#and into dean as the unknowing savior

[acesammy]

The only spn show I would like to see at this point is a pre-series miniseries adaptation of ‘rising son’

let’s see John come inches away from putting his 7 year old son down like a dog he suspects could’ve been exposed to rabies

[according2thelore]

"you're pretty when you don't speak" + 1, 3, 9, 11 & 13

(i really, really adore this fic, it was one of the first ones i read coming back into fandom after ten years and it knocked me on my ass. i think about it a *lot*)

hello! :)

thank you so much!!! the link to "you're pretty when you don't speak" on ao3 is here! (quick recap: it's the one from blurry wife pov)

1.What inspired you to write the fic this way?

so for this fic, i feared that the second person pov would automatically disqualify it to some folks, but i really thought the fic would benefit from it because so much of sam's anonymous wife is just that: anonymous. she is literally just a vehicle through which to give sam his happy ending, a non-player.

to forcefully give her a perspective, and to force the reader into her headspace was important to me, because so much of her life is completely isolated, even if sam tells her about the life. she is the crucible in which another dean is created, and doesn't even get a face with which to do it.

and i wanted this fic to feel kind of like a montage. things happen too fast to process, and just kind of slip by, like water through your hands, or switching locations in a dream. she isn't given time to process or understand things, and neither are we.

3. What's your favorite line of narration?

yikes! this was hard. i think my favorite line has to be

He smiles at you, and you smile back. He’s nice to look at, in the way that shards of stained glass are nice to look at. In the way that car crashes are captivating, in the way that a tree can be both dead and alive at once, in the way that homes disappear one room at a time.

because it really encapsulates what i feel like sam would be post-canon--eldritch and unknowable, even as he's amicable and has that patina of sympathetic understanding; or

This is my wife, Sam says, proud. His coworkers smile, but they never ask your name. You don’t have one. That’s alright with you, as long as it’s alright with Sam. You’d hate to embarrass him at a work party.

because it's kind of a fic thesis! sam wants a wife, so he gets A Wife. her lack of identity is an issue because it could embarrass sam, not because she is a person. she needs permission to have a name and to have a face and to have her own personality.

9. Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

this fic was originally longer! i had a few sections added in about what rituals/traditions sam has on dean's death anniversary as opposed to their wedding anniversary, and how that impacts his family. i also had a section about how sam begins putting an escalated emotional burden on dean jr, creating a cycle w how dean was treated by john, but ultimately introducing those ideas was too bulky and took away from sam's wife. i was doing what sam's wife was doing! centering him in a story about her! so i ended up killing a few darlings for this fic.

11. What do you like best about this fic?

i really enjoyed writing this one! it happened almost entirely in one sitting. one of my favorite things about this fic is how destabilizing it is. you kind of feel a sense of impending dread, and you want the wife to leave, to escape, but she can't. she is a fixed part of his narrative, and that is her identity. she is a prop; she is set dressing.

that confusion of wanting things but those things being malleable was awesome to write, and i hope i captured the dissonance well!

13. What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

i was actually listing to Unknown/Nth by Hozier when i got the idea for the fic (unrelated by now inextricably linked), so that def needs to be mentioned! i listened to charlotte's and my playlist on shuffle while writing this one, and so a few that really stuck in my brain and i recommend are City of Roses by Sufjan Stephens, Savior Complex by Phoebe Bridgers, Too Close by Sir Chloe (the title!), and doomsday by Lizzy McAlpine. (just realized how relentlessly indie it is, sorry team)

i ended up YAPPING! i'm sorry! but thank you for the ask, and i am so glad and warmed to know that you like it! it's one of my favorites, for sure <3

-lizzy

(send me one of my fics, and i'll answer some questions!)

[darkshrimpemotions]

Destiel is just built different because their meet cute is like "Sam didn't save you, Dean, he wasn't big enough, only something Huge and Cosmic and Unknowable could have saved you."

And then ten years later Dean is married to his huge cosmic unknowable savior, he goes by Dean's nickname for him, lives in his house and wears silly little hats at Dean's request and they have a kid.

[cursed-or-not]

Suptober Day 11: Rock and Roll

Music heard so deeply / That it is not heard at all, but you are the music / While the music lasts

(T.S. Elliot, “The Dry Salvages”)

Cas thinks that of everything humanity has made, music has to be the best.

There have been more impressive creations—buildings meant to reach the stars, codes of law that formed the first societies— but not all masterpieces last.

Humans have never stopped making music.

Cas has always appreciated it for its longevity, but he doesn’t truly understand it until he pulls Dean Winchester from Hell.

It’s a process. At first, Dean can’t make sense of Cas’s voice, a voice that doesn’t sound like music but like martyrdom, like Heaven and holy wars, but slowly, Cas starts to understand the pitch that Dean lives in.

He doesn’t realize that Dean is starting to understand him, too, until later.

“Don’t ever change,” Dean finally tells him, and Cas thinks this was the first time their music converged.

…

They’re sitting in a bar, and Dean is wincing. Cas still doesn’t understand entirely, because he knows Dean likes this song, but Dean keeps saying something about cover bands and bleeding ears, and Cas just smiles along.

“You’ve been quiet,” Dean accuses after another string of complaints about the band, and Cas tilts his head in confusion.

“I don’t want to talk over the music,” Cas says simply.

Dean’s expression holds something soft but fleeting.

“Yeah, well, this isn’t music.”

Dean’s words just confuse Cas further.

“I thought… you liked this song,” Cas says, wracking his brain for the memory of this playing in the car.

Dean shakes his head.

“No, no, no,” he begins, “If you think this is the same as what I made you listen to, then I didn’t teach you very well. Trust me, there’s a difference between a classic song and a shitty garage-band cover of it.”

“Oh,” Cas says in response. He still doesn’t understand.

“Oh?” Dean prompts, seeming to notice Cas’s confusion.

“It’s just… wouldn’t you rather hear a bad version of a good song than nothing?”

Dean considers the question.

“I mean, on principle, no. But you might have a point,” Dean responds. “I guess I’d have to really like the song.”

“And this one? Do you like this one enough?”

Dean thinks about it before responding, “You know, I guess I do.” He huffs a laugh. “I guess music is music, no matter how shitty.”

Cas looks at Dean through startling blue eyes and tries not to think cursed or not.

…

Sometimes, Dean wishes he could hear everything that Cas does.

He wishes Cas spent less time marching to his own beat, to the orders he hears on angel radio, to the music only he can hear.

They try to share it with each other, sometimes. It’s why Cas spent so much time trying to make Dean understand and why Dean spent so much time on a mixtape. But sometimes, they just can’t find it in themselves.

This time, it’s about the nephilim.

Cas is convinced that Lucifer’s son will do something good, something great, even, and Dean isn’t willing to take the chance of him doing the opposite.

It’s hard to be angry.

He knows Cas isn’t lying to them about the future he believes in. When Cas talks about this kid, about the future he saw he could make, something in Cas’s expression turns so hopeful that it makes Dean ache.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t think Cas believes he’s doing the right thing; it’s that Dean can’t convince himself of it.

Whatever brave new world Cas thinks will come from this kid— Dean just can’t see it.

Cas hears music that no one else does.

…

When Cas dies, Dean doesn’t listen to anything for weeks.

The cassettes in the car stay untouched, the records unplayed.

There’s a boy with the blood of Lucifer who they have to save now, too, but Dean doesn’t care because he couldn’t save anyone when it counted, so what’s the point now?

Jack doesn’t know music. It’s not even that he doesn’t know good music; he’s never even heard the bad kind. Someday, someone might teach him, might show him how to drive with it playing and hum it while he fishes, but for now, he doesn’t ask, and no one offers. Dean doesn’t talk to him.

Jack misses Castiel, too. He’s the father he never got to meet, his unknowable savior, and maybe, just maybe, Cas could have taught him. Now, though, everything is silent.

They don’t know where angels go when they die. No one knows, Sam told him, but all that Jack knows is that it has to be somewhere, and he just wants his father.

When he cries out, the universe hears.

Somewhere, there’s music still playing.

…

It’s Thanksgiving, and the bunker buzzes with life.

They don’t do this, don’t celebrate normal holidays, but with the end of the world looming over them, now’s as good a time as any to start.

It’s not just them. Jody and the girls agreed to come, and they’ve made a mess of the kitchen, but no one seems to mind. Garth brought his family, too, and the babies have been looking wide-eyed at the bunker since they arrived. Eileen is due to arrive any minute.

There is happiness in the air, but Dean is terrified.

He knows about the deal.

Today isn’t the first day he’s known, but it’s brought up a whole new wave of fear and grief.

Giddy voices sing from the kitchen, and it’s a song Dean knows he recognizes—something by Pink Floyd—but he can’t bring himself to hear any of it. He’s standing in the doorway of his room, anger preventing him from joining. He feels like he’s living with one foot in and one out.

Cas stands across from him.

“Dean, I know why you won’t join,” Cas says, and Dean lets out a bitter laugh.

“Yeah, I’m sure you do.”

Cas’s brow furrows, and he asks, “Are you angry?”

Dean shrugs, but the way his shoulders move jerkily answers the question.

Cas begins, “I know you think this will make me happy enough to—”

“That’s not the only thing, Cas!” Dean interrupts, and anger has seeped into his voice.

Cas stays silent, waiting for Dean to continue.

“It’s— yeah, I’m worried that today’s gonna make you happy and you’re gonna die in the middle of eating a piece of pumpkin pie,” Dean says, frustrated. “But what about the next time? And the time after that? Are we just gonna make sure you’re always miserable so you don’t die?”

Cas looks at Dean with sadness written on his face.

“Well,” Cas begins, and the calm of his voice contrasts starkly with the sharpness of Dean’s, “I think I’m safe at least until we beat Chuck.”

Dean makes a sound of disbelief.

“So, what then?! We just keep trying to find a way to dust God, and we ignore that it’ll probably kill you?”

Cas blinks.

“Yes,” he responds, and Dean’s face twists with anger.

“If you’re not gonna be around when we save the world, then what the hell are we even fighting for?!” Dean shouts.

Dean’s voice is loud, too loud, and now he can hear a baby crying from the other room. He’s not sure if it’s baby Sam or Castiel, but in the next moment, Jack’s voice filters in from another room where they left him watching the twins sleep. He keeps his voice soft and soothing.

“Shhh, shh, it’s okay. It will be okay,” Jack says gently, and Dean can’t see him, but he’s sure Jack is holding the baby as he speaks. In the next moment, the crying has stopped.

The music from the kitchen is still playing.

“Them,” Cas answers then, and any frustration has melted from his voice. “We’re fighting for them.”

...

Some days, it all comes back to the mixtape.

It doesn’t matter what else there is; it doesn’t matter that there’s still God to fight or a deal to cheat, and it doesn’t matter that there’s fear and grief or anything other than love. On days like this, it all comes down to the music between them.

They’re in the car together, and they’re on the second to last song of the mixtape, but Dean doesn’t think he’s heard a single word of it.

It’s not that they’re speaking over it; every time they play the mixtape, Cas listens like he’ll never get another chance, but just because there are no actual words drowning it out doesn’t mean there’s nothing distracting Dean.

Something hangs in the air between them that’s louder than the music, and when Dean finally catches Cas’s eye in the passenger seat next to him, the notes all shatter.

“Cas—”

“I know.”

It’s a simple response, and Dean almost has to laugh at it because of course Cas knows.  

Before Dean can tell him anything else that he already knows, and before he’s quite sure what he’s doing, Dean’s pulling the car over.

If Cas already knows, then—

“Cas, can I—”

“Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

There’s a moment of waiting, a break before the chorus, and then they meet in the middle.

It’s soft where they come together, but it’s not so tentative that Dean doesn’t feel his heart race. Neither intends to waste a second of this, and when they draw back for air, their cheeks are flushed.

“I’m sorry,” Cas blurts as they pull away, and for the life of him, Dean can’t imagine why he’s apologizing.

“You’re sorry?” Dean questions, still not quite trusting himself to string too many words together.

“The mixtape,” Cas says, still breathing heavier than usual. “You made me the mixtape, and I never got you anything in return.”

Dean almost laughs at Cas’s sincerity and timing, but when he responds, Dean’s voice is low and just as sincere.

“Don’t say you never got me anything,” Dean breathes, and then he pulls Cas in for another kiss.

It’s short and gentle, but Dean already can’t imagine how he’s gone so many years without this.

“Kisses aren’t an actual gift,” Cas says skeptically, but the way he leans closer to Dean takes away some credibility from the statement. “Not like the mixtape.”

“Cas, I hate to say it,” Dean responds, “but you’re better than rock and roll.”

It doesn’t matter that the song’s almost over, or that they still have a world to save, because Cas’s hand is in Dean’s. Maybe there’s the Empty waiting around the corner, but here, there is music. 

For now, this is enough.

[angelfishofthelord]

good tidings of great joy

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.” --Luke 2:10, KJV 

--A Christmas SPN fic--

Angels from the realm of glory

Wing your flight o’er all the earth

There’s very little glory remaining, either above or below. The absence has become a part of you, aching between the bone and marrow of this vessel. You walk this earth on feet strapped in the confines of shoes, with back bent carrying the remains of extinguished brilliance. Few can tell the difference between you and any of the other burdened mortals crossing the sidewalk; the aurora that used to halo you is less than a dull sheen.

You don’t mind the invisibility; the seamless stitches that hide you allow you to move unnoticed among humanity, like the air between the falling snowflakes. Humans have always been terrified of your kind anyways. Fear not is the most repeated command in the Bible. It appears 365 times; one sixth of those times is spoken by an angel.

Angels we have heard on high

Sweetly singing o’er the plains

The sweetness was never there in the first place, but you stop to listen to sidewalk carolers singing the lie, their upturned faces flushed with cold and joy. Humans have always written their own narratives about angels, from inventing their own version of your powers to restructuring your appearance and mannerisms. The fairy tales that shroud your essence would do well to remain instead of the nightmare of the truth.

You weren’t part of the flight who first appeared to the shepherds, but you’ve heard the story passed from battalion to battalion. How they were only half-shielded by the night to dim the inferno of their forms; how burnt wool and charred grass had the shepherds crying out in voiceless fear, had the captain begging for them not to be afraid. As if the human heart could anymore contain the palpitations towards the unknown than the heavens could not thunder in its every breath.

One caroler offers you a candy cane and you hesitate to take it.

“I have nothing to give you,” you inform the young woman. Receiving requires something like in kind, this you know. Nothing is free; a cost lies behind every extended hand or smile or place to belong.

“You don’t need to,” she beams. Snowflakes gather around her, glittering in her wool cap. “It’s Christmas.”

The shepherds ran to the village to spread the news, but not out of belief in the lore of a savior. They took one look at the distortion of celestial bodies and immediately vowed to spend their lives in devotion to whatever command was given in exchange for having their lives spared. Their declaration was one of warning, their faith born of terror.

“I can give it to my son,” you say finally. If you are not claiming it for yourself then perhaps the price can be waived.

She gives you two candy canes “so you can enjoy them together.”

  The angels knew what was to come

The reason God had sent his son

They knew that it was a test to humanity, to determine how to proceed with future involvement judging by mankind’s reaction to him. You don’t know which archangel came up with the plan; you were still under the delusion at the time that instructions were coming from your Father. The word spread among the hosts was that they should convince mortals that their Father had a single son; not thousands upon thousands cloistered in heaven, misshapen and deformed to the human eye. No, people needed to believe that God’s child looked like them and bled like them, not the other way around. Not the way angels made the earth bleed and burned brighter than the sun.

You pause under the awning of a closed church to check your phone. Dean wants to know when you’ll be back so they can start decorating the tree. “The kid’s impatient,” says the text. “We can only make so many cookies.” You think of Jack half covered in iced sugar and flour, licking the batter off his fingers and taking the tray out of the oven before they’re done. When the boy had called earlier that afternoon to ask if you could pick up some decorations on the way home the word “rainbow lights” had burst from his lips with such delight that you could almost see his smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he was happy.

Your son is happy. The thought is enough to move you out from under the shadow of the wooden cross above and continue on your way home.

Hark the herald angels sing

Glory to the newborn king

There never was any singing among the hosts. Choirs were the measurement term for the size of a flight one commanded. The strength of angel’s voices were used to contact each other midst battle, to send for help or reinforcements, and, on occasion when other weapons were exhausted, as a weapon against the enemy. You remember your own voice when you first spoke to Dean, how the pale faces of windows screamed and the parched throats of radios split. Your Father created you to be a creature that needed to be contained in order to be heard or seen; an anomaly suppressed in borrowed bodies that would remain forever incomprehensible by those you were charged to protect.

You can wrap yourself in cells and hair like them and still remain alien to them. Even as long as you’ve been on earth there are still words in your language this body’s tongue cannot pronounce, and colors you cannot find paints that come close to, and sounds no instrument can come close to mimicking.

There is still you, bundled beneath clothes and tissue and skeleton. You are the unknowable.

Sam brushes snow off your coat shoulders as you step into the bunker and he smiles at the face of the knowable you. Dean looks up from a tangle of evergreen boughs and welcomes you, the you that can fit in the door frame of this structure.

Jack. Jack looks at you, the entire visage of you in every increment of decaying glory.

And says your name like a song.

Sing choirs of angels

Sing in exultation

There hasn’t been any exaltation among your siblings for centuries now. Sorrow and greed and chaos have been the sole harmony they have sung, and not just since the averted apocalypse. Even in the earliest days when the presence of your Father blessed the halls of heaven strife still wrestled among the purity, staining it with betrayal and rejection that bled into Lucifer’s fall.

But here, in the warm womb of the earth with two humans and one child, there are notes of that wondrous jubilation the writers imagined in their seasonal songs.

Jack wraps himself up in the Christmas lights and Sam turns them on before he realizes it. When the boy laughs, unfazed by the buzzing bulbs braided around his arms, the panic disappears from Dean’s eyes. They open up boxes of decorations and scrape glitter from their fingertips, grumbling when it smears onto their clothes. Dean throws tinsel at Sam to put on the higher branches and his brother protests that he’s not a ladder. Jack picks up a small figurine and bends his small mouth into a frown.

“Angels don’t look like this,” Jack says and you look over at the small white fluffy statue in his palm.

Fear not. Humans have always sought to transform that which appeared unseemly. They have sanded down every possible edge and muted the scars of what it means to be angelic, turning an enormous and terrible being into something diminutive and fragile so even a child could smile at it.

“I think if I put a tiny trench coat on that Cas would kick my ass,” Dean remarks from under the handful of silver strands that a disgruntled Sam has dumped back on his head.

“No,” Jack repeats, holding the figurine between two fingers, “I mean, they don’t only have two wings. Or even one head.”

Sam bends back one unruly branch that is determined to attack him. “Do you…do you have more than one head?”

You shake your head. “Jack is a child, but more than that he's half human. He doesn’t have a true form like--” you push a finger against your chest “--we do, and he’s not in a vessel. He might get more wings later,” you add thoughtfully. There’s no archetype for nephilim growth, but when you look at Jack you see the strands of his soul and how the blend of hues there are unlike any other humans. You see the shiver of his two wings, full and bristling against the edges of space and time.

“We’ve seen your wings, Cas--well, shadowy thingies.” Dean stands up and squints as if straining his retina can enable him to better glimpse your frightening truth.

“That’s not how he really looks,” Jack beams and before you can put out a hand to stop him he pushes a finger against either brother’s forehead. “Let me show you.”

“Don’t.” The request escapes your lips too late, trailing after a plane that’s already left the runaway. Jack’s eyes are halos of gold and Sam and Dean stand awash in the tremors of his light, staring at you with speechlessly. You close your eyes, a very human habit that will shield you from nothing at all. Terror can slip through the seal of eyelashes as easily as a shadow under the door.

Fall on your knees

O hear the angel’s voices

There were very few who didn’t bow at the sight of your arrival. You wanted to tell them that they didn’t need to drop to the ground; you wanted to tell them you had no choice over the shape of your being. Eventually you let yourself believe that their reaction was because of the uniform you wore; soldiers are always greeted with trepidation, even human soldiers. They only appear in times of war and death; so you could reason that the hidden faces were because of that and not because of the horror of you.

But Sam and Dean are your family. They should not have to associate you with something as unnatural and ghastly as your mutilated true form. You know how the mind of humans work, how it loves the familiar and loathes the foreign. They see you as one of them because you look like them, and act much like them now, a comfort that will be erased now that they are seeing the difference of you.

Especially this you. Cut off from Heaven for years and eroded by the rivers of poison and possession that have ravaged your form, there remains nothing but mangled remains of monstrosity to see.

“Oh.” The breath swells from Sam, followed by an extended version of the vowel from his older brother.

When Jack pulls his fingers away and the illumination fades you open your eyes but keep your gaze to the floor. It won’t hurt any less but you want to delay being witness to the restrained revulsion in their eyes.

“I didn’t always look like that,” you say, as if it offers any excuse. “I had more…” you try to capture an appropriate English word to describe it “…fingers.”

“Where?” Dean sounds… curious. He sounds curious. Excited.

“On the..ah..faces.” You lift your head a little, waiting for their unease to fall like unannounced snow.

“Ah, the arches,” Sam says with pride, only to be contradicted by Dean.

“Wouldn’t that make them eyelids? Or eyebrows?”

“The faces aren’t structured like that; they could be arches or even parallel lines.”

“Okay, well, I know what I saw, and it was definitely eye-ish. I mean, that face was a leopard right? Leopards have eyes.”

“Cheetah,” Sam returns. “The spots are different, dude.”

“Those aren’t spots, those are the eyes,” Jack interrupts.

“So then the fingers do go on the eyebrow-y things. Like this.” Dean grabs a pencil and paper off the stack of books on the table and starts scrawling hurried lines. “And then the five and a half wings go there--and there---and I think one was there.”

“No, you’re getting the angles wrong, it came out of the elbow there.” Sam snatches a pen and scribbles out a corner of his brother’s drawing and adds something else.

Jack peers over their shoulders. “You’re forgetting the wheels.”

“They’re broken,” you point out shamefully, but no one hears you. Dean is swinging the pencil around the white sheet and Sam is accusing him of not knowing how to draw a circle and then Jack disappears and reappears with a box of crayons.

“Pink? I thought it was purple.”

“More like magenta.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Sammy. Jack, back me up here.”

They cluster around, crayon crumbs smearing into the white and elbows nudging each other for space to draw, and you stand there with a growing lump in your throat because they're not afraid.

Because Dean goes and grabs that little plush figurine and a white board marker and starts dotting the lace wings with spots for eyes. Because Sam gets toothpicks to stab the paper cut heads he’s drawn into the styrofoam body and Jack is twisting pipe cleaners into the bent lines of your wings. Because they fight over which side of the figurine to put two or three wings, and whether or not the rotating ram head should be in the front or back.

When they finally turn around and ask you if the bottle-cap wheel should be taped below or above the waist you try to answer without crying and it doesn’t work.

Fear not then said the angel

Let nothing you affright

There isn’t anyone else awake when Christmas morning first dawns. You leave behind the warmth of your room and go towards the center of this place you’ve christened home. Behind the staircase you find the plug and switch on the lights for the tree. They blink in a rainbow flutter against the synthetic branches, throwing tiny halos across the dangling snowmen and reindeer. Sitting on the table atop a stack of books is the angel figurine, now sporting a variety of hand-made appendages and hand-drawn additions to create some kind of composite creature.

It looks absolutely nothing like you.

You’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

Your hand slides into your coat pocket and you find the two candy canes from the caroler the day before. You find a branch to hang the red and white striped hooks on, somewhere between the mismatching socks that have definitely been put there without either brother’s knowledge and the actual baked gingerbread man that has Jack’s distinctive wiggly smile drawn on it in red frosting.

Before the sounds of your waking family come drifting down the hall you pause, fingers hesitating over the newly-crafted angel. You pick it up and move it to the top of the tree, wiggling it back and forth until it stands proud with all three crayoned faces to the sky.

You weren’t there for the first Christmas. And angels don’t sing or rejoice.

But you are here now, in this moment of Christmas.

Later Dean will be humming off-key when he pops marshmallows in the mugs of hot chocolate and Jack’s little squeal will ring out when Sam tries to stop him from opening the presents first. Later Jack will come tuck his arms around you for a sleepy hug and Dean will flash you a grin while he surreptitiously witches his mug for Sam’s. You will sit on the sofa cradling your own mug of hot chocolate and Sam will lean against your knees as he sits cross-legged on the floor flipping through the dictionary of dead languages you wrote for him. Later Jack will be wearing his new gloves and shadow boxing with Dean, both moving dangerously close to the tree. You will whisper “Merry Christmas” right before Dean’s leg twists around one of the lower branches and the six foot evergreen bows to the ground, sending the composite angel flying away on the wings of your laughter.

And ever o’er its Babel sounds

The blessed angels sing

Songs mentioned, in order of appearance: Angels From the Realms of Glory//Angles We Have Heard on High//The Angels Cried//Hark the Herald Angels Sing//O Come All Ye Faithful//O Holy Night//God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen//It Came Upon A Midnight Clear

[nebulariver]

Winter Savior P1

Type: Angst with a bit of fluff.

Word Count: 797

Pairing: Eventual Omega!Dean x ???!Reader

You were driving down the small road home in your precious 1967 impala in the dead of winter. In your peripheral, you caught a glimpse of a shaking figure on the side of the road. Slamming on the brakes, the car comes to an abrupt halt before the door is thrown open. Looking around you find the figure again and jog over.  

As you got closer you could see the figure was of a man. Kneeling in front of the man, you noticed how he shuffled away, and farther into the snow. You slowly put your hands up to show they were empty. As you did so, you noticed he flinched.

“Hey I’m not gonna hurt you. You need to get somewhere warm, it’s too cold to sit out here,” you softly whispered loud enough for him to hear over the wind. He just shook his head and curled in on himself. “Look I’m not armed, I can’t do anything to hurt you.”

The hunched silhouette slowly unfurled to ensure what you said was true. With a quick glance he nodded, staying in that position. “My name’s Y/N. What’s yours?”

When he answered it was a quiet whisper you barely heard, “Dean.”

A small smile graced your lips as you held out your hand for Dean. “My car’s just over there. The heater is on and my home isn’t far from here.” He looked your hand with a skeptical look before timidly placing his own on top. You slowly stood up, pulling Dean with you. As you started the short trek to the vehicle, he hesitated. “It’s okay I’m not going to do anything.”

He gave a small nod and followed a second later. Reaching the passenger side, you opened the door for Dean and helped him into the impala. Closing the door, you jogged over to the driver’s side to climb behind the wheel. Reaching into the backseat you grabbed a fleece blanket off the floor and offered it to Dean. “Here, this should keep you warm until we get you some dry clothes.” With a thankful smile he took the blanket from you. You started the car to continue home, glancing at the omega every few minutes. He had the fleece wrapped around his shoulders with a vent facing him. Dean wasn’t shivering anymore, so you took that as a good sign.

After about ten minutes the two of you pulled into the garage of your small house. You slid out before crossing in front of the grill to get Dean. Grasping his bicep, you helped him get on his feet and balance himself. Slowly you made it through the doorway leading to the mud room. “Stay here and put your clothes off to the side, I’ll see if I have anything that’ll fit you. Or do you want a shower?”

A look of thought crossed his face before he asked, “Can I take a shower?” You nodded at him, turning towards the entrance to the main part of the house to show him the bathroom. After Dean got in the tub successfully you headed toward the quest room hopefully to find some of your brother’s left-over comfy clothes and boxers. Finding a set that appeared that they would fit Dean, you placed them on top of the dresser.  

Knocking on the bathroom door you spoke loud enough to be heard over the shower, “Dean when you’re done, there’s a set of clothes sitting on the dresser in the bedroom to the right.” Walking back to the kitchen you decided to make dinner not knowing if he ate, but making it light the ensure he doesn’t become sick. The door to the bathroom squeaked open and the slight pitter patter of bare feet faded away. Just after the sound of a second door closing was heard. Footsteps sounded behind you stopping as Dean stood unknowing what to do next. With a gentle look you gestured towards to couch and entertainment center. “Go ahead and get comfy. Dinner’s almost done.” He gave a small nod and slowly shuffled over to the living room. Dean plopped onto the end cushion, leaning on the armrest and tucking is knees into his chest.

After dinner you were loading the dishwasher as Dean quietly made his way to the guest bedroom. Slowly you rested your head on the countertop as a sigh left your lips. Eventually you decided to just go to bed and leave the thinking for tomorrow. Checking the windows and doors you stretched, letting the joints pop and relax. The tension escaped your back as you practically collapsed on the edge of your bed. Not bothering to undress, the boots were the only things to fly to the wall. You lie back and almost instantly fall asleep.