that a house rule?"

"Since right now."

The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence, punctuated by Dean's occasional humming along to the radio. It felt like coming home—not just to the bunker, but to the life you'd chosen, the family you'd been born into, the job that defined who you were.

When you pulled into the garage, you gathered your gear and headed inside, Dean fell into step beside you. "Hey, how do you feel about coming on a hunt with us? No actual hunting for you though, just research help."

"Yeah? You actually want me to come along?" You asked surprised that he'd let you in the same area with a monster when you're feeling like this.

"Yeah, well." Dean's smile was slightly embarrassed. "Turns out hunting's not as much fun when you're worried sick the whole time. Might as well have you where I can keep an eye on you."

"Dean Winchester, admitting he needs backup?"

"Dean Winchester admitting he needs his daughter," he corrected. "There's a difference."

You bumped his shoulder with yours as you walked. "Good thing your daughter needs her dad too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Even if he is overprotective and stubborn."

"Hey, I prefer 'cautious' and 'determined.'"

"Potato, po-tah-to."

Dean's laughter echoed through the bunker corridors, warm and genuine and free of the fear that had shadowed it for weeks. The sound made your chest tight with affection and relief.

Day Six

Day six brought another small victory—you made it to the bathroom and back without Dean's help, though you had to rest halfway. Dean was reading in his chair when you got back, but you could tell he'd been listening to every step.

"Independence looks good on you," he said with a slight smile.

"Don't get too excited. I'm exhausted from walking twenty feet."

But there was real improvement. Your appetite was stronger, you could stay awake for several hours at a time, and the constant bone-deep fatigue was starting to lift slightly. You even managed to eat one of Dean's grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch.

"The Winchester surprise never disappoints," you said, and Dean looked ridiculously pleased.

That afternoon, you asked if you could sit in the main room again. This time, the journey was easier, and you were able to stay upright for almost two hours. Sam joined you for a while, and the three of you watched an old movie together—something mindless and comforting.

"This feels normal," you said.

"Good normal or bad normal?" Dean asked.

"Good normal. Really good normal."

For the first time in nearly a week, Dean relaxed completely. You could see the tension leave his shoulders, the worry lines around his eyes ease slightly. He even dozed off in his chair during the movie, finally getting some real rest.

Day Seven

A full week after the attack, you woke up feeling more like yourself than you had since it happened. The dizziness was minimal, you had energy enough to actually care about things like what you were wearing, and you were genuinely hungry for breakfast.

"Look at you," Dean said when you appeared in the kitchen under your own power, moving slowly but steadily. "Walking around like you own the place."

"Don't jinx it," you warned, but you were smiling.

Breakfast was the most you'd eaten at one sitting since the attack—two eggs, two pieces of toast, and a full glass of orange juice. Dean watched every bite with satisfaction.

"So," he said when you'd finished. "Doc wants to see you today for a follow-up. Check your blood levels, make sure you're healing properly."

"Sounds good. Let's go!"

The trip to the doctor's office was your first real outing since coming home from the hospital. Dean insisted on a wheelchair from the car to the examination room, which embarrassed you but was probably smart—you were winded just from the walk through the parking lot.

Dr. Martinez was pleased with your progress. Your hemoglobin had improved from seven to nine—still low, but heading in the right direction. The bite wounds were healing well with no signs of infection.

"I'd say another week of rest, then you can start gradually increasing your activity level," she told you. "But nothing that could stress your system while you're still rebuilding."

Dean nodded grimly. "How long until she's back to normal?"

"Full recovery from anemia this severe can take several months. She'll need to continue the iron supplements, eat iron-rich foods, and get plenty of rest. But she's young and healthy—I expect she'll make a full recovery."

On the way home, Dean was quieter than usual.

"You okay?" you asked.

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "About how close we came to losing you. About how I almost wasn't fast enough."

"But you were."

"This time." His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "What about next time?"

"Dad—"

"I keep thinking, maybe it's time you stepped back from hunting. At least for a while."

The suggestion hit you like a physical blow. "You can't be serious."

"Dead serious. You almost died."

"People almost die on hunts all the time. You and Uncle Sam have both—"

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

Dean pulled into the bunker's garage and turned off the engine, but didn't get out. "Because you're my kid. Because the thought of losing you..." He shook his head. "I can't do this if I'm constantly worried you're going to get hurt."

"So what, I'm supposed to just sit around the bunker while you and Uncle Sam go out and risk your lives?"

"If that's what it takes to keep you safe, yeah."

You stared at him, seeing the fear and love warring in his expression. "Dad, I'm a hunter. It's what I do. It's who I am."

"You're my daughter first."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

Dean sighed heavily. "Look, we don't have to decide anything right now. Let's just focus on getting you healthy again."

But you could see the decision already forming in his eyes, and it scared you more than any vampire ever could.

Day Ten

Three days later, you were feeling strong enough to help Sam with research—nothing crazy, just sitting at the table with a laptop and some books. It felt good to be useful again, to contribute something to the family business even if it wasn't fieldwork.

Dean had been hovering less as your strength returned, but you still caught him watching you with those careful, assessing eyes. The conversation about stepping back from hunting hadn't come up again, but it hung between you like a sword waiting to fall.

"Find anything interesting?" Sam asked, looking up from his own research.

"Maybe. There's been a pattern of disappearances in Idaho that looks like it could be our kind of thing."

Dean appeared in the doorway. "Idaho?"

"Small town, people vanishing without a trace, local authorities completely stumped." You turned your laptop so he could see the screen. "Could be anything, but the pattern suggests something supernatural."

Dean studied the information, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. "Looks like a case," he agreed. "Sam and I can check it out."

"Sam and I?" The words came out sharper than you'd intended.

"You're still recovering."

"I'm fine. My last blood test was almost normal."

"'Almost' being the key word."

Sam looked uncomfortable with the tension crackling between you and Dean. "Maybe we should wait a few more days—"

"No," you said firmly. "If this is a case, people could be dying while we wait for me to be at one hundred percent. I can do research, interviews, basic stuff. I don't have to be in perfect health to ask questions."

Dean's jaw was set in stubborn lines. "Absolutely not."

"Dad—"

"End of discussion."

The argument that followed was the first real fight you'd had since the attack. Voices were raised, harsh words exchanged, and it ended with you storming off to your room and Dean stalking off to the garage to work on the Impala—his usual retreat when emotions got too intense.

Sam found you an hour later, sitting on your bed and staring at the wall.

"He's scared," Sam said without preamble.

"I know he's scared. But he can't keep me locked up forever."

"Can't he?" Sam sat down in the chair Dean had occupied for so many days. "You almost died. Right in front of him. Do you have any idea what that did to him?"

"Of course I do. But people get hurt on hunts. It's part of the job."

"Not his kid. Not you." Sam leaned forward. "He's been different since you were born. More careful, more cautious. But this... this is something else entirely."

"What am I supposed to do? Give up hunting? Become some kind of research assistant who never leaves the bunker?"

"I don't know. But maybe you could try to understand where he's coming from."

That night, Dean didn't sleep in your room for the first time since the attack. You told yourself you were glad—you didn't need a babysitter anymore—but the absence of his steady presence made it hard to fall asleep.

Day Fourteen / Two Weeks Later

Two weeks after the vampire attack, you were pronounced medically cleared to return to normal activities. Your hemoglobin levels were back in the normal range, the bite wounds had healed to faint pink scars, and you felt stronger than you had since before the attack.

Dean's response to the news was a grunt and a nod.

The tension between you hadn't fully resolved. He'd stopped hovering quite so much, but the protective vigilance was still there, along with a new distance that hurt more than you wanted to admit. The case in Idaho had turned out to be a wendigo, which Sam and Dean had handled without incident, but Dean's point had been made—they could work cases without you.

"We need to talk," you said one evening, finding Dean in the garage.

He looked up from the engine he was working on. "Yeah?"

"About hunting. About what happens next."

Dean straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. "I think I've been pretty clear about that."

"You've been clear about what you want. But this isn't just your decision."

"Like hell it isn't. You're my responsibility—"

"I'm a hunter. And I'm not going to spend the rest of my life wrapped in bubble wrap because of one bad hunt."

"One bad hunt that almost killed you."

"Dean." The use of his first name instead of 'Dad' made him look up sharply. "I understand you're scared. I understand you love me and want to protect me. But you can't protect me from everything."

"I can try."

"At what cost? You want me to give up the only life I've ever known? The family business? Working with you and Sam?"

Dean's expression was pained. "I want you alive."

"I am alive. Because of you. Because you taught me how to be a hunter, how to fight, how to survive." You stepped closer. "But surviving isn't the same as living."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that hunting isn't just what I do—it's who I am. It's how I save people, how I make a difference. You taught me that." Your voice was thick with emotion. "Don't take that away from me."

Dean was quiet for a long moment, conflict clear on his face. "When I saw you on that warehouse floor, when I thought I might lose you... I can't go through that again."

"You might have to. Because the alternative is losing me anyway—just in a different way."

"I don't understand."

"If you make me choose between hunting and you, you're going to lose." The words hurt to say, but they were true. "Because the person you raised, the daughter you're so desperate to protect—she's a hunter. Take that away, and I'm not me anymore."

Dean stared at you for a long moment, then turned away. "I need some air."

He walked out of the garage, leaving you standing alone among the tools and car parts, wondering if you'd just won the argument or lost your father.

Day Fifteen

Dean was gone when you woke up the next morning. Sam said he'd left early to get supplies, but you suspected he was avoiding you. The confrontation in the garage had been brewing for two weeks, and now that it was out in the open, neither of you seemed to know how to move forward.

You spent the day doing research, trying to distract yourself with work. There were several potential cases that needed investigation, and focusing on the details helped keep your mind off the growing distance between you and Dean.

Sam tried to mediate, suggesting that maybe there was a compromise to be found, but you weren't sure if your dad was in a compromising mood.

When Dean finally returned that evening, he was carrying takeout from your favorite diner—a peace offering, or maybe an apology.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said, setting the bags on the table.

"Thanks."

You ate in relative silence, the weight of unspoken words heavy between you. Finally, Dean spoke.

"I've been thinking about what you said."

You looked up hopefully.

"About hunting being who you are." He pushed food around on his plate. "I get it. I do. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"I don't know how to be okay with you being in danger."

"The same way I'm okay with you and Uncle Sam being in danger every time you leave for a hunt."

"That's different."

"How?"

Dean was quiet for a moment. "Because I'm supposed to protect you. It's what fathers do."

"Dad." You reached across the table and covered his hand with yours. "You did protect me. You saved my life."

"Barely."

"But you did. And you taught me how to protect myself. How to be strong, how to fight, how to survive." You squeezed his hand. "That's what fathers do too."

Dean looked up at you, and for the first time in two weeks, some of the tension in his expression eased.

"I'm still scared," he admitted.

"Good. Fear keeps you sharp. But don't let it paralyze you."

Dean was quiet for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, we'll try it. But with conditions."

Your heart leaped. "What kind of conditions?"

"Nothing too dangerous until you're completely back to full strength. No going off on your own. And if I say we pull back from a hunt, we pull back. No arguments."

The conditions were reasonable, even if the last one chafed a little. "Deal."

Dean's smile was small but genuine. "Deal."

Day Twenty-One / Three Weeks Later

Three weeks after the vampire attack, you were back in the field. The case was simple enough—a haunting in Nebraska that should have been straightforward salt and burn. Dean had chosen it specifically because it was low-risk, a way to ease back into hunting without too much danger.

You were standing outside the house where the ghost had been active, breathing in the cool night air and feeling more like yourself than you had since the attack. Dean and Sam were setting up the salt lines, and you were on lookout duty—not the most exciting job, but you were back where you belonged.

"How you feeling?" Dean asked, appearing at your elbow.

"Good. Really good."

And you were. The bite scars on your neck were barely visible now, your strength was back to normal, and the constant fatigue that had plagued you for weeks was finally gone. More importantly, the fear that had haunted Dean's eyes for so long was starting to fade, replaced by something that looked like acceptance.

"You sure you're ready for this?"

"Dad, it's a simple salt and burn. I think I can handle it."

Dean's smile was wry. "Famous last words."

"Don't jinx it."

The hunt went smoothly—the ghost was dispatched without incident, and you made it through the night without so much as a scratch. On the drive home, Dean seemed more relaxed than he had in weeks.

"Not bad for a first hunt back," he said.

"Not bad at all."

Sam was asleep in the backseat, and the radio was playing soft classic rock. Everything felt normal, familiar, right.

"Thank you," you said quietly.

"For what?"

"For letting me come back. For trusting me."

Dean glanced over at you. "You're my daughter. Of course I trust you."

"Even after everything?"

"Especially after everything." His voice was firm. "What happened... it scared the hell out of me. But watching you fight your way back, seeing how strong you are..." He shook his head. "I'm proud of you, kid. Proud to be your dad, proud to hunt with you."

Tears burned in your eyes but you still smiled. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you more, pumpkin."

[musubi05]

Back In Action!

Okay guys! I'm back and have been catching up on the requests. We got enough to do a little marathon of me posting one everyday. Now the question is which one do you guys wanna see first (I'm indecisive). I was thinking of starting on the 10th so if any of y'all have any ideas send them through and I'll add them in...

Also might post more than one fandom. I've got one for Walker and Bucky from Marvel

Got a lot to choose from!

[musubi05]

A Little Announcement

Hi guys! I'm going to be on a little vacation until the end of July. There's going to be no wifi whatsoever on this trip but when I get back I'll work on the requests and more!

See you guys in August! 💚

[musubi05]

May I place a request for Team Free will angst?

So it's kind of a point in supernatural that Cas is really bad at answering prayers unless it's Dean. My request is reader is Dean and Sam's young half sister. And she's not really into the hunting stuff but she's like an expert tracker and super smart. She gets kidnapped and she trys to call Cas for help but he never shows up or when he does show up it's much later and she was being tortured. Anyway when reader finally gets back she avoids Castiel?

╰┈➤ Crashing Down

Part 1 Part 2

Team Free Will x winchester sister!reader

Summary: You got kidnapped so you called that one person you thought would come immediately. Did that person- angel come? No. And that is ruining everything.

Warnings: torture/abuse/betrayal/yelling

You should have known something was wrong when the motel parking lot was too quiet.

As the youngest Winchester, you'd learned to trust your instincts—that prickle at the back of your neck that meant danger, the way shadows seemed to move wrong, the absence of normal sounds. You'd been tracking a group of demons through three states, following their pattern of possession and violence like breadcrumbs through a dark forest. It was what you did best: finding the unfindable, connecting dots that others missed.

But this time, you'd been the one found.

The black smoke hit you before you could even reach for the iron knife in your jacket. It slammed you against your car with enough force to crack the driver's side window, and then rough hands were dragging you away from the small circle of salt you'd instinctively tried to create.

"Well, well," the demon wearing a middle-aged businessman's face smiled, his eyes flashing black. "The little Winchester tracker. We've been looking for you."

When you wake up, you're zip-tied to a wooden chair in what used to be an auto repair shop, the smell of motor oil and rust thick in the air. Your head throbs where they'd hit you, and you can taste blood from where you'd bitten your tongue during the struggle.

"Let's try this again," the demon—who'd introduced himself as Crowley's "associate" Malik—paces in front of you. "We need you to find someone for us. A very special angel who's been causing problems for our operations."

"Go to hell." The words come out steadier than you feel.

Malik chuckles. "Already been, sweetheart. Lovely this time of year." His expression shifts, becoming cold. "But we're not asking. You're going to use that legendary Winchester tracking ability to find Gabriel for us."

Gabriel. Your heart sinks. The archangel who'd helped your family more than once, who'd died saving them from Lucifer, who'd somehow returned and been laying low ever since. These demons wanted to finish what Asmodeus had started.

"I don't know where he is," you lie.

"Oh, but you do." Another demon, this one wearing a young woman's body, steps forward with a tablet. "We know you've been in contact. Little birdie told us about the safe house in Colorado."

Your blood runs cold. They know about Gabriel's hideout, which means they've been watching you. Watching all of you.

"I'm not telling you anything."

"We figured you'd say that." Malik pulls out a silver knife, the blade gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. "Good thing we have time to convince you."

The first cut across your forearm makes you gasp, more from surprise than pain. It's shallow, meant to sting rather than seriously harm. A warning.

"Castiel," you whisper, closing your eyes and reaching out with your mind the way Dean had taught you. Cas, I need help. Please.

Nothing. Just empty silence where you'd hoped to feel that familiar presence.

"Praying already?" Malik sounds amused. "How sweet. But I don't think your feathered friend is listening."

"He'll come," you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "When he realizes I'm missing—"

"Will he though?" The female demon tilts her head. "Because from what we hear, Castiel has been having some... issues lately. Something about not being able to hear prayers clearly unless they're from a certain green-eyed hunter."

Your stomach drops, but you force yourself not to react.

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Malik makes another cut, this one across your other arm. Deeper. "Tell you what, why don't you give him a call? See if he picks up."

The pain is sharp and immediate, and you can't stop the small cry that escapes.

Castiel, please, you pray harder, putting everything you have into it. I'm in trouble. I need you. They want Gabriel, and I can't—I won't tell them where he is, but I need help. Please hear me.

The minutes tick by. The demons wait, watching you with cruel amusement as you close your eyes and pray silently, desperately.

Nothing.

"Cas!" This time you say it out loud, your voice echoing in the empty garage. "Castiel, I know you can hear me! I'm—" Your voice cracks. "I'm scared, and I need you. Please."

More silence. Just the sound of your own breathing and the demons' quiet laughter.

"Maybe try louder," the female demon suggests mockingly.

"CASTIEL!" You scream his name until your throat burns. "PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU!"

But the warehouse remains empty except for you and your captors.

Malik sighs dramatically. "This is just sad. Here, let me help motivate you both."

The blade finds your shoulder this time, and you can't suppress the sharp cry of pain.

Cas, please, they're hurting me, you think desperately. I know you're busy, I know Heaven needs you, but I'm scared and I don't know how long I can hold out. They want Gabriel and I can't give them Gabriel, but I need you. I've never needed anyone more than I need you right now.

Hours pass. The questions continue. The pain gets worse. And through it all, you keep calling for him—sometimes out loud, sometimes in the privacy of your mind, sometimes both.

"Castiel, I'm in Riverside, in the old Murphy's Auto Shop on Fifth Street. Please, just this once, choose me. Choose me over whatever's happening in Heaven. I'm trying to be strong like Dean and Sam but I'm not them. I'm scared and I hurt and I just need you to come."

But he doesn't come.

"Please," you whisper around hour six, when the word 'no' feels carved into your throat from repetition. "Please, Cas. I know I'm not Dean. I know his prayers are clearer or stronger or whatever. But I'm your family too. Aren't I? Don't I matter at all?"

The silence stretches on, broken only by Malik's increasingly creative threats about what they'll do if you don't give them Gabriel's location.

By hour twelve, your voice is nearly gone, but you keep trying.

"Castiel." It's barely a whisper now. "I know you can hear me. I know you're choosing not to come, and I don't understand why. What did I do wrong? Why am I not worth saving?"

⛧

By hour eighteen, when you hear the Impala's engine roar into the parking lot followed by the sound of gunshots and shouting, you've stopped praying altogether.

Dean and Sam burst through the door like avenging angels, all righteous fury and deadly precision. The first demon goes down with a devil's trap bullet to the chest, black smoke pouring from the host's mouth. The second tries to run but Sam catches her with another shot, sending her back to hell in a shower of sparks.

Malik, the leader, makes a last desperate grab for you, knife raised, but Dean puts three bullets in him before he can take a step.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Dean says, his voice gentler than you've heard it in years as he cuts through the zip ties binding your wrists. "We got you. You're safe."

Your hands are shaking so badly you can't feel your fingers. Everything hurts—your throat raw from screaming, your arms burning from the cuts, your whole body aching from eighteen hours tied to that chair.

"How did you find me?" Your voice comes out as barely a whisper, hoarse and broken.

"GPS on your phone," Sam explains, crouching down to check your injuries. "When you didn't check in and we couldn't reach you, we tracked the signal. Dean drove like a bat out of hell."

"More like the Impala out of hell," Dean mutters, shrugging out of his jacket to wrap around your shoulders. The leather is warm and smells like gun oil and aftershave—safe, familiar scents that make your eyes burn with unshed tears.

"I called for Cas," you say suddenly, the words tumbling out. "I called for him for hours. He didn't come."

The brothers exchange a look over your head, Dean's jaw tightening with barely contained fury.

"We know, sweetheart," Dean says softly. "We tried calling him too when we realized you were missing. He never answered."

"Where was he?" You need to know, even though you're not sure you want to hear the answer.

Sam's mouth forms a thin line. "Missouri. Some dive bar outside Kansas City. When we finally tracked him down, he was..." Sam trails off, looking uncomfortable.

"Drunk," Dean finishes bluntly. "Angel drunk. Apparently, he's been having some kind of existential crisis about free will versus destiny. Completely cut himself off from angel radio."

The words hit you like a physical blow. While you were screaming his name, begging for help, he was drowning his sorrows in whatever passes for alcohol when you're a celestial being.

"He chose whiskey over me," you whisper, more to yourself than to them.

"No," Sam says firmly, his hand gentle on your shoulder. "He made a stupid, selfish choice. But that's on him, not you."

Dean helps you stand, one arm around your waist when your legs threaten to give out. "Come on. Let's get you home and patched up."

"Dean?" Your voice is small, childlike in a way that makes both your brothers' protective instincts flare.

"Yeah?"

"Don't let him heal me. Not this time."

Dean studies your face for a long moment, seeing something there that makes him nod grimly. "Whatever you need, kid."

They're loading you into the Impala when Castiel finally appears.

He materializes in the doorway in his rumpled trench coat, blue eyes wide with concern and what might be guilt. His hair is messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it, and there are grass stains on his coat. There's also the distinct smell of alcohol clinging to him, even though angels supposedly can't get drunk the same way humans do.

"I came as soon as I could," he says, rushing toward the car.

But all you can do is stare at him, this angel you'd trusted with your life, who'd heard every desperate prayer and chosen to ignore them.

"You're eighteen hours too late," you whisper.

He reaches the car, hands already glowing with that familiar yellow-white grace, ready to heal your injuries. "Let me help—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than you intended, and you shrink back against Dean's side. "Don't touch me."

Castiel's face crumbles like you've physically struck him. "Please, let me heal you. I can take away the pain—"

"You had your chance to help," Dean says coldly, positioning himself between you and the angel. "She doesn't want your help now."

"Dean, please, I know you're angry, but she's hurt—"

"Yeah, she is hurt," Sam's voice is deadly quiet as he slides into the driver's seat. "She's hurt because you weren't there when she needed you most."

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and his voice breaks on the words. "I'm so sorry. If I had known—"

"You did know," you manage to say, not looking at him. "You heard me. And you chose not to come."

⛧

The ride back to the bunker is silent except for the rumble of the Impala's engine and your occasional sharp intake of breath when the car hits a bump and jostles your injuries. Castiel doesn't follow immediately—you can see him in the side mirror, standing alone in that empty parking lot, watching the taillights disappear.

He shows up at the bunker later that night, spawning in the infirmary where Sam is carefully cleaning and bandaging your wounds the old-fashioned way.

"You should let me heal those," Castiel says softly from the doorway.

You don't look at him. "Sam's got it."

"But I could—"

"She said no, Cas," Dean's voice is flat, final. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, radiating protective fury. "Respect that."

Castiel tries several more times over the next few days—appearing in your room at night, lurking in doorways, always with that same offer to heal your injuries, to take away the physical pain. You refuse every time.

Because the physical pain is nothing compared to the betrayal. The cuts will heal on their own, leave scars that will fade with time. But the knowledge that you called for him—screamed for him—and he chose a bottle over your desperate prayers?

That's a wound grace can't fix.

And when he reaches out to heal you with those familiar, gentle hands, you flinch away. Some wounds go deeper than skin, and some betrayals can't be healed with grace and good intentions.

The taste of copper still lingers in your mouth three days later.

You're sitting in the bunker's library, surrounded by ancient tomes and the familiar smell of old paper and leather, but your hands won't stop shaking. Every shadow in your peripheral vision makes you flinch. Every creak of the bunker's old bones sends your heart racing.

Dean keeps hovering. Sam keeps asking if you need anything. And Castiel—

Castiel keeps trying to talk to you.

For three days now, you've perfected the art of avoidance. When he enters a room, you leave. When he tries to approach during meals, you suddenly remember something urgent you need to research. When he materializes in the hallway, you duck into the nearest room and wait until you hear his footsteps fade away.

It's childish, maybe, but you can't help it. Every time you see those blue eyes, all you can think about is eighteen hours of screaming his name into empty air.

Earlier that morning in the kitchen:

"She's avoiding him," Dean states the obvious, watching through the kitchen doorway as you practically sprint in the opposite direction the moment Castiel rounds the corner.

Sam looks up from his laptop, following Dean's gaze. "Can you blame her?"

"No." Dean's jaw tightens. "But this isn't gonna last. Cas looks like a kicked puppy, and she's gonna give herself whiplash if she keeps changing directions every time he shows up."

"Maybe she needs time," Sam suggests, though he sounds uncertain.

"Time for what? To hate him forever?" Dean runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Look, I get it. I'm pissed at Cas too. But she's our sister, and he's... he's family. This is tearing everyone apart."

Sam closes the laptop with more force than necessary. "You want to know what I think?"

"Shoot."

"I think she's not just avoiding him because she's hurt. I think she's avoiding him because she's scared of what she might say if she actually talks to him."

Dean considers this, watching as Castiel appears in the doorway looking lost and confused, clearly searching for you. When he realizes you're not there, his shoulders slump in defeat.

"Yeah," Dean says quietly. "I think you're right."

Later that afternoon in Dean's room:

"She won't even look at me." Castiel stands awkwardly by Dean's desk, his usual composed demeanor cracked and bleeding anxiety. "When I try to heal her injuries, she flinches away. When I attempt conversation, she leaves the room."

Dean doesn't look up from cleaning his gun, though his movements are more aggressive than necessary. "What did you expect, Cas? A parade?"

"I expected... I don't know what I expected." Castiel's voice is small. "Anger, perhaps. Shouting. But not this. This silence is worse than any accusation."

"Maybe that's the point."

"I don't understand."

Dean finally looks up, and Castiel flinches at the cold disappointment in his eyes. "She called for you, Cas. For eighteen hours, she called for you while demons carved her up like a Thanksgiving turkey. And you were off having an existential crisis in some dive bar."

"It wasn't—the situation was complicated—"

"It's always complicated with you." Dean's voice is flat, matter-of-fact, and somehow that's worse than if he were yelling. "But you know what's not complicated? Family. When family calls, you answer. Period."

Castiel's hands clench into fists at his sides. "I heard her prayers, Dean. But they were... faint. Unclear. Not like when you pray."

"So?"

"So I thought—I assumed it wasn't urgent. I thought perhaps she was simply... checking in."

Dean stares at him for a long moment. "Jesus, Cas. You really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

"She's not me." Dean's voice is deadly quiet. "She doesn't pray to you every day about stupid shit. She doesn't treat you like her personal hotline to Heaven. When she prays to you, it's because she's desperate. Because she needs you. And you ignored her."

The words hit Castiel like physical blows. He staggers back a step, face pale.

"I didn't know—"

"You should have known." Dean turns back to his gun. "And now she's not talking to any of us because she's too busy trying to pretend she doesn't exist in the same universe as you."

That evening with Sam and Dean in the war room:

"Found her sleeping in the archives again," Sam reports, settling into a chair across from Dean. "She's got books piled around her like a fort."

"Physical barriers," Dean mutters. "Can't say I blame her."

"This is getting ridiculous, Dean. She's barely eating. She won't let Cas heal her injuries. And every time he shows up, she bolts like a spooked deer."

Dean looks toward the direction of the archives, where you've essentially taken up residence. "Remember when we were kids? When Dad would leave us alone for weeks at a time?"

"Yeah."

"She used to hide in closets when she got scared. Build these little nests out of blankets and books, and just... disappear into them until she felt safe again."

Sam's expression softens with understanding. "She's hiding."

"Yeah. Only this time, it's not Dad she's hiding from. It's someone she trusted. Someone who was supposed to protect her." Dean's voice turns bitter. "And that somehow makes it worse."

They sit in silence for a moment, both lost in thought.

"What do we do?" Sam asks eventually.

Dean sighs. "I don't know, Sammy. I honestly don't know."

The next morning, Castiel cornering Sam in the hallway:

"She won't even acknowledge my presence," Castiel says without preamble, falling into step beside Sam. "Yesterday, I stood in the same room as her for twenty minutes. She acted as if I was invisible."

"Maybe you were," Sam replies, not unkindly. "To her, anyway."

Castiel stops walking. "What do you mean?"

Sam turns to face him. "I mean maybe you've been invisible to her for a while now, and she's just finally admitting it."

"That's not—I care about her. She's important to me."

"Is she?" Sam crosses his arms. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like she's been background noise in your life. Someone you notice when it's convenient, ignore when it's not."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" Sam's voice rises slightly before he catches himself, glancing around to make sure you're not within earshot. "You want to talk about fair? Fair would have been showing up when she needed you. Fair would have been prioritizing her prayers the same way you prioritize Dean's."

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Sam holds up a hand.

"Don't. Just... don't. We both know it's true. When Dean prays, you drop everything. When she prays, you get around to it when it's convenient. And now she almost died because of that difference."

"I would never let her die—"

"You almost did." The words hang heavy in the air between them. "Eighteen hours, Cas. She was tortured for eighteen hours while you ignored her prayers. If Dean and I hadn't tracked her down..."

Castiel looks stricken. "I know. I know I failed her. But how do I fix this? How do I make her understand that I never meant for this to happen?"

Sam studies him for a long moment. "I don't think you can. I think maybe you have to accept that some things can't be fixed with an apology and good intentions."

"So that's it? She'll never forgive me?"

"I don't know," Sam says honestly. "But if you really care about her like you claim to, maybe stop making this about your guilt and start thinking about what she needs."

"What does she need?"

"Space. Time. And maybe for you to prove that she actually matters to you, instead of just saying she does."

Day Four

"I brought you tea," his gravelly voice says from behind you, and you don't turn around. You can't. Because every time you see those blue eyes, all you can think about is how desperately you called for them in that warehouse, how you screamed his name until your throat was raw, how you begged the empty air for just a glimpse of rumpled trench coat.

This is the first time in four days that you haven't immediately fled when he entered a room. Maybe because you're too tired to run anymore, or maybe because some part of you knows this conversation is inevitable.

"Thanks," you mumble, not moving from your position hunched over a book about tracking sigils. Research has always been your escape—the one part of the hunting life you actually enjoyed. While Dean and Sam threw themselves at monsters with guns blazing, you were the one who found the monsters in the first place. Your mind was your weapon, patterns and connections clicking together like puzzle pieces.

Now you can't even focus on the words in front of you.

The tea cup appears in your line of sight as Castiel sets it down carefully beside your elbow. His fingers are pale against the dark ceramic, and you remember how you used to find comfort in those hands. How many times had he healed your scrapes and bruises with just a touch? How many times had those fingers wiped away your tears when the weight of being a Winchester got too heavy?

There's something white beside the cup—a small piece of paper, folded once. His handwriting, careful and precise in blue ink: "Can we talk?"

You stare at the note for a long moment, your chest tightening. Even his handwriting looks uncertain, the letters slightly shakier than usual. The simple question carries the weight of four days of silence, of unanswered prayers, of all the words neither of you have been able to say.

"You've been avoiding me," he states, because subtlety has never been Castiel's strong suit.

You force yourself to turn a page, though you haven't read a single word. "I've been busy."

"No, you haven't." There's some annoyance in his voice, like he's trying to solve a problem he doesn't understand. "You leave the room whenever I enter. You haven't spoken to me directly since we brought you home. Sam says you've been having nightmares."

The book snaps shut under your hands harder than you intended. "Sam needs to mind his own business."

"Your brothers are worried. I'm worried."

And that—that makes something hot and bitter rise in your chest. You stand up so quickly your chair scrapes against the floor, the sound harsh in the quiet library.

"Worried?" The word comes out sharper than you meant it to. "Now you're worried?"

Castiel's head tilts, that familiar confused expression crossing his features. "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." You turn to face him properly for the first time in days, and it's a mistake. He looks exactly the same—messy dark hair, piercing blue eyes, that concerned furrow between his brows. Like nothing happened. Like you didn't spend eighteen hours tied to a chair, calling his name until your voice gave out.

"Where were you, Cas?"

The question hangs in the air between you like a blade. His mouth opens, closes. For once, the all-knowing angel seems at a loss for words.

"I was—there was a situation in Heaven. The other angels—"

"Stop." You hold up a hand, and to his credit, he falls silent immediately. "Just stop. I know exactly where you were because Dean told me. You were in some bar in Missouri, having an existential crisis about free will or destiny or whatever it is you brood about these days."

Castiel's jaw tightens. "That's not—the situation was complex—"

"I called for you." The words rip out of your throat, three days' worth of hurt and anger finally finding their voice. "I called for you for hours, Cas. Do you know what that feels like? To pray to someone you trust, someone you—" You cut yourself off, refusing to finish that sentence. "To pray and get nothing back but silence?"

You can see the moment understanding dawns in his eyes, followed immediately by something that looks like grief.

"I heard you," he says quietly.

The admission hits you like a physical blow. Your knees nearly buckle.

"You heard me." It's not a question.

"Yes."

"And you didn't come."

Castiel's eyes dart away from yours, and that tells you everything you need to know. When he looks back, there's something desperate in his expression.

"It's not that simple. I can't just—when Dean prays, it's different. The connection is stronger, clearer. With others, the prayers get muddled, lost among millions of other voices—"

"Others." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Is that what I am to you? Just another voice in the crowd?"

"No, that's not what I meant—"

"Isn't it?" You take a step back when he reaches for you. "Because that's sure what it felt like. Sitting there, bleeding, while some psychopath carved symbols into my skin and asked me questions I couldn't answer. Screaming for you until my throat felt like broken glass. And you were too busy wallowing to notice."

The memory hits you like a freight train—the smell of rust and motor oil, the bite of rope against your wrists, the methodical way your captor worked. You'd known, logically, that Dean and Sam would find you. They always did. But in those dark hours, with pain shooting through every nerve ending, you'd wanted the angel. You'd needed him.

And he hadn't come.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and his voice cracks on the words. "I'm so sorry. If I had known—if I had realized—"

"But you did know." The words come out steady, even though you feel like you're falling apart inside. "You heard me. You made a choice."

"It wasn't a choice, it was—"

"It was exactly a choice." You're backing toward the library entrance now, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. "You choose Dean. You've always chosen Dean. And that's fine, I get it. But don't pretend like it's some mystical angel thing you can't control. Don't insult my intelligence."

Castiel follows you, his movements jerky and desperate. "Please, let me explain—"

"Explain what? That I don't matter enough for you to drop everything and come running? That I'm not worth the effort it takes to pick my voice out of the cosmic noise?" You shake your head. "I already figured that out, thanks."

You make it to the doorway before his voice stops you.

"You matter to me."

The words are quiet, broken, and they almost—almost make you turn around.

Instead, you grip the doorframe so hard your knuckles go white.

"No, Cas. Dean matters to you. Sam matters to you. I'm just... collateral damage."

You hear him take a sharp breath, like you've struck him.

"That's not true."

"Then where were you?" The question comes out as barely more than a whisper, but you know he hears it. Angel senses and all that.

When he doesn't answer—when he can't answer—you nod to yourself and walk away.

You make it to your room before the tears start, and you lock the door behind you before sliding down against it. Your hands are shaking again, but this time it's not from the memories. This time it's from the look in Castiel's eyes when you walked away—lost and confused and hurt, like a kicked dog that doesn't understand what it did wrong.

But that's the thing. He does know what he did wrong. He's just not willing to admit it.

Because admitting it would mean admitting that his bond with Dean is different, special in a way that excludes everyone else. And maybe that's fine. Maybe it's even beautiful, in its own way.

But it doesn't make the taste of copper go away. It doesn't stop your hands from shaking. And it doesn't erase the eighteen hours you spent calling for an angel who heard you but didn't think you were worth saving.

Tomorrow, you'll have to face him again. Tomorrow, you'll have to pretend that everything is fine, because that's what Winchesters do. You'll research and track and help your brothers save the world, because that's who you are.

But you won't pray to Castiel ever again.

Some lessons are learned the hard way, carved into skin and etched in silence. And some betrayals, no matter how unintentional, cut too deep to heal with just an apology.

In the distance, you can hear Dean's voice calling your name for dinner. In a few minutes, you'll splash cold water on your face and pretend everything is normal. You'll sit at the table and listen to Sam talk about a case and watch Dean worry about you out of the corner of his eye.

And you'll ignore the way Castiel stares at you like he's trying to solve a puzzle he broke himself.

Because some things, once broken, can't be fixed. Some prayers, once unanswered, echo forever.

And some angels, no matter how much they claim to care, will always choose someone else when it matters most.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Lost and Found

Part 1(this one) Part 2 Part 3

Dean Winchester x older sister!reader

Summary: After the fight with Amara, she said she'd bring back someone he needed but Dean didn't think it'd be you.

Warning: talks about death/blood/lost of a loved one/spoilers in seasons up to the 11-12th Notes: I'm just going to pretend that Sam didn't get kidnapped by that British Men of Letters while Dean was away.

You had been dead for almost nine years.

It had been hard for Dean to adjust to life without his older sibling. You were only a few years older than him, but growing up without a mother and a shitty father, it meant that Dean had leant heavily on you. He had loved you to pieces — you had always taken care of him and Sam, you were the best damn hunter he knew. You were the one who made sure Sam did his homework while Dean cleaned the guns. You were the one who sang them both to sleep when Dad was gone for weeks at a time. You were the one who held Dean when he cried after particularly brutal hunts, and you were the one who made sure there was always food in their bellies, even if it meant you went without.

And then you had died.

Dean was twenty-five at the time, and now where he was close to his mid-thirties, it still hurt just as much. It still stung like an open wound that never quite healed. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't miss you. Not a single hunt where he didn't catch himself looking over his shoulder, expecting to see you there with that cocky grin and a sarcastic comment ready. Not a single night where he didn't dream about you, only to wake up and remember all over again that you were gone.

The hunt that you had died on was just… god, it was horrible. Dean, Sam, and you had been tracking a nest of vampires that had been terrorizing a small town in Nebraska. What should have been a routine extermination had turned into a nightmare when you'd discovered there were twice as many bloodsuckers as you'd anticipated. Dean could still remember the sound of your voice over the radio, calm and controlled even as chaos erupted around you: "We're outnumbered. Fall back to the—" And then static.

Dean just had to watch as one of them slit your throat. The memory played in his mind like a broken record — the spray of blood, the way your eyes went wide with shock, the wet, choking sound you made as you tried to speak. He felt nauseous whenever he thought about it, the blood pooling beneath you, the way your body went limp, carrying your lifeless form back to the car with Sam sobbing beside him, burning your remains on a pyre that seemed too small for someone who had been so alive just hours before.

And then he'd had to settle into the position of the elder sibling. The position that should've never belonged to him. He'd had to be the one to hold Sam together, to make the hard decisions, to carry the weight of responsibility that you had shouldered so effortlessly. He'd had to learn how to be the one others looked to for guidance, when all he wanted was to curl up somewhere and grieve.

When Amara had told him that she'd give him what he needed, Dean didn't really think much of it — he was just fucking thankful to walk away from that conflict alive. The Darkness had been defeated, Chuck was gone, and somehow, miraculously, the world was still spinning. So when he was stumbling through the woods, trying to find his way back to the road so he could go back to the bunker and find Sam, he didn't really take the time to think about the voice calling for help, scared and needing assistance.

The voice was distant at first, echoing through the trees like a half-remembered dream. But as it grew louder, something about it made his blood run cold. It was familiar in a way that made his chest tighten and his steps falter. Of course he didn't think, he just ran in their direction to try and aid whoever the poor person was. His boots crashed through the underbrush, branches catching at his jacket, his heart hammering not from exertion but from a hope so desperate it felt like drowning.

It wasn't until he broke through the trees and was stood in front of them that his heart fell into his stomach and he froze because—

It was you. Amara had brought back you.

You looked young, like you did when you had died — twenty-eight years old, with that same determined set to your jaw and those same eyes that had always been able to see right through him. And though you were his older sibling, now he looked so much older than you. Lines creased the corners of his eyes, gray threaded through his hair, and his shoulders carried the weight of nearly a decade of loss and responsibility.

But Dean didn't care. It was you.

"Y/n?" He choked out, hesitant to step forwards. You looked disoriented and scared — did you even know what was going on? Were you hurt? Were you real? His hands trembled at his sides, afraid that if he moved too quickly, you'd disappear like smoke.

You stopped yelling once you heard your name from a familiar voice, though the voice sounded different somehow — deeper, rougher, like it had been dragged over gravel. Turning around, you saw Dean, and he seemed shocked. But something was wrong. He looked... older. Much older than he should have been.

"Dean?" your voice cracked slightly, hoarse from yelling. "What's happening? I don't remember this memory..." you mumbled to yourself, trying to think. The last thing you remembered was the nest, the vampires, the burning pain across your throat, and then... nothing. Then what felt like moments of peace, of light, of warmth.

You slowly raised your hand to your neck where there should've been a cut. The cut that killed you. But it wasn't there. Your skin was smooth, unmarked, whole. "Am I still in heaven?"

Dean was still frozen as he watched you, his breath hitching, his heart hammering in his chest so hard he was sure you could hear it. He was just staring at you, unable to tear his gaze away from you. Every detail of your face was exactly as he remembered — the way your eyebrows furrowed when you were confused, the way you worried your bottom lip between your teeth when you were thinking, the way you held yourself like you were ready to fight even when you were scared.

Dean's jaw twitched when he realized you didn't know what was happening. How could he even begin to explain? How could he tell you that the world had ended and been reborn, that angels had fallen and demons had risen, that he'd been to Hell and back — literally — and that every single day for eight years, he'd wished it had been him instead of you?

"This isn't a memory, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "You're… Jesus, you're alive, Y/n. Amara brought you back."

He finally dared to step closer, his boots crunching on the fallen leaves. Each step felt like walking on eggshells, like you might vanish if he breathed too hard.

As Dean stepped closer, you could finally see him clearly. All the details in his face that were still there from when you were gone and the details that were new. The freckles across his nose were the same, but there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before. His jaw was sharper, his cheekbones more pronounced, like he'd lost weight and never quite gained it back. His hair was shorter, more practical, and those eyes... those green eyes that had always been your anchor in the storm looked tired. So incredibly tired.

"Brought me back? How long was I gone for?" you asked with a small smile on your face, though uncertainty flickered in your eyes. It must've only been at most a year. Right? It felt like a few days up in heaven. Time moved differently there, soft and fluid like honey, where moments stretched into eternities and eternities collapsed into heartbeats.

Dean was torn between just grabbing you and pulling you close, holding you and never letting go, and staring in awe. Your skin was unmarked by the years of hunting that had weathered his own, your eyes bright and clear without the shadows that had haunted them in those last few months before you died.

You had no idea how long you had been gone for. You had no idea what he and Sam had been through. What they'd lost. What they'd done. The deals they'd made, the lines they'd crossed, the pieces of themselves they'd sacrificed just to keep going without you.

His throat was tight, constricted like someone was squeezing the life out of him.

"Nine years. Nine years, Y/n. You've been gone 9 years," he murmurs, his voice cracking, eyes glistening with unshed tears he'd been holding back for nearly a decade.

"9... years?" The number hit you like a physical blow. "That would mean you... and Sam haven't..." Reality hit you like a brick as you did the calculations in your head. Dean would be in his thirties now. Sam would be... God, Sam would be thirty-one. Your little brother, thirty-one years old.

Nine years of birthdays you'd missed. Nine years of hunts you hadn't been there for. Nine years of nights when they'd needed you and you'd been gone. Nine years of them thinking you were dead, of them grieving, of them having to figure out how to be a family without the person who had held them together.

You wasted no more time and pulled Dean into a hug. Your arms wrapped around his neck as your fingers raked through his hair, shorter now but still soft. You could feel how much broader his shoulders had gotten, how much more solid he felt. He wasn't the twenty-five-year-old you'd left behind. He was a man now, shaped by years of responsibility and loss.

"I- I'm so sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to leave you and Sam," you managed to whisper as tears started to drop from your eyes. "I tried to be careful, I tried to come back, I swear I did."

He didn't waste a second in hugging you back, arms wrapping firmly around your waist, holding you firmly against him, like he was desperate to prove to himself that you were real, that you were really there. His grip was almost desperate, like he was afraid you might slip away again if he didn't hold tight enough. He buried his face into your neck, breathing in the scent of you — somehow still the same, still that mixture of leather and soap and something indefinably you that had always meant home.

"Don't apologize. Don't you dare," he mumbled gruffly, holding you tighter. "You didn't do anything wrong. This wasn't your fault. It was never your fault, sweetheart."

You shook your head, not wanting to let that sink in. "If I wasn't so eager for those damn vampires, if I had waited for backup, if I had been more careful, I wouldn't have missed 9 years of your life. Nine years, Dean. I should have been there."

You took in a shaky breath. "You've changed. So much. I haven't been there for you for so long." Your grip tightened on his clothes — a flannel shirt that was softer than the ones he used to wear, worn thin from years of washing. You could tell that he'd changed. From how tense his muscles were right now to the change in his smell. From how his voice was so much lower than it was at 25 years old, rougher, like he'd been screaming.

"I can tell these years haven't been nice to you," you added softly, accidentally using your big sister voice — that gentle, knowing tone that had always been able to get through to him when nothing else could.

He held you, arms like steel around you, not letting up for a second. You were here—real and real and real. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest, could feel the rise and fall of your breathing, could feel the way you were shaking slightly in his arms.

Your words only made him cling on to you tighter. Every word you spoke was like a knife to the damn heart — because you were right, of course you were. The years hadn't been kind. They'd been brutal, filled with apocalypses and angels and demons and deaths. He'd died and came back, Sam had died and came back, they'd lost and found each other more times than he could count. But through it all, the one constant had been your absence.

"Damn it, Y/n, I don't care," he rasped, pulling his head out from your neck to look you in the eyes. His own eyes were red-rimmed, and even his eyes looked different — more tired, darker, like they'd seen too much. "I've just got you back. I don't care about anything else."

A weak chuckle came out from your raspy throat. "This is insane. Like I'm still trying to process this all." You were. Nine years. Nine years of life you'd missed, nine years of being dead while the world kept turning. It felt impossible.

You immediately pulled him back into a hug, not ready to let go yet. "Tell me something. Tell me something good that happened. Please. I need to know it wasn't all bad."

Dean's arms tightened around you again. "Sam," he said simply. "Sam's good. He's... he's grown up a lot. He's strong, Y/n. Stronger than I ever was. He uh- he had a dog for awhile and lived a somewhat normal life."

You laughed, a real laugh this time. "Of course he did. He always wanted one growing up... as well as a normal life."

"He came back though. He always comes back." Dean's voice was soft, fond. "He's got this... this way of seeing the good in everything. Even when everything's gone to hell, he still believes we can fix it. He still believes in people."

You leaned back from the warm hug and looked around. You were in a clearing, surrounded by trees that looked like they'd been through some kind of storm. The air smelled of rain and earth and something else, something that made your skin prickle with residual magic. You were surprised to not see a tall guy with long glorious hair — if he still had it long.

"Wait where's Sam? He's still..." you let your voice trail off, not wanting to finish that sentence. Not wanting to voice the fear that had been growing in your chest since Dean said nine years.

Dean was still holding on to you as tightly as he could, not wanting to let go. His heart was hammering in his chest, the reality of the situation just barely sinking in but he was still so damn relieved. When you asked about Sam, he let out a soft, tired chuckle.

"He's uh... he's alive. Still kickin'. Still tall as hell." He paused, before adding with a fond smile: "Still got the stupid long hair, and he refuses to cut it. Says it makes him look 'distinguished' now. I told him it makes him look like a damn hippie."

You let out a breath of relief after hearing that Sam was still alive. "Good. That's good. I hope he never cuts his hair, I think it would be a bit weird on him," you said, shrugging. "Besides, you've always been jealous of his hair."

"Have not," Dean protested, but there was no heat in it.

You thought it was funny how Dean still teased him about the long hair. Some things never changed.

A small smile crept onto his face when you mentioned Sam's hair, and he let out a quiet huff. "You're right. Don't tell him I said that either."

You looked back into his eyes to see how tired he was. There were dark circles under them, lines of exhaustion that spoke of too many sleepless nights and too much coffee. "We should probably head to wherever you guys are staying now. You look like you could sleep for years."

His eyes softened when you suggested going back to the bunker, and he nodded. You were right, as much as he'd rather stay in that spot and keep you in his arms forever, he was exhausted. And more than that, Sam needed to see you. Sam needed to know you were back.

"We got a bunker actually. Come on," he murmurs, reluctantly pulling away but keeping one hand on your arm, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he wasn't touching you.

"The bunker?" Your eyes lit up when Dean mentioned it. You had died before ever hearing of a bunker. The last thing you remembered chasing was the yellow eyes demon, the psychic kids, and the last home you had was the impala. "Does that mean I get to see Sam?"

You wondered what he was going to think about all this. What if he wanted nothing to do with you? What if he was mad that you left him? Dean wasn't, but Sam could be. Sam had always been more emotional, more likely to hold grudges. And you'd left him when he was so young, barely more than a kid.

You wanted to be happy that you were about to see Sam, but now your stomach hurt from being nervous. He'd had such a baby face when you died since he was only twenty-two. You wondered if he'd grown out of it, if he looked as different as Dean did.

He let out a soft huff when he noticed your eyes light up, and he smiled. He knew how much you would love that old bunker. "Yeah sweetheart, you get to see Sam. Trust me."

He noticed the nerves starting to show as you got closer to the mention of Sam, and he knew exactly what you were thinking. He'd always been able to read you like a book, just like you'd always been able to read him.

"You can stop worrying about him being mad or not wanting to see you. He's going to be damn ecstatic to have you back." You let out a chuckle at Dean's reassurance. Of course he knew when you were starting to get nervous. You forgot how well he could notice the small things. And how well he knew you.

"That makes me feel better..." A small but genuine smile appeared on your face as you walked side by side to the car. Being next to Dean felt natural, like no time had passed at all. Your shoulders bumped occasionally as you walked, a familiar rhythm you'd fallen into thousands of times before on thousands of hunts.

"Y/n, he... he never stopped missing you. Never stopped talking about you. Some nights I'd find him just sitting in the library, looking at pictures of us when we were kids. He blamed himself for your death for years."

"He what?" You stopped walking. "Dean, he was twenty-two. He was barely out of college. How could he blame himself?"

"Because he's Sam," Dean said simply. "Because he thinks if he'd been faster, or smarter, or better, he could have saved you. Because he's spent the last eight years thinking he should have been the one to die instead of you. We both did."

Your heart broke a little more. "We need to get to him. Now."

When you got to the road, you thought you'd see the impala, Baby, parked right there like always. But instead, it was an old truck, dusty and practical and not at all like the sleek black beauty you remembered. It made you wonder if he'd left the impala to Sam, or if something had happened to it.

"Hey, when you were about to fight Amara, did you think you'd survive? Because you didn't bring Baby," you asked as you got in the passenger seat of the truck. The interior smelled like coffee and old leather, with a small pine tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

He noticed the way that your smile dropped slightly when you didn't see the impala. And he knew what your next question was going to be before you even asked it. He got into the driver's seat and started the truck, the engine rumbling to life with a sound that was nothing like Baby's purr.

"No. I didn't think that I was gonna walk away from that fight alive," he said quietly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. "Baby's back at the bunker. Sam's been taking care of her. I... I didn't want to risk her getting destroyed if things went south."

He pulled onto the road, the truck's headlights cutting through the gathering darkness. "I needed to know that if I didn't make it, at least Sam would still have something. Something that was ours."

"You were going to die for the world," you said softly. "Again."

"Someone had to."

"It didn't have to be you."

Dean glanced at you, and for a moment, you saw the boy you'd raised in his eyes. "Yeah, it did. It's always me, Y/n. That's just how it works."

You wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that it wasn't his job to save everyone, that he deserved to live. But you could see in his expression that this was a conversation that had been had before, probably with Sam, probably more than once.

The drive to the bunker took almost an hour, winding through back roads and highways that all looked the same in the darkness. Dean filled you in on some of what had happened — the basics, at least. The apocalypse, the angels, the demons, the Darkness. It was almost too much to process, and you found yourself gripping the door handle as he talked.

"So you died," you said when he paused. "You actually died."

"Few times."

"Dean."

"What? So did Sam. We're like cats, I guess. Multiple lives."

You stared at him, trying to process the casual way he talked about death. "How are you okay with this? How are you okay with any of this?"

He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the hum of the truck's engine. "I'm not," he finally said. "But I had to be. Sam needed me to be. The world needed me to be."

When you finally pulled up to the bunker, you stared at it in awe. It was like something out of a movie — concrete and steel and old. "This is where you live now?"

"Home sweet home," Dean said, but there was pride in his voice. "Wait 'til you see the inside. It's got a library that'll make Sam wet himself, and a kitchen that's actually got a full-sized fridge."

You laughed despite everything. "Luxury."

Dean parked the truck and turned to look at you. "You ready for this?"

You took a deep breath. "I don't think I'll ever be ready. But let's do it anyway."

The bunker's entrance was heavy and metallic, and Dean had to input a code to get in. As you descended the stairs, you could hear the sound of typing echoing from somewhere deeper in the building. The walls were lined with symbols and artwork that looked ancient and powerful, and everything smelled like old books and coffee.

"Sam?" Dean called out as you reached the main floor. "I'm back. And I, uh... I brought someone."

The typing stopped. You heard a chair scrape against the floor, and then footsteps — long, familiar strides that you'd know anywhere. And then Sam Winchester rounded the corner, and your heart stopped.

He was huge. Not just tall, but broad, filled out in a way that made him look like a man instead of the gangly kid you remembered. His hair was longer, pulled back behind his ears, and there was a beard covering his jaw. But his eyes — those warm, kind eyes — were exactly the same.

Sam stopped dead when he saw you, his mouth falling open. A cup of coffee slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, shattering on the floor and sending ceramic and hot liquid everywhere. But he didn't notice. He was staring at you like you were a ghost.

"Y/n?" he whispered, his voice deeper than you remembered but still so unmistakably Sam.

And then a single tear rolled down his cheek.

[musubi05]

What food you order? My mom made cheesecake today, so I think I'll eat that before sleep😋

I lost my hyperfocus on superheroes years ago but I want to watch Superman too, the problem is that I have nobody to watch with me and talk about the movie. Anyway, I'm looking forward to your new series💕

Have a good day💕

I ordered hawaiian bbq and got spam musubi (i'll never get tired of it). Cheesecake sounds so good 😫 I wish I could go get some but I don't think there's any stores with them where I'm at.

I also have the same problem but I don't mind the single date to the movies. I'm also more of a marvel superhero person than a DC superhero person. But I'm gonna watch superman for the dog.

hope u have a good day too!! 💜💜

[musubi05]

ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིYap Sesh ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

First of all happy birthday Jared Padalecki! He's such a sweet guy and a great actor. Underrated in my opinion.

But honestly I was bored because I'm waiting for food to get here so now I'm writing this. Just finished part one of a little series of mine (there'll only be like 2 parts), so i'll post that tomorrow maybe? Maybe monday. I also got a good one that someone requested. Don't know when I'll finish that but it'll be soon. Just trying to make it sad enough. 😁😁

I just started watching Walker today. How does the first episode already make me cry? Barely any context clues but that's a pilot for you 😂 But this show is great and I'm happy that I finally have time to watch it. So I highly recommend watching it for people who haven't.

Also I heard that the new Superman movie is actually good? I thought it was just gonna be another remake but I guess I'll have to go see it.

Anyways that's the end of my first yap sesh. Peace ✌️