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dollyzdaydreamz · 5 days ago

Text

dean winchester x fairy! reader

make me feel like a person

description: you were never meant to cross paths with a human, let alone be saved by a hunter. but after a late-night diner run, you learn what it feels like to be human. and dean, he remembers what it feels like to be more than a hunter. (strangers --> friends --> lovers)

fluff • minor angst • sfw • 5k words

warnings: none, dean nearly runs the you over in the beginning though hehe

The backroads were slick with rain and shadow. Branches clawed at the sky like skeletal hands, and the Impala's headlights carved narrow tunnels through the dark. Something about nights like this, quiet and murky, should've set Dean on edge, but it was oddly familiar given all the late night hunts he used to go on growing up.

Classic rock buzzed low on the radio, and Dean tapped the steering wheel to the beat, his other hand holding a lukewarm coffee. Sam was back at Bobby’s chasing down lore on a spirit near the Cascades, which gave Dean the pleasure of this solo errand: destroying a cursed trinket from two towns over.

His foot hesitated on the gas when something flickered across the road up ahead.

It was small, fast, and luminescent. At first, he thought it was just a reflection, but-

“Shit!”

He slammed the brakes and the Impala fishtailed before screeching to a halt.

Heart pounding, Dean jumped out, gun half-drawn.

The thing, or person, he almost hit was lying in the middle of the road, curled up, trembling.

“Hey!” he called out. “You alright?”

It was a girl.

No, not a girl, a woman. Dirt-smudged face, wild hair matted with rain, wearing what looked like tattered green silk. Her skin was flushed, eyes wide with terror.

Dean jolted back as she scrambled to her feet, but he reached forward when she nearly collapsed again.

“Th-They’re coming after me.” She rasped, keeping her distance.

Dena shifted, “Who’s coming?”

“The hunters.” She whimpered, rubbing her slashed temple, eyes widening at the crimson.

Dean’s instincts flared. He took a step forward, scanning the woods behind her. “Hunters?”

Her breath quickened as she glanced at the forest, “They want to kill me.”

Dean’s grip tightened on his gun, “Why?”

She stared at him, panic crackling in her big eyes,

“I’m a fairy.”

He blinked.

“Right. Okay. Well… you’ve probably had a little too much to drink,” he huffed.

“I’m serious,” she said, voice hardening.

And then, to his complete and utter horror, she unfolded a set of wings. Gossamer-thin, iridescent, shimmering even in the gray fog of the storm. The air around her warped, as if her very presence altered reality.

Dean flinched. “Son of a bitch.”

He raised his gun on instinct. “What the hell kind of trap is this?”

“I’m not—!” she yelped, but Dean was already moving, pinning her to the wet asphalt with one knee.

There was a flash of hurt in her eyes before she went slack beneath him.

“Sorry, Tinkerbell,” he muttered, picking her up and starting toward the impala, “But I ain’t taking any chances.”

—

When you awoke, it was to the smell of motor oil, leather, and coffee.

There were booming voices echoing off walls made of wood and metal.

You stirred slowly, pulse drumming in your ears, shoulder blades aching to get up and expand your wings after being on your back for so long.

“…shouldn’t’ve knocked her out cold, Dean. She’s a goddamn fairy,” a thoughtful voice muttered.

“She sprouted wings like a damn peacock, what was I supposed to do?” another voice answered, gravelly, defensive. “I thought some sort of…I don’t know–siren trick!”

“You always think with your trigger finger,” grumbled another man. “Fairies are harmless. Some hunters go after them just for sport. It’s sick.”

Everything was strange, you blinked your eyes open, expecting to see the shutters of your cottage.

Instead, three men towered the dimly lit room: one with shaggy brown hair and big eyes, one in a trucker cap with a scowl, and him. The man from the road.

They were talking about you like you were an animal in a cage. You felt the sting of tears spring into your eyes. You never should’ve crossed into human territory.

Whispers of how brutal man could be floated around, but you’d read tons of lore on the creatures so similar to you fairies and came to realize not all of them were bad.

But you were proven gravely wrong, and now you had to pay the price.

Admittedly, you romanticized human life in your head, so curiosity got the better of you when you stupidly wandered a little too far out from the forest.

You began searching around you for a pipe, a dagger, anything, to take down your captors. Your eyes landed on the soft light illuminating your peripheral.

There was a metal lamp on the table beside you. You didn’t think, just reached an arm out as quietly as you could.

You grabbed it, and toed forward lightly,

Then you lunged.

“Whoa—hey!” the green-eyed man barked, stumbling back as you swung.

“Let me go home!” You yelled.

“Easy, okay? You’re not in danger!” he said, holding up his hands.

You scoffed, wild eyes flickering to the sharp weaponry practically displayed on the walls.

They probably planned to kill you in here, tack your wings up like one of those awful taxidermy trophies you read about in your books.

“You're lying.”

“We’re not lying,” the taller man reasoned. “You’re in a safe place, alright? We aren’t the kind of hunters you ran from.”

Your hands trembled around the lamp. You looked between them, unsure.

“I’m Sam Winchester,” he said, resting a hand on his chest, before motioning to the man that knocked you out earlier, “This is my brother Dean.”

Your eye caught the older man watching vigilantly from across the room, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of a frayed cap, “That’s our friend Bobby.”

“You wanna tell us your name?” He asked gently.

You faltered, mumbling your name before tightening your iron grip in case they decided to cut the nice act.

“Here,” Dean began, “Let’s make a deal.”

“Deal?” You bristled, giving him a look.

“You must be hungry, right? I mean I would be, after being hunted and all…” he trailed off, chuckling nervously.

His smile dropped at your hard stare, before he cleared his throat.

“You let go of the lamp, I’ll get you a burger…deal?”

You falter a little, a furrow taking place between your brows.

“Burger?” You mumbled to yourself, jolting back as he stepped toward you.

“How about we find something for you to wear first?” Bobby suggested from behind the boys, giving your tattered dress a gentle regard.

You looked down, your gown snagged with twigs, blackened with grime.

“Think I got a few extra clothes here.” Dean murmured, snagging a few flannels from his bag, before tossing some over to Sam, knowing you were still a little jumpy around him.

“Here,” Sam said, “You wear this and he’ll take you out for some food.”

You felt your stomach churn.

It was either uncertainty, the desire to consume whatever this burger business was, or both.

You nodded, “Deal.”

“Good,” Dean grinned, extending an apprehensive hand toward the lamp, “Just gonna put this back.”

—

The material was soft, smelled faintly of something woodsy and leathery, and the collar gaped slightly around your neck. You didn’t hate it. That was the most unsettling part.

Your wings were hidden again, tucked back into your skin, though your shoulder blades still ached faintly. Your hair was damp from the earlier downpour, and your skin was a touch too pale from everything you’d been through.

The bathroom door creaked softly as you peered out, just enough for one eye and a sliver of your cheek to catch the low light.

The hall beyond was quiet, a low hum of conversation bleeding in from the living room.

Just because they hadn’t hurt you yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

So you waited at the edge of the door, half-thinking maybe this was part of some trick. That if you stepped out, the kindness would vanish, and you'd see their true faces.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice called from the couch.

Your heart kicked.

He was lounging there, one arm slung over the back, head tilted toward the sound of her door.

When you didn’t answer, he stood up. His eyes found yours in the shadow and softened.

“They fit okay?”

You stepped out slowly, making uncertain steps on the creaky floor. The boots clomped awkwardly, slightly big around the ankles. And the shirt, his shirt, swallowed you whole.

So much for wanting to be human. You felt ridiculous.

His eyes raked down and then back up, slowly.

“Dean?” Sam called, nudging him, “Grab a belt.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Dean blinked, before fumbling for the nearest one off the back of a chair. “Here.”

He stepped toward you, holding the belt out, but the moment he crossed into your space, you tensed, body still instinctively leaning away.

Dean froze. He didn’t say anything, just stepped back.

Sam came up behind him, “Mind if I?”

You nodded once.

As Sam strained to kneel at your level and carefully wrap the belt around you, you eyed the sheer length of his legs with mild curiosity. Your gaze flitted toward Dean’s legs. He was very tall, but not freakishly so, like his brother.

What’d they eat as children?

The flannel pulled in gently, not tight, but just enough to give the fabric a bit of shape, making it look more like a dress than a borrowed shirt.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Better?”

“Better.” You smile softly, feeling a little less like hunter prey and more like a human for the first time.

—

Dean held the Impala door open with a quiet gesture.

You stood for a moment, hand on the roof of the car, studying the metal beast like it might lunge.

“Promise it doesn’t bite,” Dean said, voice light but genuine.

You hesitated, then crawled inside.

Dean shut the door with a soft thunk, then walked around to the driver’s side. The moment he twisted the key, the engine roared to life.

You flinched, shoulders curling in, eyes wide with alarm. It sounded like he’d woken an ancient beast.

“Sorry, she’s got a bit of a bark,” Dean muttered, shooting you a glance. “Should’ve warned you.”

You slowly uncurled, watching the dashboard lights flicker like fireflies.

The radio kicked on automatically, something grating and electric that had your body tensed again.

Dean caught it. “Right, right—hang on,” he mumbled, flipping the knob.

Static, then a low, gentle melody filled the car. A simple acoustic rhythm, a man’s voice, gravelly, but sweet, singing about rivers and grass.

You relaxed almost immediately, leaning back, weary gaze softening.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Good.”

He tapped the wheel in rhythm, humming faintly, occasionally letting a lyric slip out under his breath.

You listened.

“You have a nice voice,” you say, breaking the silence.

Dean glanced over, surprised. “What? Nah.”

You turned toward him, resting your head lightly against the seat. “It’s true.”

He scoffed dismissively, shifting in his seat.

“Did you…ever want to be like this man?” You ask, pointing at the dashboard where the voice came from.

Dean smiled faintly, the question catching him off guard, “I think I was more the fireman type when I was a kid. But a rock star? Yeah, that’d be cool too.”

He glanced sideways at you, saw you watching the lights on the side of the road blur past, mesmerized.

“What about you?” he asked, “Do fairies have...you know, jobs?”

You smiled, “Yes. But I always wanted to see what this was like, the human world…to be a person.”

Dean didn’t answer right away.

He just kept driving.

But after a moment, he looked over again with a soft grin, “You might end up being better at it than me.”

—

A few moments later, Dean pulled into a diner, glowing under the night sky, sat at the edge of a cracked lot.

You sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the building ahead with growing excitement.

“Alright,” Dean killed the engine, glancing at you with a grin, “get ready for the best damn food your woodland heart’s ever seen.”

When you stepped out of the car, you absorbed the scene with a curiosity you didn’t bother to hide.

Warm light spilled onto the parking spaces, silhouettes moving past steam-fogged windows.

Your gaze drifted, lingering a beat too long on a group of giant leather-clad bikers leaning against their Harleys just outside the entrance.

You tilted your head.

They sort of looked like a different breed of human.

Large, boisterous, laughter booming and eyes sharp beneath shaggy brows.

One of them, slightly scrawnier than the rest, raised an eyebrow at you, half a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

You frowned, wings twitching underneath your clothes in half surprise, half disgust.

Dean turned back to you, following your line of sight before he chuckled. “Yeah, let's not make new friends tonight.”

You turned to him just as he reached for your hand.

The warmth of his palm curled around yours without hesitation. The contact startled you, wings tensing slightly under your jacket, but you didn’t pull away.

Instead, a strange sense of steadiness spread through your chest, like your feet were planted a little more firmly on this unfamiliar earth.

Dean leaned back against the booth, one arm stretched along the top of the seat like his presence was effortlessly at home here.

You knew the world had places like this, but to see it all in motion, the colors, the smells, the closeness of strangers, was something else entirely.

It all felt strangely familiar, like the scent of a place you’d visited in a dream once.

The waitress approached and the moment she looked at him, her demeanor shifted.

“What can I get you, sugar?”

She didn’t bat an eye your way, glancing at Dean every so often as she wrote an order down like he might disappear if she blinked.

You chuckled under your breath in disbelief as you noticed another girl at the bar tucking her hair behind her ear while sneaking a look his way.

And another.

They all looked at him like he was made of something rare.

Then it hit you.

Dean Winchester must be…desirable, in the human world.

When you really took his features in for the first time, it made sense.

He was handsome, striking, really, even by fairy standards. His eyes a forest green that glinted like they had secrets tucked behind long eyelashes, the slope of his nose almost a feminine aquiline, and blushed lips not too thin nor too large.

His gaze met yours, a flicker of amusement already in his eyes.

You flushed and averted your gaze, quickly busying yourself by perusing through the menu like it was the most interesting thing you’ve seen in all your time here.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low and warm across the table, “you don’t look too bad yourself.”

You stiffened, still unable to meet his eyes. You dared a glance up, catching on the subtle way his smirk softened when he looked at you.

Luckily, the food arrived with a clatter and a puff of heat to break the tension.

The burger towered in front of you, layers of meat and cheese like some architectural feat barely held together by the skewered toothpick stabbed through its center.

Everything smelled rich and heavy in a way that made your stomach both growl and hesitate. Dean noticed your expression, half amusement, half sympathy lighting in his eyes.

“Alright, don’t panic,” he said, pulling the burger from his plate. “This is edible. Just gotta know how to tackle it.”

You watched closely as he plucked off the toothpick, adjusted the bun with practiced ease, then held it up like a prize catch.

“See? Two hands. No dainty fairy bites. You go in with conviction.” He explained, putting his game face on.

You couldn’t help the chuckle escaping you at his monstrous bite.

He muffled a satisfied sound, then set it down. “Now you.”

You eyed your burger like it might fight back.

Still, you mirrored him, gently lifting it with both hands. It wobbled slightly, sauce already threatening to drip down your fingers. You glanced at him, unsure.

Your first bite was awkward, too much bread, a piece of lettuce tried to slide out. You chewed slowly, then cautiously nodded.

“Oh,” you mumbled.

“What do you think?” Dean asked, eyes trained on your expression.

“That’s… that’s actually nice.”

“There you go,” Dean chuckled, “Welcome to America, Tinkerbell.”

“Whose Tinker?—”

You were cut off when the waitress placed a thick creamy drink crowned with a swirl of whipped cream and a bright red cherry beside you.

Your lips wrapped around the straw and you took a sip.

Your eyes widened.

Cold. Sweet. Rich. Like frozen vanilla clouds, more indulgent than anything you’d tasted in your forest glades or mountaintop springs.

You took another sip.

Then another.

Dean watched you drain half the glass in one go, “Woah there, pace yourself.”

“This is incredible,” you said, breathless.

He grinned, flagging down the waitress again. “Can we get a slice of apple pie?”

Apple pie?

You paused. “I’ve had that before.”

Dean raised a brow. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Years ago, an old lady that lived near my cottage left one on her windowsill in the woods, and well…I took a piece. Just a small one.”

“You’ve got a sweet tooth,” He murmured, reaching to wipe a dab of whipped cream from your upper lip with his thumb.

You jolted slightly, but let him clean it off anyway.

You snuck a glance behind the brim of your glass as he brought his thumb to his lips and licked it clean, “So do I.”

Before you could flush brighter than the cherry still floating atop your milkshake, the pie arrived.

“So,” Dean started, popping the cherry into his mouth and fiddling with the stem, “What do fairies eat anyway? Aside from stolen pies.”

“A lot of things. They aren’t too far off from what most humans eat…but I don’t know—I wouldn’t wanna bore you with all the details,” You shrugged.

He grinned, suckling on the cherry as he leaned forward, “Try me.”

You flushed, eyes widening just a tad.

Is it normal for humans to act so…flirtatious like this?

Or maybe this isn’t flirtatious at all, it’s just a cherry.

Yeah, he’s just eating a cherry.

But he keeps staring at you.

For Christ sake! This wasn’t in the human lore books–

“You there?”

You jolted, mind pausing from its endless reeling.

“Huh? Oh,” you shifted, ignoring his almost knowing grin.

“Well, Spring’s got flower nectar. In Summer there's berries and herbs, sometimes pine nuts. Autumn, we preserve by drying apples. During the Winter we eat frost sugar or moss biscuits.”

Dean blinked, “Moss biscuits?”

“They’re pretty good.” You nodded, “I’ll bring you some one day, you can try them out yourself.”

Dean grinned, leaning back against his seat, “Yeah?”

“Why not?” You grinned, motioning to his plate “You could use a little green in your diet.”

You chuckled at the dry look he shot you.

After a long comfortable pause you spoke up again,

“I’ve read about places like this, in secret mostly” you said softly, looking around the diner.

“In secret?” He asked.

“My parents used to forbid me from human lore. I remember sneaking a few under my bed anyway.”

Dean tilted his head, resting his cheek against his palm, brows furrowed as his gaze flitted around your face.

Something about his attention was admittedly flustering, yet made it so easy to speak your mind.

So you went on.

“The books had table etiquette, music, and how people eat together in booths like these. How everything stays buzzing and on. I mean, it’s like the human world never sleeps.”

You sighed almost dreamily, eyes lingering on the cracked laminate of the table before trailing back up to him.

His gaze hadn’t left you once. And suddenly you were aware of how long you’d been talking.

You were cut off mid-thought, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble. You know all this.”

You took another long sip from your milkshake, eyes darting away.

Dean didn’t say anything at first, but when you glanced back up, his brow was less tense than before, eyes softer and less playful.

Then, he reached for the fork.

“Here,” he cut off a piece of pie, and offered it, “Try it warm this time.”

You took it, shaky fingers brushing his as you did with a little smile.

—

After the pie had been reduced to crumbs and the last of the milkshake drained, the diner had settled into a lull.

A small crowd had gathered near the back where a dartboard hung crookedly against the wall.

Dean leaned against the bar counter, watching the room with half-lidded eyes and a content smirk.

You sat beside him, perched on one of the tall stools. The vinyl creaked every time you shifted, so you started spinning slowly, letting your heels brush the metal footrest and giving yourself gentle pushes.

The motion was simple, rhythmic. Your legs swung, and your hair shifted around your shoulders like the soft rustling of leaves in the wind.

You closed your eyes, letting the hum of the diner and the motion blur together, like a memory you hadn't had yet.

Dean’s amused glance turned sharp the second he noticed it.

A cluster of sparkles escaped from your back, a gold trail, floating just high enough to catch someone’s eye if they looked close enough.

He straightened immediately and stepped closer, hand settling gently but firmly on the back of your stool. “Alright, Tinkerbell. Ease up.”

You blinked at him in confusion until you followed his line of sight.

“Oh,” you murmured, biting back a smile. “Guess the spinning woke them up.”

“Yeah, well, this place ain’t exactly fairy-friendly,” Dean huffed, stepping between you and the rest of the room. “Next time someone sees sparkles coming off your back, they’re either gonna call a priest or start filming.”

You laughed under your breath, just as a sharp metallic thunk drew your attention toward the far corner of the room.

It was the same guy, the one who’d given you that too-long stare earlier. Only now, he was hunched in front of the dartboard, except he wasn’t throwing darts.

He was throwing knives.

They landed with angry precision, the blades biting deep into the already-splintered wood. He didn’t seem to be playing with anyone. Just showing off.

You nudged Dean’s elbow, keeping your voice below a whisper. “Do you think you could beat him?”

Dean didn’t look up right away, just smirked at the question. “You kidding me, sweetheart?” he drawled, “I’m a damn pro.”

“Pro or not, I can help you win a decent amount of cash,” You hum.

Dean raised a brow, “How’s that?” —

As the two of you approached the back of the room, the air felt thicker. More tension, more eyes, more testosterone.

You trailed behind Dean as he strode toward the knife-thrower. The man looked up just as Dean came to a stop beside him, then let his gaze flick toward you.

Dean shifted, just slightly, to stand in front of you.

“Mind if I play a few rounds?�� Dean asked, “Winner snags a hundred?”

There was a tense pause, then the man grunted and handed over a spare knife.

The first few throws were close, solid enough to draw impressed murmurs from the crowd.

Upon your involvement, the biker’s next knife landed several inches outside the bullseye.

Dean raised his eyebrows, mock-sympathetic. “Tough break, man.”

The game wore on, sometimes Dean’s elbow bumped yours on purpose everytime he ‘missed.’

Other times, he just looked at you out of the corner of his eye and grinned like you shared a private joke.

In the final round, you barely moved, just bent the air pressure in the tiniest, imperceptible way.

Dean nailed his final throw with a satisfying thunk, the blade hitting dead-center.

The biker cursed under his breath and Dean sauntered over to collect the cash without much fuss. The group had grown significantly more sour and suspicious.

But they’d never figure out a fairy and a hunter had just hustled them out of a hundred bucks.

“Think that’s our cue,” Dean muttered, looping an arm around your waist casually, and steering you toward the door.

The diner door swung shut behind you with a final clang, the warm hum of laughter and jukebox music fading into the cooler, quieter night.

Dean tucked the bills into his jacket pocket, then glanced sideways at you.

“So, are you glad you came?”

You looked up at him and nodded, still buzzing with energy, laughter bubbling just beneath your ribs. “That was… fun.”

The town was still alive in patches, dim porch lights, a flickering sign from the motel across the street, a dog barking somewhere in the distance.

It would’ve been perfect if your wings would just sit still.

They twitched again, stubborn under the flannel shirt. You shifted your shoulders uncomfortably, trying to make it look like nothing at all.

But every few steps, another flicker of movement pulsed through you, an involuntary flutter trying to push through the heavy cotton.

Excitement always did this to you. Too much motion, too much joy, and your wings started behaving like they had minds of their own.

Dean cast a sideways glance at you, catching the subtle fidgeting.

“You alright?” he asked. “That belt too tight or something?”

“No, it’s fine,” you lied quickly, straightening a little.

He squinted. “Alright.”

Then, with that usual ease, he muttered, “Well, don’t worry. We’ll get you out of those clothes in no time.”

You froze.

Well that didn’t help.

Before you could even gather a reply, Dean continued, completely unbothered,

“Sam and Bobby should have something figured out soon,” he sighed. “Way to get you home, keep you off the radar.”

You didn’t answer right away. Something about the words hit differently than they were probably meant to.

Home.

Avoiding trouble and leaving all of this behind.

Your steps slowed slightly and your posture slumped as you stared down the quiet street, now somehow lonelier than it had looked before.

Dean glanced at you, then looked around, just to make sure no one was watching.

Satisfied, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the small hunting knife from earlier.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Turn around.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He gestured with the knife, but his eyes were soft. “Just trust me.”

You hesitated for only a moment before turning, facing away.

You felt his hand gently tug the back of the shirt outward, then you heard the fabric tear. One long, slow slice, followed by a second on the opposite side.

Cool air brushed against your back, and just like that, your wings slipped free.

You sighed as they unfurled slowly, stretching out like they’d been holding their breath all night.

Dean stood there, knife still in one hand and his breath caught in his chest.

His eyes followed the slow motion of your wings, transfixed by the almost-hypnotic way the breadth of them pulsed with gentle light, like moonlight scattered across water, translucent and alive.

Dean reached out, just a little, like he was about to touch them, fingers lifting midair.

But he blinked and pulled back.

“Sorry,” he gruffed, clearing his throat. “Didn’t mean to…get weird about it.”

Your smile was soft, a little amused, but not mocking.

You turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Movement caught your eye just off the path, a small clearing between trees where an old swing set sat crooked, half-swallowed by time and overgrowth.

You pointed. “Come on. I wanna show you something.”

—

The chain screeched as you climbed on, boots barely touching the ground. Dean followed at a slower pace, arms crossed, watching you like he wasn’t quite sure what you were up to but wasn’t about to say no.

You pushed off the ground, trying to gain momentum, but it was hard given how rusted the joints of the chains were.

“Here,” he offered, stepping up behind you. “I’ll give you a boost.”

You rolled your eyes, “I know how to swing myself.”

“I know,” He drawled, grabbing the chains gently and pulling you back.

You braced for the push, but when it didn’t come, you looked to the side and flinched to find his face close to yours.

You sucked in a breath when his eyes flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

“Ready, Tinkerbell?”

“Yeah," You whisper.

Then your brows furrowed, "But…whose Tinkerbe—Agh!” You yelped, caught off guard as he lurched you forward.

You swung high, your wings fluttering with the motion.

All at once, a trail of fairy dust began to circle in your wake.

It spun behind you in soft spirals, glittering gold and green in the dark.

As you gained speed, it lifted higher, weaving around Dean too, curling into the air like enchanted smoke,

“You see that?!” You chuckled. Dean huffed in amusement, bringing a hand up to catch some fairy dust, before letting it float up and around him. For once, a "hunt" didn't bring about the image of horror in some lore book his father shoved down his throat as a kid. No, this was one of the stories his mom whispered to him before he drifted off to sleep. This was a fairytale. He was taken out of his thoughts when the volume of fairy dust nearly blurred his vision in a cloud of golds and greens.

“Alright, alright—I get it. You win the cool contest.” Dean groaned playfully, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from a stray swirl.

You threw your head back and laughed again.

But then his phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the moment.

He stepped away to answer it, muttering a quick “Yeah?” as he walked toward the edge of the clearing.

You slowed, the swing’s motion easing into smaller and smaller arcs until your boots brushed the earth again.

You hopped off, brushing your hands against your thighs as you approached.

Dean had a strange look on his face. Not worry, nor relief.

You tilted your head. “Everything okay?”

He looked off into the clearing, avoiding your gaze, before answering.

“Sam and Bobby found the hunters, found a way to mislead them,” he said. “They think it’s safe to get you back to where you came from.”

“Oh.” You nodded, folding your arms across your chest even though you weren’t cold.

You weren’t sure what to say. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of trees rustling and the last drift of fairy dust settling into the dirt.

He ran a hand down his face, “We should…head back.”

—

You and Dean walked quietly along an old dirt trail winding through the forest, bordering on the territory you came from. Ancient willow trees loomed above, their leaves whispering with the breeze, while puddles shimmered faintly under the moonlight.

Your wings were folded tight against your back, aching quietly beneath the shirt, like they were holding in too much feeling at once.

You hadn’t meant for this to happen, hadn’t meant to feel anything for Dean, for a human.

The single night behind you felt too bright, vivid, too full of things you were never meant to have.

Every now and then he’d glance over, eyes flicking toward you like he wanted to speak but, for once that night, couldn’t find the words.

You stopped just as your parent’s cottage came to view, soft lamp lights spilling onto the damp grass. There was a puddle where you and Dean stood, shallow but wide and glassy, reflecting the stars like a second sky.

Dean slowed beside you.

“You alright?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. The word swelled in your throat, impossible to contain.

“No.”

He turned to look at you fully, brows twitching in surprise.

You kept your eyes on the puddle as you gently toed at it with your boot, watching the ripples warp the reflection of the stars above you.

“I like these boots.” You murmur, “And this stupid shirt.”

Dean said nothing.

You took a shallow breath, blinking back the sting rising in your eyes. “I almost wish tonight never happened...I-I wish I never met you.”

His gaze searched yours, “Why?”

"I...well, I think I-." You stammered, unable to form the words. You sighed in frustration, before your boots met Deans in the puddle, toes resting right on top of his.

You didn’t rightly know what you were doing, though the feather light hands on your waist steadied you.

“I love you, Dean," You breathed, "you make me feel like a person.” You rose up gently, just enough to close the distance and placed your lips on top of his.

He stood perfectly still for a beat, then leaned in just barely, as if the moment might vanish if he grasped too hard.

When you broke away to breathe, Dean’s head chased after yours for a half second, before he came to and pulled away.

He pressed his forehead against yours, “I could say the same to you.” You felt your heart leap just a little at the almost boyish tint that had risen to his face, "Next time, I'm taking you out to dinner." "Oh yeah?" He asked, voice tender as he suppressed a grin, "And what about desert?"

You rolled your eyes, “Only if you try out the moss biscuits first.”

He nodded, intertwining his pinky with yours, “Deal.”

Just then, your wings fluttered again, only this time you didn’t try to stop them.

A thin gleaming trail of fairy dust circled around the two of you, sealing a vow between a fairy and a hunter, to meet again under the glimmer of a summer night sky.

aaa i hope this was okay, i know it was long asf `(*>﹏<*)′

i finally figured out how to put gradient text on here i luv it omg

#dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester #spn #spn fanfic #spnfandom #supernatural #supernatural fluff #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagine #supernatural headcanon #sam winchester fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester smut

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olive-treeeee · 2 months ago

Text

Strings of the heart - The Toymaker x Reader

Hello Mein Lieblings! This fic was requested by Anon who asked: “hi, im kinda new to requesting so im not sure if im doing things correctly, but is it cool if the reader could be like the daughter of the toymake? (not sure how that will work, but please bear with me!) and is currently the companion with 15th doctor? i want the fic kinda centered around the mr. ring a ding ep bc it's currently my favorite. the rest is up to you!”

I’m so sorry that this took so long to post, but I hope it was worth the wait! I had a great time writing this one, I actually really like writing for the toymaker!

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: Daddy issues, James Corden

As always Requests are open!!

“Where to next, babes?” The Doctor beamed at you, leaning lazily over the side of the console, his smile glowing slightly as he tilted his head. There was that spark again, in his eyes, in his voice. Mischief and genuine curiosity, hand in hand.

Where to next? With all of time and space sprawled before you like a buffet, your mind went completely blank. “You’ve put me on the spot!” You laughed, hands flying up to cover your face. “That’s cruel. I need options.”

The Doctor stood tall, dramatic as ever, tapping his chin with exaggerated thought. “Options?” he repeated, striding around the console. “Please. You don’t need options. You need flair. You need drama. You need… fashion!”

You raised a brow, grinning. “Fashion?”

He clicked his fingers. “Exactly! The absolute best fashion in the universe. A place where style is stitched into the very air. Silkier than a sonic thread, glitzier than a Gallifreyan gala, and darling, just wait until you see the shoes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, caught up in his infectious energy. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“Why listen,” he said, turning sharply on his heel and offering you his hand with a wink, “when you can just trust me?”

You took his hand, and he was already off, pulling you up the ramp toward a large circular archway built into the TARDIS wall, a tunnel you hadn’t noticed before. “Wait, where are we going?”

“Not where, babes,” he called over his shoulder, “what are we wearing?”

The Doctor took you by the hand, and before you could utter any kind of sound of objection, off you both went, feet tripping over themselves as you ran up the steps and through a large circular doorway, leading to a tunnel?

The moment you stepped through the tunnel, something shifted. You felt a light breeze, a shimmer in the air, and then–just like that–you were back in the TARDIS. Same floor. Same lights. Same humming console.

You turned around, confused. The tunnel you’d just lpassed through was still glowing behind you. “What just happened?”

“Look down,” the Doctor said, his voice like a secret.

You did, and gasped.

Gone were your T-shirt and jeans. In their place, a stunning 1950s-style dress in sunshine yellow flared out from your waist, cinched perfectly, every pleat and detail pristine. You gave a small spin and the skirt twirled with you, soft and light as air.

“How did—?”

The Doctor leaned against the console with a smug little shrug. “Don’t ask. The old girl has a flair for the theatrical when she’s in a good mood.” He tapped the console gently, and the TARDIS responded with a warm hum, like a cat purring in approval.

You turned back to him, still twirling. “Is this really necessary?”

He gave you a dazzling smile. “Oh, it’s absolutely unnecessary. That’s what makes it fabulous. Now, ready to strut through time?”

You held out your hand. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

With a grin that promised trouble, style, and maybe a little danger, he pulled a lever.

The TARDIS lurched, and the adventure began.

***

You emerged into an idyllic, sun-dappled, 1950s street, picture perfect and overflowing with charm. Pastel-painted shops crowded the thoroughfare boutiques, diners, a record store and smelled of fresh bread and motor oil. From the chrome diner, a jukebox hummed faintly, and the laughter of roller-skating kids rolled past. In the distance was the LUX Picture Palace, with its name emblazoned in lights like a down-the-line. All was glittering with nostalgic warmth too perfect, even, almost rehearsed. There was the soft breeze, and there were the smiles, too wide. And beneath the music and light, something in the air hummed strangely, slightly out of reach.

“Where are we?” You asked, your eyes wide as you turned in a slow circle, taking in the all the pastel storefronts and the gleaming chrome of the lights. You could faintly smell the soft scent of warm popcorn drifting in the breeze. The town looked like it was out of those glossy magazines. It was Sweet, it was surreal.

“Miami.” The Doctor said brightly. His hands shoved into the pockets of his perfectly tailored coat. “1952 to be precise. Sunshine, swing Music and scandalous Hemlines.” He tugged at your dress playfully at the last comment, making you giggle. “Fabulous!”

You Spun again, right towards the glowing marquee at the end of the street. Your eyes lit up like a kid at christmas. “Look! There’s a cinema! Can we go, Doctor? Oh, Please!” You tugged at his sleeve with barely contained excitement, practically bouncing on the spot.

He Glanced at the glowing lights then back down to you, and that smile bloomed again. “Of course we can, Sweetheart.” He said, his voice full of sparkle.

The two of you strolled through the bustling street, your heels Click Clacking on the pavement, The LUX picturehouse Gleamed in the street lights at every step you took.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

You Whipped around to see an elderly woman, who had stopped beside you. She wore a floral hat and a woven handbag, her expression dark beneath her cat eye glasses. Her voice, soft but heavy.

“Sorry?” You asked, blinking.

She leaned in sideways, Her eyes never quite catching yours. “Fifteen people went missing in that cinema, all strange to me, very unnatural.”

You stared at her. There was something about her… she looked ‘eerily’ like your neighbour, Mrs Flood?

Before you could speak again, the Doctor stepped forward, Grinning from ear to ear. “Fifteen people you say? Oh ho, I love a good body count.” He rubbed his hands together, gleaming with curiosity. “Maybe cursed, haunted popcorn machine maybe? Who knows? Mystery Is afoot!”

You barely had time to respond before he grabbed your arm and tugged you gleefully towards the entrance. “Come on Babes, what's a little danger between friends?” and Just like that you were swept into the golden glow of the LUX, the door closing with a soft Click.

***

Stepping into the auditorium, you felt the temperature drop as you kept walking down the stairs. The air was surprisingly cool and still with that same faint smell of buttered popcorn and old Velvet. The cinema screen glowed softly, bathed in a silver light that seemed to hypnotise you. It was Magnificent and eerily…Alive? Then, It flickered once, and again, and again.

Then suddenly, a blinding white flash.

It lasted only a second, but it made you and the doctor step back shielding your eyes. Then It was over.

What came after was a grainy background that flickered to life. It was sepia toned, with heavy static crackling at the edges. Music began to play: an upbeat, jazzy but somehow off tone, a little like an old record spinning too slow. A figure emerged from the noise.

Mr. Ring-A-Ding looked like he stepped straight out of a 1850’s cartoon (A cartoon that came straight from your nightmares). He was tall and slender with exaggerated proportions. Arms too long, smile too wide, eyes far too still. He wore a bright red pinstripe suit, it was impossibly crisp, with a bowtie that could spin like a wind up toy. His slicked back hair gleamed under the flicker of the screenlight, and his two toned shoes squeaked as he walked.

A walking sensory nightmare.

As he walked through the cartoon town, the houses rolled past as he marched down the street, big and overexaggerated. His voice crackled as if it has been filtered through a gramophone. Cheerfully hollow: “Well Howdy there Friend!” You’re just in time for the show!”

There was something performative about him, like a forgotten tv host endlessly stuck in rerun. Too Scripted, too chipper. It unravelled you.

“Doctor.” You asked, not taking your eyes off the screen, still hypnotised. “Why have I seen him before?”

“I really couldn’t tell you, babes.” The Doctor tore his eyes from the screen so that he was looking at you. “Where would you have possibly seen him before?”

You shook your head. “It’s scaring me.” Your voice was barely over a whisper.

The minute those thoughts hit your head, almost as if he was reading your mind. Mr. Ring-A-Ding stopped his usual song, mid tune, mid tune and turned slowly to look at the screen.

No. At you.

“It's you.” Mr. Ring-A-Ding Hissed. This time his voice was much lower now. His usual cheerful patter fell away to a grating growl. His head drew closer and closer to the glass of screen until it was practically touching. It looked grotesquely distorted. “He has been looking for you.”

Your throat seized as you Stumbled back a step. “Doctor.” You Gasped.

“On it babes.” He whipped his sonic screwdriver out of his breast pocket and aimed it at the screen. The very second it activated, the screen rippled like a surface of disturbed water. Mr. Ring-A-Ding’s face pushed forward, warping the image. His hands pressed against the glass and his fingers began to claw at it, as if it were wet clay. And then, with a wet Crack, his arm broke through. Then another arm, and then a leg and then, inch by inch, twisting unnaturally. His Torso contorted to fit through a space that shouldn’t be physically allowed, he emerged.

His Pinstripe suit, was smeared with static. His grin never faltered. He landes on the cinema floor with a distorted and cartoonish Boing which somehow only made it so much worse. Almost like reality was struggling to hold him in place.

You backed away, hands rising instinctively to shield yourself.

And then… the world exploded into white.

***

You felt something cold beneath your head, somewhere between damp and earthy. You ran a hand through the surface subconsciously, the gritty wood sending splinters through your fingers. Ouch. Your hands bunched reflexively in pain. The rotting floorboards clung to your skin like a creature as you stirred. The scent of dust and varnish filled your nose and then finally you felt the sharp pain that had been blooming at the side of your skull, Pulsing with each erratic beat of your heart.

Where in the world were you?

Your vision was completely washed in white, like the world was an overexposed polaroid photo. But as you slowly gained consciousness, shapes began to bleed through the haze: first, they were faint shadows then the shapes began to bleed through the haze. Then colours began to bloom. That's when you saw it.

It was a toyshop!

But not just any toyshop.

It was still. Too still. As you wobbled to stand, you noticed rows of dolls with wide glass eyes that stared down at you from great high wooden shelves, their painted smiles chipped and cracked, yet it didn’t feel like they looked like this from years of neglect, it looked like this…on purpose?

Mechanical Clowns frozen in mid-laugh were sat upright but slumped in corners. The colours of their bright cheeks faded and peeled as if laughter had long since drained them. Tin soldiers stood in perfect lines with their little muskets raised in perfect salutes. The light overhead buzzed faintly, casting everything in a dull, yellowish hue that gave the air a sickly warmth.

There was something about the place. As you crept around the narrow aisles, you felt the toy’s gazes as they seemed to follow you around the palace. Their eyes, always never quite moving but Almost moving. A creak eased through your ears, a rocking horse slowly moved back and forth, despite the air being deathly still and somewhere, just behind the quiet, a wind up music box played a broken lullaby, familiar, slow, looping endlessly.

Someone was watching you.

There was something so painfully nostalgic about this place. It clung to your heart and threatened to never let go, like fingers curling around your heart. Tears pricked your vision, unexpected. Uninvited, yet you weren’t sure why? Was it loss? Loss for all the things you wished you had, a childhood that didn’t quite last as long as it promised, laughter that never stayed, magic that never quite came. It promised wonder and delivered nothing in return, merely fragments. This place made you feel it, like it knew.

It Knew.

“Ah Guten Tag, Guten tag, I am glad to see you’re now awake.” A voice tore through your thoughts, like shears. You whirled around to see, him.

“Do you know who I am?” He asked again, an exaggerated German accent, graced his lips.

You nodded, you stepped forward, tilting your head like a curious bird. He regarded you as your eyes trailed up and down him. Disbelief struck your face and he noticed it.

“Go on then.” His voice merely whispers. “Who am I?”

“Are you Neil Patrick-Harris?”

The gentleman blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His jaw dropped in horror, somehow, as if you had just slapped a custard pie across his face. The music box that was still playing in the background gave a pitiful wheeze, like if you were to run a needle across a record, then promptly stopped.

He clutched his chest like a pantomime actor in the throes of a melodramatic death. “Oh how very dare you!” He squawked. “I have been known as many things by many people.” He began listing them on his fingers. “Maestro of Madness, conjurer of chaos, The Toymaker.”

The toymaker.

He spun around on the spot, arms flailing. “Do I look like I’ve done magic tricks on Ellen?!”

“Touched a nerve then?” You quipped.

He took a step forward, His voice dropping, German accent Slipping, almost tauntingly. “Now. Shall we try again? Or would you like to guess if I’m James Corden next?”

“Now, I know you aren’t James Corden.” You stepped forward, matching his taunt. Hands on hips, looking down through your nose. “But the question is: who are you?”

He smiled, rising to the unspoken challenge. “Guess.” was all he said.

“Guess?”

“Yes. Where are we right now?” You opened your mouth to speak and he held a finger in front of him to shush you. “No, don’t say anything. Just think…Oh what Fun.”

Your eyes shot throughout the shop. Catching glimpses at the dolls, the soldiers, the clowns, the games. Then you looked back to him. He grinned from ear to ear, mouth twisted like a sausage at the bottom of a plate.

Maestro of Madness, conjurer of chaos…

Wait.

“You’re the toymaker.” you breathed. “I know exactly who you are.”

The Toymaker’s smile spread even further. “Ooh, give the girl a prize!” He leapt from behind the counter, vaulting over it, like there wasn’t an impossibly low ceiling, he could bash his head on. He brought himself mear inches from your face, so quick you could barely react. He grabbed your face with both hands. “And do you know who you are, Mein Liebling?”

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Of course I know who I am. My name is (Y/N) (L/N). I live at 44 Randell street, I work in publishing and I travel the universe with the Doctor. Of course I Know who I am.”

The toymaker’s expression Shifted, it was as subtle and sharp, as if he knew a secret, you didn’t. “Tell me about your parents.” He demanded, syrupy smooth, sickly sweet. It circled around the question like a trap.

“Why?” You asked, warily, instinctively stepping back, though he didn’t let you go far.

“Do you remember them?”

You Hesitated. “My mother’s Name is Helen and my father is-” You mind drew a blank, like a bottomless pit.

“You don’t remember him do you?” The toymaker delighted, he was still close, still touching, parental almost. His thumb ran over your cheek. Kind but mocking. “Think.” He murmured, wrapped in lullaby

“You aren’t-?”

“Maybe I am.” He purred, tilting his head in theatrical glee.

“How?”

“Play a game with me and find out.” He threw himself back, arms outstretched, propelling back to the countertop. His grin spread again, unable to contain his excitement. He clapped his hands once and the lights went out. Leaving you in the pitch black.

There was a whirl of gears and a gust of mechanical steam. Before you could react, a vintage style puppet theatre rose from the floor, equipped with crimson curtains that were drawn tight.

“Let's play a game, Zuckerpuppe. Its like guess who? But not the boring kind with the plastic faces. No no, this one is all about you.”

You.

Then, the curtains part.

Inside the theatre, the puppets begin to perform. Short, twisted tableaus. They were fragments of your memories, scenes from your childhood play out in an exaggerated pantomime: your mother singing happy birthday to you, candles lit, just you and her in your own little world. Tears falling in an empty corridor. Your first writing competition.

Yet something felt off.

The figures moved like broken clockwork toys. Your mother’s puppet was warm and familiar but your father’s was always obscured, masked, scratched out, obscured, sometimes not even there.

“Each round, one clue.” The Toymaker purred. “One guess. Win, and I’ll answer your questions. Lose, and well, who knows what you’ll forget next?”

A shiver ran down your spine.

As the game continued, your memories began to distort. The toymaker starts inserting himself into them, first in the background, then closer, then completely and unmistakingly present. Always watching… always there.

Then, in the final round, the puppet curtain falls only to rise again, revealing a full length mirror instead of the usual theatre.

You step forward, hesitantly. Catching yourself in the glass.

But you are not alone in the reflection.

He stood behind you.

“I have seen you before.” You whispered, voice breaking.

“In your dreams, in the corner of old photographs. In the silence, when you asked, where your father had gone.”

Your breath quickened, then a pause.

“I did not leave you, (Y/N). I have been waiting, so, so, patiently for your return.”

Emotion overcame you. You sniffled. Sniffles turned to shaky breaths, turned to full sobs. You sobbed for the empty ache within your heart, for all the melancholic nostalgia. You sobbed for the empty parts of your life, the times where you felt oh so different from the rest of the world.

“Oh, please don’t cry mein Knuddelbar.” The toymaker cooed. “Daddy is here now.” He stretched his arms out wide, waiting for you to step in. To finally hold him.

“No!” you snapped, sudden and sharp. The Toymaker Flinched but soon he straightened with the grin slowly slipping from his face, replaced by something… human. A line etched with worry across his lips “Why now? Why here?”

The Toymaker’s throat bobbed. For a moment, he didn’t answer. The bravado had melted away finally, just slightly and something softer flickered behind his eyes. Regret? Doubt? Underestimation? Was this merely another trick?

The silence between the two of you widened, not just in sound but in presence, the physical space felt like a chasm, that only grew and grew every passing minute. It was an invisible rift that neither of you could bring yourselves to cross. The hush that settled over the room wasn’t empty; it was thick, humming the words unspoken. But beneath that, was there…regret in his eyes?

The Toymaker shrank beneath it, his shoulders hunching inwards, no longer the eternal trickster or cosmic tyrant. It was something else. Someone else. Like a child after being told off by a scolding parent.

“You must understand,” he said, muttering, voice cracking under the weight of it all. Brittle and tired. His eyes, which were once sharp with mischief, now looked cloudy with something dangerously close to sorrow. “Why, I couldn’t be with you.”

He didn’t look powerful any more. Just… human. Fragile in a way that frightened you more than any games of his could.

You swallowed hard, the lump that had been forming in your throat, threatening to choke you. Standing in front of you was the one person you had searched for, in the back of your mind. Across half-formed memories, years of crippling loneliness like a clock ticking in an empty house, a mother that could only care for as long as she could pretend to. And still, he wasn’t the man you had pictured. He wore a face that carried history but something essential was missing or perhaps broken?

It was you.

“What are you?” Was all you could say, waiting with baited breath.

“Some have called me a god,” the Toymaker said, slowly straightening from the place he had been hunched, as if pulling himself out of a long-forgotten memory. He stepped forward, leisurely, every movement deliberate, measured, as though he were walking through a game board only he could see.

“I’ve been called many things, in many tongues. Trickster, architect, illusionist. A whisper behind the veil. A shadow stitched into the fabric of time.” His eyes gleamed with something sharp and ancient. “Others can’t quite put me in a category: and that’s precisely how I like it. I am not bound by your little labels, your timelines, your cause-and-effect.”

He stopped just short of you, his presence folding in like a curtain drawing closed. “But you, my dear…” His voice softened, as though addressing something fragile, precious. “You are different. You are my perfect descendant. Oh yes, I have seen you. Moving through the cracks of existence, weaving colour into the grey, with that Doctor, mischief into the mundane. Creative. Restless. Just like me. You love it don’t you? Don’t you want more?”

He held out a pale, elegant hand, palm up like an invitation. “Do you know what that means? It means we don’t have to be lonely anymore. You and I… we’re echoes of the same story. Together, we could craft wonders. Rewrite rules. Build entire worlds from thread and thought alone.”

The air around him shimmered faintly, as if the very concept of reality was starting to bend in his wake.

“Come with me. Let the universe be our playroom.”

A mighty crash tore through the air, slamming through your eardrums, as the door of the toyshop flew open. You spun around just in time to see the frame engulfed in a blinding white light.

Silhouetted against it, stood the doctor. Arm outstretched, sonic screwdriver clenched tightly at his fist. His figure cut through the glare like a blade. Threatening.

“Oh, I might have guessed.” He Snarled, his voice low and dangerous, his face shrouded in darkness, but the fury in his posture said enough. “Snatching innocent people, turning them into your little amusements. Not this one.”

He reached for you, gripping your arm with a firm, protective urgency.

The Toymaker took a single step back, hands raised in mock surrender but his smug, knowing smile remained. He gave a theatrical sweep of his hand, inviting the Doctor to leave with you, as if granting a favor.

But even as you both moved toward the light, the Toymaker’s gaze stayed locked on yours unwavering, unreadable.

And then the world went white again.

***

In an instant, you were back inside the TARDIS, the familiar hum greeted you like a dream, but your chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, like you had just remembered how to breathe.

Silence settled in around you. Not the peaceful kind, but a heavy, uneasy stillness. The Doctor leaned against the console, his posture tired, almost slouched, like a frazzled teacher. You kept your eyes fixed on the floor, on the walls, anywhere that wasn’t him.

Then, finally, after what felt like hours of silence your voice broke the quiet, soft, hesitant. “Does the Toymaker… tend to tell the truth?”

The Doctor didn’t look at you right away. He exhaled slowly, a knowing sigh. “Why do you ask?”

You hesitated. The words were harder to shape than you expected. “He said something. While I was in there. I don’t know…it got under my skin, I guess.” You cleared your throat, trying to swallow the flicker of emotion before it showed. “It’s silly.”

The Doctor straightened slightly, and when he spoke, there was no humour in his voice. Only certainty.

“The Toymaker is bound by one rule: he can only tell the truth.”

A wave of emotion crashed over you, all-consuming and unstoppable. It surged before you could brace yourself, and all that escaped your lips was a single, breathless: “Oh.”

The Doctor turned at the sound—soft but broken—and his expression fell. Before he could say a word, the tears came again, spilling fast, helpless. You tried to speak through them, tripping over your apology as if it might hold everything together.

“I’m so sorry I don’t even know why I’m-”

“Sweetie,” the Doctor said gently, already crossing the space between you, “you have nothing to apologise for.”

He folded you into a hug before you could fall any further, arms strong and steady, wrapping you in something more solid than words. He smelled like soft fruit, peach, maybe, and something warmer beneath it, with a hint of Dolce & Gabbana clinging to the collar of his coat, subtle but grounding. Familiar.

You clung to him, trembling, the guilt still gnawing in your chest. “I nearly went with him, Doctor,” you whispered. “If you hadn’t come when you did, I might have-”

But he was already shaking his head, pulling back just enough to see your face. He brushed a few tears from your cheek with a gentleness that stopped the spiral in its tracks.

“No. I’m going to stop you right there.”

His voice was low, careful, but there was no judgement in it. Just something warm. Solid. Real.

“There is nothing wrong with wanting to be wanted,” he said. “And there’s absolutely nothing dark or dangerous about craving love. Especially… that kind of love. The kind you should’ve had. The kind you deserved.”

He held your gaze, searching for the wound beneath your words, and softened as he went on.

“We don’t talk about it enough, do we? The way it twists and turns inside you, to grow up without that hand on your back, guiding you. Without the voice that tells you you’re doing alright, even when you feel like you’re falling apart. And then suddenly, that voice appears, and it’s coming from the last place you’d ever expect… and you’re so desperate to be seen, to be chosen, that you almost don’t care who it’s from.”

You sniffled, holding back another wave of tears. He gave a small, understanding smile.

“Of course you nearly went with him. Of course you listened. You’re human. Beautifully, heartbreakingly human. The Toymaker? He knows how to find that ache. He wraps it up in glitter and games, and he makes it feel like safety. But wanting love doesn’t make you weak. It makes you alive.”

He let that sit between you for a moment, and then added, softer:

“And if… if the time ever comes again, if you’re ever standing in front of him, or someone like him, with that same choice to make, I promise you, I will never make that decision for you. You deserve your own agency, your own answers. I won’t take that from you.”

His tone turned just a little lighter then, eyes warm with that familiar spark of his.

“But until then? I’m here. Maybe not the most responsible influence, bit too fond of danger, shiny buttons, and spontaneous musicals, but I’m here. For whatever you need. Always.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. He leaned in, pressing a soft, kind kiss to your forehead, and then pulled you into another hug, this one quieter, stiller. A kind of promise wrapped in arms.

In the far-off corridors of the TARDIS, just beneath the humming engines, you could hear it: a faint giggle, echoing like it had always belonged there. The Toymaker, keeping watch. Waiting.

He would return.

But so would the Doctor.

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