#deans prayer confession

[sweetonsugden]

Source

[fallenangelblade]

okay in advance of destielversary tomorrow I just rewatched 15x09 the trap and like. I don’t know that anything in my life has ever made me feel as truly and clinically insane as that prayer scene.

it’s the hopeful expression on dean’s face when he realizes cas might be able to hear him if he prays. if he begs. in the same place he prayed to cas every night for a year.

it’s the way he drops to a knee, knowing he’s surrounded by danger but needing to do it properly. sincerely. being as vulnerable as we’ve ever seen him be.

it’s the way his voice breaks when he says “man, I hope you can hear me.” the way he wipes his eyes and another tear falls immediately after. the way he lets himself fall apart for just as long as it takes to say what needs to be said, then steels himself and continues on. it’s just such a raw, standout performance and it makes me SCREAM every time I think about it

[dessertbird]

Daily Destiel 💙💚

Important moments. There are so many. 🥹😍❤️

[hellerism]

my bf is officially team dean was going to confess first in the trap

[arabella-s-arts]

Scenes/Things in Supernatural that genuinely don't make sense to me if Dean was straight:

The confession booth scene.

Sam just rolling with the fact that Dean's siren is a guy while still thinking sirens infect people through sex.

Dean being flustered by several men: Gunner Lawless, Aaron, Doctor Sexy, etc.

All the parallels between Destiel and other couples. (A big one being "last night on Earth" bc how do you do that accidentally.)

Having all the gay jokes be on Dean instead of Sam.

Paralleling Sam meeting his childhood celebrity crush with Dean meeting Gunner Lawless.

The boner Dean got when Cas cleaned up.

Dean gulping after Cas does an impression from a Western movie.

Charlie, a lesbian, calling Castiel "dreamy."

The way Mary looks at Dean and Cas when they hug.

Dean wondering why everyone assumes he's gay, while Sam not caring.

The logic that Charlie can't flirt with guys because she's only attracted to women, but then having Dean flirt with the guy for her.

Dean seeming disappointed when learning that Aaron's flirting was fake.

The amount of time Dean and Cas spend staring at each other.

Dean canonically having an orgy with Crowley.

A woman saying that she knows when someone's pining for someone else to Dean, just for us to learn that Dean was never in love with Amara.

The set design and script choices that lead to a cross in the background while Dean said "I do." to Cas after he came back to life.

That time when Dean wanted to say something and Cas was like, "It's okay, I heard your prayer." But Dean still looked like he wanted to say something important.

Amara: [about Dean] "I can see inside your heart. Feel the love you feel. Except, it’s cloaked in shame.”

If you want to have a more expansive list, @destiel-is-real-idgaf added to this one quite nicely.

[honeyryewhiskey]

BETWEEN HEAVEN AND DESIRE

angel!reader or dean's prayers save you from heaven's merciless punishment. the weakened state of your grace leaves you feeling a plethora of entirely human needs—and you're not sure you have any faith left in the home that crafted you to fight against those desires. warnings!! smut with build up 18+, depictions of violence, blood/injuries that heal, heaven being bad, body worshipping dean?, angel's first time. dean talks u thru it!! bc he would!! 4.8k words

It is not uncommon for angels to go rogue after too much time spent amongst mortals. So much so, Heaven has protocols for repairing a weapon who’s gone soft. Some speculate it’s one of god’s little amusements—create a fleet of soulless celestials, but leave just enough parts for something a lot like a soul to fester when touched by the right human.

It’s this paradox that plagues your mind as a dozen silver blades slice through your flesh and grace—again.

The Council surrounds you in a cold circle of judgment, their faces impassive, their voices ringing with divine authority. Each word of their chant strikes like a hammer to your heart: Traitor. Defiled. Corrupted.

“Do you repent for the sin of your attachment to the mortal, Dean Winchester?” one of them demands through the chaos of sound.

You want to scream, but your voice is lost in the agony. The angel blade—designed to kill—wields a newfound torture as each lashing cuts into your grace. Thick streams of blood pool from glowing wounds, as your knees hit the ground as strength gives way to pain. Withholding the tears that threaten to fall with shaky breaths, you cling to a lingering stubbornness, refusing to answer their demands. 

This torment, their means of correction—it’s not enough to strip your wings or grace. No, they want you broken in ways you didn’t think angels could break.

Your response to their demands takes too long. As a result, a blinding light presses into your mind, and with it, flashes of Dean—laughing, swearing, holding you close after the darkest nights. The way his touch melted your resolve, the warmth in his eyes when he whispered your name. These memories are dragged out of you, twisted until they no longer resemble what they were.

They replay your time together, but in each retelling, they inject doubt. The gentle words he spoke now sound hollow, calculated. The moments of connection feel like manipulation. He never loved you, the light whispers, digging deep into your heart. He only used you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “No,” you choke out, but it’s barely audible over the chanting and slashing.

The blades come down again, harder, carving away the truth of who you are, leaving only what the Council wills you to be.

“You were created to serve Heaven’s purpose,” one of the voices booms. “Not your own, and certainly not his.”

And then, through the torment, you hear it—soft, rough-edged, and impossibly real.

Your name in the form of a mantra, the beginning of a mortal’s prayer.

“Angel? I don’t even know if this will work, if you can really hear me... but I’m trying here.” Dean stumbles around his words, his doubt laced within each syllable.

Your breath catches. It’s a faint echo at the edge of your mind, pushing against the light’s mental invasion that’s trying to rework the fabric of your memories.

“I’m praying,” he continues awkwardly. “Guess that’s what this is. I don’t know where you are, but—hell, I just... I need to know you’re okay.” His voice falters, a pulsing pain taking up the space of his silence before his cuts in again. Quietly, like a bashful sinner in confession, “I miss you.”

The Council continues, oblivious to the sound of him, to the way his words infiltrate their illusions.

“Whatever heaven says—Angel, please, don’t trust them.” his tone shifts, fierce and treading on desperation. “They’re assholes, they’ll do whatever they can to make you be like them. Please, don’t let them change you.” 

The tears finally break, streaming down your face as your hands curl into fists. His voice drowns out the Council, drowns out the pain, grounding you in the truth they’re trying so desperately to erase. It’s nauseating, trying to draw strength from your tattered grace. But the strain in Dean’s voice strikes your instincts, and everything inside of you fights against the light reworking your mind. 

“I need you, Angel.” His voice cracks, “come back to me. Please.”

When an angel’s grace is weakened, it allows for heaven to remold the weapon like clay. A being reduced to material to work with. However, grace is the luminous silver line separating celestial from human. The more it pools out of you, shimmering amidst the red, the closer you reach mortality.

And the freedom of emotions that come with that kind of existence.

A tidal wave of remorse, anguish, fury, and desire radiate within. You can hardly breathe with the demanding sensations of emotion and survival. It’s consuming, and somehow—powerful. 

The Council doesn’t notice the shift in you until it’s too late. The invading light that binds you flickers, then shatters as you push against it with every ounce of your will.

“Enough,” you whisper, your voice trembling through panting breaths.

They realize their mistake as you unfurl what little remnant of grace you can muster, searing their illusions away with a growling scream of defiance. The silver blades raise in their grasps, preparing for battle, as you rise to your feet. 

But no part of you aims to attack, the only thoughts you have are of Dean. 

“Stand down, Angel. You are not strong enough to take all of us.” one of them warns, but their voice is dim beneath the thunder in your chest.

You glare into their blinding forms, disgust written on their holy faces, chest heaving as your wings unfurl. “I am done fighting.” 

And with that, you vanish in a burst of light, tearing through the veil with a single destination in mind.

In a blink, you’re standing in Dean’s motel room on shaky knees. The power you exerted to flee heaven has left nothing but a faint glimmer of grace within. 

Dean is a mirage of movement, your eyes growing delirious from the draining of your essence. He catches your weakened form just as you begin to drop to the floor. 

“Angel,” he says softly, his eyes raking over your wounds. Dozens of bleeding cuts, your clothes stained and tattered. The pain consumes you again, an aching cold taking over every nerve ending. His hand brushes bloodied hair from your face, his other arm wrapped so tightly around you, you’re sure nothing could rip you from his grasp. Not this time. 

“What did they do to you?” he demands as your body trembles, clinging to the bits of grace that remain within your being.

“I’ll be alright,” you whisper, “just need… rest.” His warmth surrounds you as his hands steady you. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the torment has ceased, and though your mind is a hazy mess of shattered memories there is one thing you know for certain: Dean’s prayers have saved you.

He hooks an arm under your legs and carries you over to the bed. With the gentleness of a man cradling a wounded bird, he sets you down carefully, his movements deliberate and full of quiet reverence. Kneeling on the floor beside you, adrenaline ripples off of him and invades your senses. The rapid beat of his heart, blood pooling his muscles on instinct. 

You raise a shaky hand to his chest, but his focus remains on your wounds, fussing with the fabric of your tattered shirt to investigate their severity. 

“Dean,” you whisper, but he doesn’t stop, your finger lift to curl around his jaw, “it’s okay—“

“Look at you!” he cuts you off, “why aren’t you healing?” 

“I will, I just need time.” you murmur, dropping your hand and letting your eyes close again, “I can smell your anxiety, Dean. It’s—distracting.”

He scoffs, but the concern doesn’t unwind from his brows. “Right. You’re bleeding to death but it’s my anxiety that’s bothering you?”

“Yes.” you manage dryly, despite the moan of pain you expel as you shift uncomfortably, the injuries to your back are making lying down impossible. Through shaky breaths you sit up, Dean’s strong hands hovering your frame as you do so. His eyes are still on your wounds, the beat of his heart finding an impossible speed as you gingerly wrap your fingers around the hem of your tattered sweater, lifting the material to reveal the damage done to your body.

“What are you doing?” Dean’s voice is gruff, his eyes narrowing as he watches you shift uncomfortably.

A flicker of annoyance sears through, the intensity of it adding to your nausea. “Lifting my shirt.” your voice matches the feeling inside, your fingers fumbling with the hem of the tattered fabric as you give him a full view of your injuries.

“Why?” His tone is sharp, matching yours. 

Your features contort with confusion, “because you clearly want to make sure I’m healing.”  

His eyes quickly advert as he clears his throat, a hand running over his chin—something you’ve noticed he does when he’s ‘at his wits end’ as he likes to phrase it.

“Why are you looking away now?” 

“Because you’re—,” he stops himself with a groan, a flat expression on his face as his eyes find yours, “why aren’t you wearing a bra?” 

“Oh,” you look down at your completely exposed chest, “it seemed… restrictive.” An unfamiliar emotion prickles heat against your skin: embarrassment. 

He nods, sighing as his head tilts, brows raised in quiet agreement. Your wounds remain a blazing red, skin working slowly to stitch itself back together beneath the bloody smear marks. 

“See?” you remark, dropping the material to cover yourself again. “Healing.” 

There is an anxious swirling in your stomach, one not bred from physical pain like you’re used to. The effects of weakened grace, the invitation of intense emotions feels like an uncomfortable itch beneath your skin. 

“Uh, huh.” he hums, but his scowl mismatches the slowing pace of his heart, the anxiety he refuses to acknowledge, subsiding at the sight of your healing skin.

He rises to his feet with a huff, you watch as he disappears into the bathroom. A moment passes until the sound of running water breaks the quiet as he comes back in. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, and you can tell me which sons of bitches I’ll be ganking for this.” 

Dean scoops you up again without hesitation, his arms steady despite your weight against him. You don’t have the strength to protest—not that you want to—and simply let yourself sink into his embrace. His chest is warm, the rhythmic beat of his heart oddly comforting as he carries you to the bathroom.

The space is small and sterile, but Dean makes it feel safe. He uses his foot to push the door open wider and carefully sets you down on the closed toilet lid, one hand lingering on your shoulder to steady you.

Steam begins to rise from the filling tub, the water crystal clear and inviting in the dim light. Dean crouches in front of you, his fingers brushing against your knee to get your attention.

"Think you can handle this, or do you need help?" His voice is soft, but the tension in his jaw betrays the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.

You nod faintly, though your body protests every movement. "I can manage."

He stands, his arms crossed, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he turns his back slightly, giving you the barest hint of privacy while staying close enough to intervene if needed. You peel off your torn and bloodied clothes with shaky hands, the effort nearly exhausting.

As you step into the warm water, a hiss escapes your lips. The heat stings at first, the water seeping into the raw edges of your wounds, but soon the ache begins to dull, replaced by a soothing warmth. You sink down slowly, letting the bath support your weight.

Dean shifts, his eyes flicking over you briefly before settling on a safe spot on the wall. He sits down heavily on the closed toilet lid, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his green eyes sharp and unyielding.

"Start talking," he says, his tone low but insistent. "What the hell did they do to you?"

You hesitate, staring down at the rippling surface of the water. Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "They said I was corrupted... that I’d betrayed Heaven."

Dean’s jaw clenches, his knuckles whitening as his hands ball into fists. "Those pious bastards," he mutters. "For what? Doing the right thing? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? How you’ve been helping me and Sam?" His words dance around the truth. How close you’ve grown while working alongside the Winchesters. Something, an almost malleable energy hangs in the air between you two each time you’re together. 

A line never crossed, words never spoken—but it has always been there.

You nod, your breath hitching as the memories flood back—the blades, the light, the voices that tore into you like barbed wire. "They wanted to... recondition me. Make me forget."

"Forget what?"

"Everything," you whisper. "You. Sam. What it felt like to care. They tried to rewrite me, make me believe your—friendship—was all a lie."

Dean’s face twists with anger, his fists pounding lightly against his thighs as he exhales sharply through his nose. "What gives them the right, huh? Because god wills it or some crap?" he says firmly, the words spoken in question, but you know in Dean’s book it’s more of a statement of fact. He doesn’t trust heaven or it’s angels. Well, all of it except you. 

"I don’t know anymore," you murmur, your voice breaking. A lump forms in your throat as you consider all that has been done to you by the ones you followed, dutifully, for centuries. Your chest constricts in an unfamiliar pain, hurt and confusion finding an entirely new stupor within your heart. You reach for the soap, focusing on the movement of hands as you scrub the blood from your skin to think of anything but the pain festering within. "Your voice,” you being, voice at a whisper, “your prayer. It brought me back. You reminded me who I was."

He falls silent for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. When he finally speaks, his voice is thick with emotion. "I should’ve prayed sooner."

"You did it when it mattered," you say softly. "That’s what saved me."

Dean looks up, his eyes locking with yours, a flicker of guilt and relief dancing in the green depths. "You shouldn’t have needed saving in the first place," he says quietly. "They’ll pay for this. I don’t care if I have to storm Heaven itself."

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. "I don’t doubt you’d try."

He leans back, his hands running over his face before resting on his thighs. "I just… I can’t lose you. Not to them. Not to anyone."

The weight of his words settles in the air between you, and for a moment, the pain and exhaustion fade, replaced by the quiet certainty that, no matter what happens next, Dean will always fight for you.

You place the soap back on the bathtub nook, the faint echo of the movement breaking the silence. Turning your attention back to him, you murmur, “Thank you.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For caring,” you reply, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness of the moment. “And you can’t say you don’t—I can hear your heartbeat quicken when you lie, remember?”

Dean huffs out a breath, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he pushes himself to his feet. “Damn angel ears,” he mutters, though there’s no real heat behind it. “Come on, let’s get you outta here before you start pruning up.”

You let him help you out of the tub, water dripping in soft splashes onto the tiles as he wraps a towel snugly around you. His hands are firm yet gentle, careful not to brush against the worst of your injuries as he leads you back into the room.

Settling onto the bed, you adjust the towel around your shoulders, shivering slightly as the cool air brushes against your damp skin. Dean follows a moment later, grabbing another towel before sitting behind you on the mattress.

“Sit still,” he says gruffly, though the way his fingers work through your wet hair is anything but rough. He dries it with slow, deliberate movements, the repetitive motion almost lulling you into a trance.

The quiet is comfortable, filled only by the faint rustle of the towel and the occasional sigh from Dean. His presence, solid and steady behind you, feels like an unspoken promise—a reassurance that, no matter how broken the world might seem, there’s still a place where you’re safe.

“Looks like you’re healing pretty good. You feeling any better?” Dean’s voice is low, his fingers brushing gently over your shoulder as he speaks. 

“Physically, yes,” you admit, “but I keep feeling things. Far more intense than I’m used to, because my grace is so weak.”

He frowns, tilting his head. “Feeling things? Like what?”

“Hurt, mostly,” you start, your voice quiet but steady. “And when we’re close like this,” you turn slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, “...desire.” 

He clears his throat, the faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck as his eyes dart away. “I’m sure it’ll go away once your grace—or whatever—gets stronger.”

“No, Dean.” You shift to face him fully, the towel tucked around you loosening as your hands reach up to cup his face. It pools at your lap as cool air ripples goosebumps across exposed skin. His eyes snap back to yours, wide but unresisting, his hands folding over yours, warm and steady. There is a storm of hesitation in his stare, but he doesn’t push you away.

The faint scent of adrenaline lingers in the air between you, your heightened senses picking up the slight quickening of his pulse, the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing hitches ever so slightly. You search his face, reading every unspoken emotion that flits across it.

“Talk to me, Angel.” His voice is rough, his green eyes darkened with something you can’t quite name. His expression is soft but insistent, pressing you for more than just what your senses can tell you. “Don’t just sense me out. Talk to me.”

Your thumbs brush over the scruff of his jaw as you take a shaky breath. “The desire I feel has always been there. I’ve ignored it, buried it, pretended it wasn’t real. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do. But now…” Your voice wavers, but your resolve doesn’t. “Now I can’t just ignore it anymore. I need to give in.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and electric, and you watch as Dean’s expression shifts. His lips part as if to speak, but he hesitates, the tension crackling like a live wire between you. His hands tighten slightly over yours, grounding you, even as his restraint begins to waver.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for,” his voice is low and cautious, like he’s trying to hold himself back.

“Yes, I do, Dean.” Your eyes lock with his, unwavering. “I may not be human, but I am not naive. And I know what I want.”

His fingertips curl into your hands, as if a tightened grip could still the rapid pacing of his pulse. Your stare is intense, boring into his jade irises. Searching for salvation in a new religion, one that might promise more pleasure than pain. 

He huffs, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “Don’t you think fleeing Heaven was enough trouble for one day, little bird?”

You grin, tilting your head playfully. “Trouble’s never in short supply with you around, Dean.”

An exchange of breaths passes the divide, but it’s Dean who moves first. His lips capture yours in a kiss that electrifies every inch of your skin. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into sore muscles—making you gasp at the intoxicating sensation of hurt and relief. 

Your lips match his pace, slow and controlled. You pull him closer with your hands on his neck, his body following yours to lie against the old motel sheets. He pulls away, his shirt coming off in one swift movement before he’s back to your lips. 

You’ve never been more grateful to feel. Every press of his bare chest on yours thickens the heat claiming the reign of your core. And the deep, primal, desire to cling to him has your nails digging into his flesh. He groans as they do, the sound making you kiss him harder. 

His lips trail down from yours to neck, giving ample attention to every spot he tugs into his mouth. One of his hands drag down your naval, fingers exploring new territory until they find your slick folds—plunging into flesh as something between a gasp and moan escapes you.

You’ve never been intimate before, and you’ve always wondered if it felt like possession. An invasive, vulnerable thing. But this—the way his fingers pump in and out—is like being unwound. Every stress and pain you’ve ever felt, untangling in the haze of Dean’s touch. 

His eyes find yours, emerald peering through lashes, “you are the only damn thing heaven could ever get me to worship.” He whispers and it sends a shiver through you, the pressure of his thumb against your clit making you shudder beneath him. 

“That,” you mumble through shaky breaths, “would be blasphemy.” 

His stubble grazes you as you feel every note of his chuckle vibrate against your skin. His lips trail kisses down your body with a deliberate slowness. His fingers don’t cease, working you with ease as he sinks lower. 

You grasp for anything—the sheets in one hand, tuffs of his hair in another. He positions himself between your legs, his lips sucking on the sensitive skin of your inner thing. Your body takes over, whimpering and rocking into him as he pulls the skin between his teeth. Retracting, a red love bite in his wake as hovers over your heat. 

You glance down, chest rising and falling in an uneven pattern. It’s like fighting, the way your entire body is alive with an instinctual awareness of each part of you. But there is no anticipation of pain, no need to swing first. It’s a tantalizing resolve, a desperate desire to succumb to whatever feeling Dean might insight next.

He exchanges his hand for his mouth, your legs clinging to either side of his head on instinct. It’s a rippling wave of passion that flows through. His hands dig into your thighs, grounding him as his mouth moves at an intoxicating pace. 

You’ve never heard yourself make the sounds that leave your mouth now, damn near animalistic as you let go of control. Breath hitching each time he sucked sensitive skin between his lips, releasing and reattaching at a dizzying pace. 

“Dean,” you stutter through a shudder, trying to wrap hazy thinking around the sensation building within your core that’s making your back arch, instinct telling you to push into Dean. A tight notch of unused muscles is binding beneath his mouth, like all the tension he relieved is back—balling into your core. You’re squirming for a release as he quickens his lapping and sucking. 

All at once—your vision blurs, body tightening as his fingers plunge inside of you again, the medley of pleasure surging into you with force. The notch unravels, waves of tension releasing in hot ripples throughout your entire body. 

You’re humming through quieted whimpers as your body goes limp, Dean pulls away slowly—leaving little kisses all over sensitive skin. He runs his hands over your body, soothing the little shudders that remain of you. 

He brushes a few strands of hair from your face, his touch featherlight as he presses tender kisses to your temples and cheeks. “We can stop here,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, his gaze searching yours as he hovers over you. “You’re in control here, angel.”

The sincerity in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, a warmth settling in your chest. But his words tug at something deeper, something raw. Control—a concept you’ve only ever understood as an illusion. An angel, a weapon, a tool of Heaven—control was never yours to wield, not even over yourself. 

Your fingers glide over his lips, tracing the shape of the words he’s yet to say. “If I’m in control,” you whisper, your voice soft but resolute. “I want you to let me feel everything, Dean.”

He lets go of the breath he was holding, lips crashing into yours—a kiss to seal his promise. Your hands card into his hair as he fumbles with the rest of his clothes. The air that invades the space he leaves is cold and empty, but he returns to your skin swiftly, his hips claiming the space between yours. 

He adjusts himself, and you inhale sharply at the pressing of his tip against your entrance. 

“Hey,” he whispers, the steadiness of his voice melting any bits of nerves that peak through as he catches your gaze. “‘s all be okay, I promise. Just keep your eyes on mine.” 

His gaze is soft and gentle as he eases himself inside your walls. Heat prickles on your skin, making you gasp at the feel of your body stretching around him. He dips his head, catching your lips in his as he sinks deeper. You’re gasping against his mouth, the sound meshing with his quiet groans as his hips rock against yours. 

There’s a soreness in the sensation, tension giving out with each thrust. Your hips squirm beneath him, instinctively bucking into his movements, “You’re doing so good for me, angel,” he sighs, voice raspy, sending a shiver through you. 

“More, I can take more,” you whisper, the words leaving your mouth without a second thought. All you can feel is a need for all of him—deeper.

He follows your command, his pace quickening enough to make your legs lock around him. His arm slides beneath you, a protective hand wrapping around the back of your neck as he holds your frame closer to his.

Your senses are overwhelmed by his scent—the endorphins pooling off of him and making you feel drunk on the smell. 

In one swift motion, he pulls you up with him, arms wrapped around you in a heated embrace as you roll your hips against his—chasing the pleasure of his length knocking into the sensitive spot inside you. 

His lips chase yours, a deep slow kiss that makes your hips move more desperately. Little whimpers leave your lips between each kiss, making his wandering hands dig into your skin with a desire to touch every part of you. 

“Just like that—fuck,” he groans against your skin, his hands guiding your hips against his. Your arms cling to him as he lowers you back onto the pillows, his claim on your skin intensifying as his thrust becomes more greedy, needy as he takes control again. 

His hands run along your frame, inching towards your breasts until your nipples are beneath his circling fingers. It makes your breath hitch, and that notch of tension forms within your core again. Your bucking his and nails digging into Dean’s skin are like an unspoken demand, and follows the cues you’re unaware of by sliding a hand down to your joined bodies. 

His fingers work dizzying circles between your folds, your breathing falling uneven against his. Your muscles go tense again, tightening with each thrust of his tip against sore, sensitive flesh. 

Tears prickle at your lashes as you cry out his name, losing yourself in the tidal wave of relief that flows through—leaving your body shuddering beneath his. 

Your name leaves his lips, a quiet mantra, just as it did when he lifted his head in your prayer. His warm release threads inside you, coating your walls. 

His hips stutter, falling into a lazy rhythm until he’s still. Breathing heavy against you, holding you in his arms for a moment as you both come down from the moment. 

Sowly, he pulls away, shifting to lay beside you. Your mind is a complete sleepy haze, another new feeling for an angel who has never known exhaustion to the point of needing sleep. It’s a sweet, comforting thing—to want to close your eyes and give in. 

Dean shifts, adjusting your body until you’re snug against his chest beneath the covers. His arms wrap around you, firm and protective, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in his world. Being surrounded by his warmth, his quiet strength, feels like a peace you never believed could exist—a haven you’re not sure you could ever let go of.

As your eyes grow heavy, his lips brush your ear, his voice a soft murmur in the quiet. “Sleep, angel. I’ve got you.”

speak for yourself - imogen heap album was on repeat while writing this btw. also i got lazy after dean's munch moment and did nawt re-read or edit the rest so i apologize <3 but i hope this was fun idk i kinda hate it now to be frank i d k ugh bye ily

[zepskies]

Hi, how are you?

I was wondering if you could write something like "Dean reads you wrong" but with Sam Please

Hey, lovely!

I'm doing well, thank you. 💜 I hope you are too! Hmm, I'm still working through my current bank of requests, but since "Dean reads you wrong" is so fresh, it got me thinking about how Sam would go about this...

Pairing: Sam Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: It's hard for Sam to admit he wants you...when he thinks you might want his brother.

Song Inspo: "If You're Gone" by Matchbox Twenty

Word Count: 1,600 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, angst, fear of unrequited love, mutual pining

Imagine: Sam reads you wrong.

When Sam falls for someone, he's...well, what he would call self-aware.

But also cautious.

He knows his own track record with women. He knows the life he leads, and has resigned himself to giving up most kinds of normalcy or domesticity.

And maybe, a part deep in the back of his brain has given up on the idea of love.

That's why it's so damn confounding...how you've managed to take him by surprise.

He's always been able to rely on you. Whether it's sharing the brunt of the research with him when Dean loses focus, or staying up with Sam on late nights, sharing mugs of tea and quiet conversation, bonding over familiar tastes in books, and '90s grunge music, of all things.

You also confessed to him, late one night, that you have a growing collection of mugs, fuzzy socks, and vinyl records, despite the fact that your record player has collected more dust than the bunker's old storage room.

You're wonderfully weird.

And you're unfailingly loyal to who you consider "your people." And Sam thinks (knows) he's fortunate enough to be included in that small circle.

Sam also knows, deep in his gut, no matter how much he tries to "rationalize" it away, that you're special. And special to him.

You've managed to do more than just slip under his skin. When he thinks too hard on it, he can admit it (just to himself). You've infiltrated all four corners of his heart so deeply, he doesn't have a prayer of scooping you out.

Some days, it's all he can do not to reach out while you're chatting away, filling the silence.

He can picture it like a scene in his mind: of interrupting your mouth with a gentle hand on your cheek, tilting your face up to his and showing you, with or without words, that he wants you...

And yet.

He can't help but watch how you are with Dean.

You two tease each other, bicker and gripe over coffee grinds left in the coffee pot and who ate the last of the leftovers. You fight with Dean over the remote on movie night (once, damn near smothering him with a pillow).

But you also dote on him, making sure Dean has one of his favorite desserts every time you go out to buy groceries. You swap his beer out for water when he's not looking. (And though Dean frowns and grumbles, he doesn't argue with your raised brow and imploring look.)

It's not quite flirting, but it's not quite platonic either—at least in Sam's eyes. You and Dean seem to have something.

And sometimes, your playful banter with his brother makes Sam sick to his stomach.

Like today, when Sam’s sitting at the kitchen table reading while you're making a cup of tea. The silence between you two is amiable, like usual.

Sam steals a glance at you and has to smile.

"Going with purple polka dots today?" he asks.

You look over with knitted brows of confusion, until you follow his gaze. You laugh sheepishly and wiggle your toes through your fuzzy socks.

"The floor is cold as hell," you defend yourself.

Sam's smile deepens a fraction as he turns back to his book.

"They're cute," he adds.

You turn your face to hide your blush. The mild thunder of heavy boots announces Dean's presence as he pops into the kitchen.

"Oh good, you're cooking. What's for dinner?" he asks. You turn to give him a familiar narrowed look.

"Who says I'm cooking?" you counter.

"Well, you're doing something on the stove..." Dean peers over and catches a whiff of the concoction you're brewing. He grimaces. "Second thought, I'm good. That smells like ass, whatever it is."

You roll your eyes at him. "It's just green tea, Dean. You know, health?"

He levels a deadpan expression at you as he opens up the pantry.

"I see your 'health' and I raise you...Doritos," he says. He digs his hand into the bag he's just pilfered and crunches a mouthful in your face. You can't help but splutter a laugh and push Dean away.

"You're ridiculous. If you catch a heart attack at 50, don't come crying to me."

"Hey, at least I'll die happy."

"Oh, right. A silver lining there. I'd hate to see what your arteries look like," you tease.

"Has anyone told you that you're unsavory?" Dean asks, continuing to crunch with an open mouth.

You smirk. "Is that your way of calling me sweet?"

He snorts. "Sure, sweetheart. We'll call it that."

"You know, I'm not your sweetheart," you point out.

Dean discreetly glances his brother's way with a sly glint in his eyes. Sam doesn't see it; by now he's trying his damndest to keep his eyes in his book and ignore the way his stomach is clenching, chest tightening.

Dean shifts his attention back at you and reaches down to brush your chin with his thumb.

"Not yet, but you could be," he says, in a flirtatious edge that he's never quite taken with you.

You're wide-eyed for a moment. In the end, though, you choose to take it as teasing. You push his hand away and give him an annoyed look.

"God, you're such a clown. Order a pizza if you're that hungry," you rejoin, and you pour two mugs of freshly brewed tea. "I won't even bother offering you one."

"Nope," Dean says, popping the "p." He walks out of the kitchen, giving Sam a firm slap on the back. Sam coughs and shoots his brother a frown.

Dean has the gall to wink at him before he walks out. Like he's having his own little private joke.

Well, Sam isn't laughing. He stares down hard at his book. He tries to ignore everything he just heard and saw out of the corner of his eye.

It becomes too much. He takes up his book and heads out of the kitchen.

He just doesn't see the way you frown as he walks away. There you stand, left holding two mugs of tea for you and him.

Sam returns to his room for a while. He's not hiding. He's...reading.

There's a knock at his door, and if it's Dean, he swears he's going to open his mouth and tell his brother to leave him the hell alone, like he's some kind of moody teen.

But it's you.

"Hey," you greet, after the door creaks open. Sam softens.

"Hey," he says, clearing his throat. "What's up?"

"You," you reply. You bring him his hot mug of tea and set it down on the desk where he sits.

"Thanks," he says.

You nod and place your mug beside his (Lord of the Rings themed, of course), and cross your arms as you lean against his desk.

Sam turns toward you in his chair. His hands rest on his thighs. His gaze travels back up to your face as he tries to keep his neutral, but welcoming to whatever you want to ask him. (He buries his heart deep, as he instinctively does whenever you're near him.)

"You okay?" you ask. Your brows furrow the longer you gaze down at him. Just staring, like you know he's hiding something. Like you can see straight into him, into the shadows where he keeps most of his thoughts of you.

This is perhaps the only area of his life where he's a coward.

"Yeah, I'm good," Sam replies, in a tone that suggests, Why wouldn't I be?

You quirk a smile. "Why don't I believe you?"

Sam swallows. For once, he's not sure what to say to you.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" you say softly. You take a subtle step into his orbit, almost between his open legs. Your demeanor says that you'd gladly listen, do whatever he asked of you. Because you're just that kind.

Sam's mouth twitches upward. "I know. I'm fine, really."

"You're fine, or you're Winchester fine?" you raise a brow.

Sam chuckles then, showing a flash of his smile. It lightens you.

"Maybe a bit of the second one," he admits.

You smile and inch closer, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah? Tell me," you say. Your voice is soft, but not quite a whisper.

It leads Sam to sigh. He grasps your hand where it lies on his shoulder. For a moment, he debates internally. He realizes then that Dean's antics earlier might've been more than just teasing. Maybe it was a subtle nudge—to stop wasting time.

Damn it, just do something, Sam thinks.

When you squeeze his hand back, it's just the small push he needs. He glances up at you.

Then he takes your hand and holds it between both of his, with care. He tugs you forward, surprising you as you step forward between his legs. Your mouth parts in soft surprise when he reaches a hand up to your cheek.

You still look surprised, blushing up to your ears, but you're not pulling away. In fact, your widened gaze moves from his eyes to his lips.

Sam smiles. He tugs you down to him and enacts a living daydream, finally kissing you with everything he has. Everything he’s had locked inside.

You respond to his mouth in kind; the subtle gasp of breath against his lips sharply cuts off as you sink into his kiss. Your trembling hand comes to his cheek, grazing the dull prickle of stubble. When your fingers dive into his hair next, it’s his turn to take a deep breath.

With each new kiss, he explores more of you. His hands find your waist, and he gathers you against his chest. You find purchase on his strong shoulders and give into the opportunity to straddle his hips, sitting in his lap while he continues to make your heartbeat wild in your chest.

Sam slows the kiss, only because his brain is starting to catch up with his heart. He wants to see your face, to make sure this is what you want.

He finds that and more when he looks up at you.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, tenderly brushing his thumb against your cheek.

"Does that answer your question?" he asks, with a soft laugh. You join him and press your forehead against his.

"I don't know,” you tease. Your eyes are dancing, both with amusement and relief. Because your heart has wanted this for even longer than Sam's.

You lean back in to whisper close to his lips. “Maybe I need a little more clarity."

Sam takes you at your word.

AN: It's been a long time since I've written for Sam! 💜 I got in another request for him a while ago. I may dust that one off soon... Until then, let me know what you think of this!

(And don't worry. I didn't forget about the Soldier Boy imagine I promised. That will come out at the end of this week, most likely!)

Read Dean's version: "Dean reads you wrong."

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[strawlessandbraless]

[colorlessjay]

I feel dumb asking but—is your S16 Cas still an angel or no?

Yes and no? I have reasons for both

Castiel being an angel still would make sense especially given Jack resurrecting him, and Cas helping rebuild heaven as an open world server. I always HCed that Jack made Castiel into a somewhat of a new generation Archangel under his design. Plus, Cas deserves his powers back after everything he's gone through, he probably still hates peeing

On the other hand, the idea that Cas chooses to relinquish his grace so that he can grow old with Dean is also something I thought of. Through the series I liked seeing Cas grow old and evolve, I would think he would like to have the full human experience with Dean

SO for my AU, I thought "I why not both?" so here's the story:

After Jack brings Cas back from the empty and asks for his guidance for heaven, Jack notices Castiel's longing as he stared down into earth, watching the Winchesters. Castiel's confession of love has made him hesitant to go down and see his friends again. He feels awkward and guilty and generally just hopes to wait until the Winchesters grow old to see all the work him and Jack have done

Jack, however, refuses to let his father wait another eternity before he gets his happy ending too. With heaven basically on autopilot, he thinks him and Cas are deserving of a break to enjoy humanity as it is

So, he basically shoots Castiel back down to earth the same place him and Dean first met, the warded barn. Where Dean was currently waiting, having heard Jack's prayer to go to that location for something important.

Castial comes in but there's no flashing lights, just a faint heavenly glow that lets Cas know he has enough grace to use his wings and fly back to heaven whenever he wishes. But he's not a full angel anymore. He can grow old, he can get tired and hungry, and he can feel his heart beating louder and louder as Dean rushes at him from across the barn, and pulls him into a bone crushing hug

And that little bit of grace is enough for him to still see Dean's soul, the same one he fell in love with

----

but that's my version of events. Honestly people can make their own interpretations!

I'm interested in what people think!

[springdai]

Dean’s confession to cas in the trap is still so insane because like… he has NEVER been that open about his feelings in his LIFE. kneeling on the floor and crying and telling cas he doesn’t get why he is the way he is and he’s sorry and he forgives him and he hopes he can hear him. so much so that he says it twice. that WAS dean’s confession y’all. he bared his soul to him. and he was going to do it all over again in person in case cas hadn’t heard him? because he needed to say it, he needed cas to know? his face when cas says he heard his prayer, as if he had more to say? cas knowing that if he let dean say anything else, say the one thing they haven’t been saying, the empty might take him right then and there? im nauseous

[wanderingcas]

so i saw this gifset which reminded me about the events in 15.09 and just about lost my mind so i wrote a fic about that whole "dean almost confesses his feelings to Cas in Purgatory but Cas cuts him off because of the Empty deal" thing. here's the first part mwah

---

“Okay, Cas, I… need to say something.” 

He’s brave enough now. 

Well, okay, not brave—but the fear of losing Cas before Dean can ever spit the words out is bigger than what’s on the other side of admitting his feelings. 

That prayer was apologizing. Getting on his knees and begging Cas to forgive him—for the way he was shaped, the way he was raised, the way he can’t seem to do anything but attack a problem by yelling and punching. That prayer was an explanation. An explanation that Dean would never dare tell anyone else. An admission to everything. 

Well, almost everything. 

Now this moment: this is his confession. Where he doesn’t apologize. Instead he boldly proclaims. Something he didn’t want to do in his prayer; something he wanted to look Cas in the eyes and say to his face. 

Three little words. That’s all it is. 

They poise on his tongue. Dean opens his mouth, to let them fly—

“You don’t have to say it.” 

Dean shuts his mouth, wings clipped. 

Cas pauses; then: “I heard your prayer.” 

Dean stares at him for a long, terrible moment. Cas doesn’t smile; just looks… sad. Like always does. And Dean knows him well enough to know what Cas is saying between the lines. 

You don’t have to say it. 

Don’t say it.

Clear as a bell, Dean hears it in his head: He’s rejecting you. 

So Dean pulls in. Frowns. Blinks himself back into reality; the reality where Cas doesn’t want Dean to cross that line. Doesn’t… want that. He swallows hard, something in his throat ticking. 

Don’t say it. 

Dean nods. He thinks that his lips uptick in something of a fake smile. An admission. And then Cas walks away.

And Dean feels like his chest is going to split into two.

---

(this is going to be a longer fic so let me know if you want to get tagged when I post it)

[am3ricanpsycho420]

Cas/reader

Comfort, cuteness and Cas getting the love he deserves

The past couple of weeks have been rough to say the least. Being a Winchester was always like this but this week was particularly hard. This was your first day where you could just relax and sleep all day and eat all the food you wanted. You, Sam and Dean all spent the day lounging around and you loved it, but as much as it was nice there was something missing. That something or rather someone was Castiel. You couldn’t imagine how he felt right now. You knew he felt responsible for the fall and he wasn’t going to take that lightly. For the first time in days you finally sat down, staring at the floor praying to cas for a visit.

“cas I don’t know if you can hear me but please if you can come see me. I know you are hurt and I want to help, I want to be there for you, please just come and see me” you said sighing heavily at the end of your prayer.

Surprisingly you heard that familiar swoosh of wings. Looking up you saw Cas with a bloody lip, scrapes on his face and his hair a mess. Still in his typical trench coat and tie, you smiled softly at him. Without even saying anything you stood up and hugged him.

“I’m so sorry Cas” you mumbled into his neck, your hand going up to his hair to stroke through it. Taking a steph back so you could see his face you put your hands on both sides of his face. “before you can say anything I can’t imagine how you feel and I want to be here for you, please don’t turn me away” you plead with him before he can start.

“I love you y/n”

“I love you too Cas”

Grabbing his hand you lead him over to your bed. Turning him around and helping him take his coat and tie off. “can I take this off” you pointed to his shirt, He nodded, pulling your hand up to the top button. As the buttons came undone you kissed lightly down his chest. Showing him the love he deserves, as you pushed his shirt off his shoulders he seemed uncomfortable.

“Cas what’s wrong? I want to help you”

“My wings are in a lot of pain right now, I dont pull them out a lot and haven’t shown them to many people, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable” he confessed while avoiding eye contact.

“I’m so sorry Cas, if you’re open to it you can show me, I love you and everything about you. If I can help with this I want to”

“Okay just close your eyes while I get them out” doing as he says you adjust away from him and close your eyes.

“Okay you can look now” turning back around you opened your eyes and smiled brightly “Cas, oh my god, they are beautiful” you told him softly. His wings are a beautiful black, and smooth feathers. You had never seen anyone look so beautiful before.

situating yourself so that you are behind him you start massaging his shoulders. Putting your hands on his shoulders, rubbing your thumbs on his upper back. You move your hands to the top of his wings just lightly brushing them, as you do that he tips his head back and groans.

“that feels really good y/n” he said while his breathing got steadily heavier.

“Good, you deserve everything good in the world Cas” you lean forward to kiss his neck lightly while simultaneously moving your hands to rake your hands through his soft wings.

“You are going to get through this, I promise, I will always be here for you my angel” you say before you kiss him softly.

——————

Hiii, I hope you guys like this and I hope I did it justice. Please let me know what you think and any edits/suggestions you have. @marunene thank you for the suggestion<333

[shallowseeker]

“i wanted you to stay of course i wanted you to stay”

gets me whenever i remember… it’s the of course part for me

///

other things that get me are how 15x09 features an angel trap (not a ring of fire, a trap) in the wilderness, in a land of total war, of (God’s) abandonment…

Cas was lured into a ring of blossoms, into a tiny garden he wanted to use to protect his human fam… and then Dean awoke to Cas gone and that little grove scorched.

//

After Dean’s prayer, Cas was energized; he got the blossom and fought, because Dean’s prayer is the blossom in so many ways. Their initial meeting was born from Dean’s resurrection. It’s literally a love grown from death, from ashes, over and over again!

////

and then! visually 15x18 Dean and Cas enter, in Dean’s words, “another trap.”

This is echoed visually, as they’re inside a Devil’s trap now, with Dean’s feet still-in-it at the end. The devil’s trap inside a dungeon, a place of (God’s) torture.

Two traps. And aborted love confession and a clearly verbalized testament of love.

The traps are in essence the very same, only… one got sprung.

snippets via @spnscripthunt-inactive

[deansawthetvglow]

imagine if dean had said i love u in the trap confession only for cas to react the exact same way and say you dont have to say it i heard your prayer and never acknowledges the i love you ohhhhh how insane making would that have been can we go back in time

[dotthings]

It's a mistake to jump to the conclusion that Jensen meant there would be no follow-up or response from Dean's side. He was speaking about Cas's confession and making it clear there's no confusion, awkwardness, or barriers between them, over that confession. Only love and acceptance, mutual understanding. They can move forward.

Cas, we know from the canon, in his speech, is fulfilled just in saying it. We, as fans, would love to see Cas getting verbal confirmation on how he's loved, but Cas already knows. It's a lack of understanding of Cas not to understand this, it's still okay to want and need to see it said to Cas, but Cas understands. Cas had his own freight train revelations hit him, maybe he knew since Purgatory II, "you don't have to say it, I heard your prayer." Remember angels can sense longing. The story might still require it, but the point is that Cas isn't eating himself up about it, he knows he is loved, he even saw it in Dean's eyes.

Dean, otoh, did not get to speak his loving truth to Cas. That is still hanging. Sometimes it's not in the having it's in just being. It's getting to say it. Dean hasn't gotten to say it. We saw Dean's self evident grief.

We've heard Jensen speak about Dean's regrets about Cas.

We've heard Jensen saying he hopes "we get to see that at some point" about a reciprocation, a response from Dean, and Jensen has said "it would probably be a big embrace and then Dean would say 'can we talk about that goodbye a little bit?'" (Jib 11) This doesn't contradict what Jensen said at Purcon 8. Jensen seems conscious of a missing piece in the story from Dean's pov, from Dean's end.

At Vancon 2022, Jensen said about Dean's regrets (and I love so much how he personalized it so deeply, that Jensen spoke using "I" when he was speaking for Dean): "I lost Cas but because I didn't say anything, I didn't give him anything. And what I had in my head was I should have said I love you too and hugged him." This was in Dean's head in the moment he saw Cas get taken. The sense of loss. The regrets. Jensen said "I have an answer for that, and I had an answer for that in the next camera setup." What he gave us at Vancon 2022 was part one of Dean's feelings. He hadn't given us part two yet.

Purcon 8 was about the realizations that hit Dean like a freight train while he's sobbing on the floor, and it's not complete, but it's still a big piece. We still don't have the full picture. But it's about Dean's realizations as it hits him fully how much Cas loved him and how Cas loved him and how Cas loved him so entirely. And the mutual understanding and acceptance.

I am dubious this means there won't be any follow-up or reciprocating moment from Dean, that Dean has nothing that he still needs to say, for his own peace, it seems clear from Jensen's statements that Jensen believes Dean wants to hug Cas and say I love you back.

And that, in my opinion, would be massive. No it doesn't have to be along drawn out speech or a complicated conversation. But I'm not going to go rushing to assume there will be no response from Dean either.

[lght-roastcoffee]

⋆ ˚｡⋆ Never ⋆ ˚｡⋆

prompt: "I'm not leaving you."┆Tuna-Tober ⊹ Day 4

pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!Reader

wordcount: 1.1K

warnings: mentions of blood, spn-level violence, established relationship

author's note: First, I imagined season 4 Sam after it's revealed he's been drinking demon blood for this. Second, this is a day late. Unfortunately, I got a little sick yesterday and every time I sat down to work on this, I got a little dizzy. But it's out now! I'll just finish the challenge a day later than I had planned, but I am still planning on doing all 10 prompts I've set for myself.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ 𝘯𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ 𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢-𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴 ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹

Sam’s screams penetrate the walls of Bobby’s house, setting everyone on edge. Tears gather in my eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time since Dean closed the bunker door behind him. He and Bobby sit up stairs, deciding on their next move while I sit in the basement on a worn out dining chair. 

After everything that happened with Castiel and Jimmy Novak, no one expected a darker secret to linger. But when I turned from the demon who had vomited its black smoke from its vessel to see Sam-my Sam-with blood smeared across his mouth, everything around me vanished. The look in his eyes after everything calmed down and Sam met my eyes was haunting. The anger residing in his hazel eyes was a stark difference to the gentleness I usually saw, and it scared me.

Dean snuck away as Sam and I cleaned up the mess and the bodies, making sure all evidence had been scrubbed clean from the scene. The silence between us is unusual. Usually, we’d laugh and joke, despite the morbid circumstances. But after the look in his eyes, I don’t know what to think anymore. 

I knew that after Dean’s death, things weren’t quite the same. Sam took off, leaving me at Bobby’s, and never answered my calls. I knew he was still hunting, and doing a great job, from what I heard. So I stayed with Bobby as I helped him around the junkyard and assisted with some hunts now and then. So when Dean came stumbling across the threshold, very much alive, all I could think about was Sam and if he did something to bring him back. 

Dean and Bobby went off to find him while I stayed back, not quite ready to face him after he up and left. And after Dean confronted the angel who raised him from Hell and we learned of the impending apocalypse, I could tell Sam wasn’t the same man anymore. But who would be, after his brother, the person who raised him, died gruesomely right in front of him?

So I kept myself occupied, helping Bobby in his research on the seals and trying not to get too close to Sam. But he wormed his way back in, apologizing for leaving like he did and for holding back the truth of his escapades during that time. He promised he wouldn’t use his abilities anymore and that was that. 

Sam started trying to get back in my good graces. He started by arriving with coffee any time he saw me, then I’d notice new books stacked on the nightstand of my room in Bobby’s house, until he started inviting me out on more and more hunts with Dean, and I’d join. It all came to a head after a close call with a werewolf we were tracking and I laid in his arms, bleeding out and confessing, before Cas showed up and healed me, thanks to Dean’s prayers. We were good again, but I could tell that something was still eating at him. Well, I guess I know why now. 

“You okay, kid?”

I look up, feeling the tears falling freely against my cheeks as Dean stops in front of me. He sets a glass of water next to me on a rickety table. 

“Is this really necessary?” I managed to say. “Does he really need to be locked up like some- some animal?”

Over the course of the days we’ve kept Sam locked up, my anger has slowly been gathering. Whether it’s directed towards me, for not doing more to help the man screaming and pleading for help, or towards Dean and Bobby who were so prepared with trapping Sam and leading me away before I could ruin anything. But they’ve kept them in there, listening to his unnatural torture and continuing on like it’s nothing, no food or water because there’s a high chance he’ll get out is we open the door. This “detox” is destroying Sam and it seems I’m the only one who can see it. 

Dean sighs, pats me on the shoulder, and makes his way back upstairs. I sit there, the sounds of Sam’s cries lulling me into a restless sleep after not doing so for days. I only wake to the sound of rushed and heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. I see Bobby, then Dean, their faces a mix of worry and horror as they rush to the bunker door. That’s when I recognize the deafening silence. 

I rush over with them, Dean throwing the heavy iron door open and I see Sam on the ground seizing. I rush to his side, going to kneel down to keep him stable. Before I could do so, however, his body rose into the air and started slamming against the iron walls. I realize I’m screaming as Dean and Bobby push past me to get to Sam and restrain him to the cot. After everything settled down, Dean tried to drag me out of the room, but after landing a hard punch to his face and a knee to his groin, they gave me some space. Dean sat outside the door, listening for any trouble after getting some ice. 

I sat at Sam’s side, combing my fingers through his hair and humming softly. After a while, he groans, trying to reach up with his hand, but the handcuffs stop him. I sigh, tears forming once again at the torture the man I love is going through. He tries again and jerks awake frantically scanning his surroundings.

“Hey, Hey!” I push against his chest, hoping to calm him down even just a little bit.

“Y/N?” Sam relaxes slightly, confusion swimming across his features. “What happened?”

“You gave us a scare,” I answer, reaching up to smooth his bangs out of his face. “You started flying across the room. Bobby and Dean saw no choice but to restrain you.”

He lays his head back, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head before cupping his face, hazel eyes opening to stare back at me in anguish, giving him a slight smile in return. “Hey, I- I understand, Sam. Just don’t do that again, okay?” 

“I- I don’t know if I can stop myself.” Tears form at his lash line, threatening to spill over. “I don’t know if I can stop myself from being the monster everyone thinks I am.”

“We’ll figure something out,” I say softly. “Just like we always do, right?”

The look he gives me, all watery and intense, makes me realize he’s terrified of my reaction. 

“You won’t leave me?” He whispers, voice shaking. I lean over him, face hovering over him. 

“I’m not leaving you,” I whisper. “Not ever.”

I press a soft kiss to his lips, tasting the salt from our joined tears. I pull away before resting my forehead against his.

“Never.”