#also im fairly certain im missing a couple of fics and i have to blame my sometimes inconsistent bookmark tagging system :(

[preseriesdean]

for @spnficrecfest day two: kinks/whump 🧡

Desiderata by @dyed-red sam/dean, 45.2k words*, rated E, published 2023 Dean is hit with a curse. It shouldn’t take that much to resolve, could be a gift under other circumstances, but life’s not that simple for the Winchesters.

*this fic is incomplete, but it's thee caretaking kink fic of all time. to me.

my heart's staying put by grim_lupine sam/fem!dean, 6.4k words, rated E, published 2016 It's like Deanna’s been asleep for four years, traversing the highways of her life on autopilot, every joy and every pain muted and numbed. In the months since she got Sam back she's been coming to life slowly, with the pins-and-needles tingling of a deadened limb awakening.

Last Temptation by merle_p sam/dean, 3k words, rated M, published 2021 Sam is running a fever again, the kind of fever no Ibuprofen or cold compress will bring down, the kind of fever that is eating him up alive, eviscerating him from the inside. He is too hot and too cold and too pale, delirious and shaking, resonating with whatever divine energy the trials are subjecting him to, and Dean is not sure how much longer he can stand to see him be in this state.

you're the only one that's mine by riyku sam/fem!dean, 3k words, rated E, published 2014 Dean gets injured on a hunt and Sam has to patch her up. Things get a little out of hand.

the blood in your mouth by @hathfrozen sam/dean, 5.3k words, rated E, published 2021, cannibalism mention Dean wishes he could sink his hands right through Sam’s skin, his ribs, wishes he could touch straight down to Sam’s heart. He’d feel the strong muscle of it, the clench and release of every beat, the thick heat of blood.

[lilygrants]

 This is a ficbit based on @im-fairly-whitty‘s  “Whatever It Takes,” a Coco villain AU where Hector is a villain, Imelda is the great woman behind the great man, everything is made up and the points don’t matter.

Please note that situations in this fic trend more adult than content written by the originator of this AU. While nothing is described, married couples do what married couples will do, and deal with subsequent consequences. I wouldn’t rate this R, but Parental Supervision is advised.

The wonky formatting is due to using the read more cut. Since I care about your scrolling hand, please note that if you click the link, the wonky formatting will disappear and you can read it normally on the blog proper. I don’t understand it either.

“You came home to us,” she tells him. “That’s all that matters.”

Blaming her husband is out of the question. She holds him close, his head on her chest, and strokes his hair. She thanks God and all the saints that if he has to suffer like this, at least he doesn’t wake up screaming. Lying to Coco would shatter him permanently, and she is grateful, so grateful every day that she married a man who loves her and her child so entirely that he would do anything to be with them. She is so grateful that she married a man who would do anything for them, yes, but she hates herself because she loves him more for how much it’s killing him.

“You came home to us,” she croons, over and over again, safe in their marriage bed. “That’s all that matters. I love you so much.”

He doesn’t wake up screaming because he’s too horrified by what he’s done to even scream. She married a man who loves his wife and child above all else, yes, but she also married a good man. A gentle man, kindhearted and tender and loving. If he enjoyed killing Ernesto, if it thrilled him, if it gave him any feeling other than grief and self-loathing and morbid relief that it wasn’t his own lonely bones baiting the scavengers from a desolate shallow grave-- she would take their daughter and leave. Get so far away from him that he would want to kill her, too.

“I love you so much,” she repeats, breathy, soft, nuzzling his temple. For not putting her in that position, wife of a monster, and for not putting her in the other position, widow of a weak-willed good-for-nothing.

Imelda strokes the hollowed cheeks, the prematurely graying hair of her husband.

“Even if you desperately need to shave, I love you,” she adds, and the weak, involuntary laugh at the absurdity of her little joke -- they have so many more important things weighing on them -- gives her hope.

She repeats her mantra, You came home to us; that’s all that matters, as his arms tighten around her waist. He hides his face against her bosom, even though it’s a new moon and their bedroom windows are locked and the curtains are closed.

They can weather the aftershocks of this. Imelda reminds herself, this is proof, if ever she needed it, that Héctor could never do such a thing to her. Because she loved him too well, she could never imagine hurting him. Could never imagine taking such a loving, doting, protective father away from her child, could never imagine living, breathing, or loving without him there beside her.

She could never do anything to hurt him, could never betray the depths of the love that gave him the courage and the deftness to do whatever it took. And if she couldn’t, neither could he.

“I love you so much,” she says, taking her strength from the certainty of his love. “You came home to us. That is all that matters to me.”

“Our family is all that matters,” he says, muffled, soft, and she wraps her arms around him.

If they can weather this, they can weather anything, she reasons. She wishes it didn’t prey on his mind so, she wishes he could have peace, but she feels relieved, too. Relieved that the trauma, the shock and the horror, didn’t change him. That he is still  Héctor, that the same gentle heart still beats underneath the worn pajamas she’s mended for him a dozen times, underneath the soft skin that flushes hot and red just for her.

That his same gentle heart wasn’t stilled forever.

“I love you so much,” she murmurs, reaching down to loosen his pants. “I need you so much.”

At his soft gasp of surprise, she reminds him that he’s been away for months.

She has friends, acquaintances, who aren’t so lucky. Who didn’t get the chance to make a love-match before their parents could no longer support them alongside many younger siblings, who had to marry where and when they could, before it was too late. Some of them fall into the middle ground; they married decent men who are kind to them, who honor their partners in life even if they don’t love them as passionately, as entirely, as Héctor loves her. Some aren’t even that fortunate; trapped for a lifetime with men who get a thrill out of their pain.

Héctor hears the things his wife says to him. She needs him to believe them. If they can survive this, they can survive anything, but only if they’re together.

As close together as man and wife have ever been, she thanks God and all the saints that if Héctor has to suffer like this, at least he doesn’t have to do it alone.

She almost gets his mind off it, but Imelda doesn’t do it by herself.

She waits until she’s absolutely certain. Until she’s missed her period, until her breasts are tender, until she can hardly stand to keep house for her little family without being overwhelmed by nausea and exhaustion. She waits until Héctor asks her, point-blank, eyes dancing with hope.

“Do you understand now?” she asks him, and he nods. 

She takes a deep breath, and his arms are so tight around her. One of his hands braces the small of her back.

“I love you so much,” he whispers into her ear.

The first time they had this conversation, she was quivering in his arms. Heady, boundless joy in her heart warred with the primordial fear of what every wife knew might be the price she paid on top of her conjugal debt. 

But she would do anything for her family. She would honor the sacrifice her husband made for her sake,  and for Coco’s. She would live up to that one act of terrible, unspeakable love if it meant their family would grow, or if it meant dying in childbed. She would cast the dice if it would bring some of the spring back into her husband’s step. Plenty of women lived to bear ten children; plenty more died with nothing to show for it.

They have Coco; they have each other; already they have more blessings than Imelda can count.

Santa Maria, she thinks, wrapping her arms around his neck, Pray for me.

It is a gamble. It is always a gamble, but the stakes are so much higher now. If she succeeds, Héctor will be so much happier. He cherishes Coco, now more than ever. The greatest part of his energy goes to keeping her happy and safe and comfortable; if Imelda can only multiply the mental resources he needs to spend in that direction, he’ll no longer have time to see Ernesto de la Cruz’s death throes every time he closes his eyes.

But if she fails, Imelda almost can’t bear to imagine the prospects. In the best case, Héctor is devastated, alone with Coco and a new baby; in the worst, Héctor is alone with Coco and his thoughts. The idea of leaving Coco and Héctor without a mother and wife to take care of them is terrifying; she can’t protect them from the other side of the veil. She can’t do anything for her family if she can’t be with them.

Santa Maria, pray for me. Hers isn’t the most humble supplication. Tell your Son to preserve us for my husband’s sake. Make me the partner my husband needs in life, make me worthy of how deeply he loves our family, make me strong enough to do what our family needs me to do, whether it’s surviving childbirth or killing someone who might threaten us.

When Imelda has the privilege of presenting her husband with beautiful, lively, newborn twins, she tells him again. 

“You came home to us. That’s all that matters.”

Coco is sound asleep on Papá’s lap, worn out with the day’s excitement; the midwife has gone home for the same reason. 

Héctor leans close to kiss both babies in her arms, and nods.

“If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have been blessed like this,” Imelda says, driving the point home. “If you hadn’t poured that drink into his own shot glass, if you’d let him do what he wanted to do, we wouldn’t have these children.”

“I love you both so much,” says Héctor, determined that each baby get a perfectly equal share of his affection. The tips of his fingers easily span their little cheeks, and he gently cups both of their tiny faces.

“Two lives for the price of one,” he adds quietly, thoughtfully. His eyes lift to hers, considering.

“Three,” Imelda corrects, not surprised his selflessness disregarded the life Ernesto de la Cruz actually intended to end. “More, if we have other children after this.”

More still, she thinks, if these children and those children have children of their own.

“We’ll get right to work on that,” he jokes.

Three cherubic faces and  kisses from their proud father keep her from imagining Ernesto de la Cruz’s death throes when she closes her eyes.

“You can’t tell me he matters that much to you anymore,” she says. Not compared to how much they’ve gained. Not compared to what they could have lost.

“Our family is all that matters,” he answers.

She loves him so much.

Imelda thanks God and all the saints that if Ernesto de la Cruz had to suffer, at least it was worth it.