#michael!dean fics

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

anathema

part IV

Pairing: Michael!Dean x Fem!Reader (with a hint of Sam x Fem!Reader and Samifer x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Michael and Lucifer continue their slow torture of you, through the bodies of the men you love and trust most in the world. This is baptism in the most unholy, blasphemous sense of the word. This is the communion of Heaven and Hell between the legs of a human girl.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, biblical references, religious metaphors, smut (dirty talk, degradation, fingering, oral, p in v, dp, overstim, forced orgasms, cockwarming, dom/sub dynamics), heartbreak, pining, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 7,640

A/N: I AM SO NOT SORRY FOR THIS ONE. Not me trying to serve biblical/religious horror/erotica... guess that militant religious upbringing didn't deliver me from evil, after all. Oops, I've disgusted even myself. Please give me feedback, and if you read this series all the way through—thank you from the depths of my putrid, vile little heart and soul!!! <3 This is part four, and it's the final instalment. This has been an absolute trip... I'm most definitely going to write more fics, so if you liked this—keep an eye peeled. All the love.

Without further ado: ANATHEMA

There is a moment before the fall—before the first stone is cast, before the altar crumbles, before the faithful are forsaken.

It is quiet. It is sacred. It is the breath before ruin.

This is the nature of gods. They do not love. They do not fall. And yet—

He does.

Michael was fully holding you up now.

Not because you wanted him to—but because you could no longer stand.

Your body was boneless, wrecked, twitching from overstimulation, from pleasure so sharp it was bordering on agony.

Your head had dropped against his chest, your cheek resting against smooth, crisp white cotton, the steady rise and fall of his breathing the only thing anchoring you.

But below, Lucifer was still working you open. Still dragging you through it, still curling his fingers inside you, still pressing deep and slow and taunting against that tender, swollen spot inside you that made your thighs shake.

He had not stopped. Michael had not stopped him. And you had not stopped them either. Because there was nothing left of you now.

You had long since abandoned any notion of stopping, of fighting, of doing anything but taking what they gave you.

Lucifer sighed, mocking, indulgent, dragging his lips up the line of your throat as his fingers pressed deeper.

“You know,” he murmured, voice a warm purr against your skin, “I saw the stains on her bed.”

Michael hummed lowly, unconcerned, watching you tremble against him, cataloguing the way your body reacted to the mere mention of it.

“Oh?”

Lucifer chuckled.

“I know what they’re from.”

Michael exhaled slowly.

“Of course, you do.”

Lucifer’s fingers stroked slow, deliberate, pressing against that spongy, swollen spot inside you that made your breath catch in a sharp little gasp.

Michael caught it. Felt the slight hitch in your chest, the tiny stutter in your breath. And he smirked.

“She’s embarrassed,” he observed, tilting his head slightly, studying the way your cheeks flushed darker, the way your fingers trembled as they fisted into the front of his shirt.

Lucifer sighed, as if the mere idea was exhausting.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purred, “don’t be.”

His fingers curled inside you.

A sharp, high, broken little whimper tore from your throat.

Michael’s grip tightened, his fingers tilting your chin up so he could watch the way your mouth parted, glossy and trembling, the way your lashes fluttered.

“I made a mockery of the Holy Trinity,” he said simply, like it was an afterthought, a quiet, undeniable fact.

Lucifer let out a sharp, delighted laugh.

“Oh, did you?”

His fingers pressed harder, against that tender little spot inside you, against the place he knew would drive you straight over the edge.

Michael exhaled, watching the way your thighs quivered, the way your body twitched, your hips subtly grinding down into Lucifer’s hand.

“I saw it in Dean’s memories,” Michael continued, his voice smooth, rich, steady, “it’s something she and my vessel do often.”

Lucifer groaned, long and satisfied, his fingers dragging wetly over your clit, rubbing slick circles, pressing in just right.

“Well, now that,” he murmured, his tone dripping in indulgence, “that is fascinating.”

Michael hummed, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip, smearing saliva and submission across your trembling mouth.

“Close,” you whimpered, your voice wet and broken and pleading.

Lucifer groaned, low and entertained, dragging his lips up your throat, his fingers not stopping, not slowing.

Michael smiled.

“I made her recite the Lord’s Prayer while I fucked her.”

Lucifer gasped, mock-dramatic, fingers still pressing, teasing, pushing.

“Oh, Michael,” he sighed, clutching his imaginary pearls, voice full of sinful delight. “Dear brother.”

His fingers curled just right, pressing, rubbing, teasing that soft, gummy spot inside you until your entire body locked up.

Michael felt you tighten. Felt the way your breath caught, your fingers clenched in his shirt, your back arched, your body spasmed.

“You led me into temptation,” he murmured against your temple, voice dark, knowing.

“And now?” Lucifer smirked. “You’re delivering her straight into evil.”

You came. Hard. Violently.

A choked, helpless cry tore from your throat as your entire body convulsed, as the pleasure crashed through you in thick, overwhelming waves. Your body locked up, clenched, convulsed, and then—

It happened.

A messy, soaking gush, slick drenching Lucifer’s fingers, dripping down your thighs, hitting the floor beneath you.

Lucifer let out a sharp, surprised groan, pulling his fingers away to admire the slick, watching the way it spread down your thighs.

“Oh, fuck.”

Michael exhaled sharply, his fingers pressing against your throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his touch.

“Look at that,” Lucifer mused, his fingers dragging through the mess, rubbing it against your swollen clit just to watch the way your hips twitched in overstimulation.

Michael hummed.

“Messy.”

Lucifer grinned.

“But effective.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, observing the way your thighs continued to tremble, the way your body still twitched against him, like you had not yet come back down. He smiled.

“Humanity is so fascinating.”

Lucifer hummed in agreement.

“Oh, brother, you have no idea.”

Michael smirked.

“I think I’m beginning to.”

Lucifer groaned, licking the taste of you from his fingers, humming in satisfaction.

“Well.” He mused as his hands slid up your sides, pressing you further into Michael, a warm, satisfied exhale slipping past his lips. “That was fun.”

Michael sighed, dragging his fingers lightly up your spine, studying the way your body shuddered, sensitive, exhausted, spent. Then he smiled.

“A shame she can’t handle another.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Michael.”

His hands slid lower, pressing deliberately against your overstimulated core.

“She can.”

Michael hummed, thoughtful, considering. Then his grip tightened.

“Then we should see just how far she can go.”

Lucifer’s fingers didn’t stop.

Not at first.

Not even as your body trembled violently against Michael’s, as your breath came in rapid, shaky little sobs, as your entire body tried to sink further into the heat of the archangel holding you upright.

Lucifer had dropped to his knees behind you, sharp teeth scraping along the tender flesh of your ass, biting just enough to leave shallow crescents in your skin, enough to make you whimper, enough to make Michael feel the way you shuddered against him.

His fingers dragged slow, teasing circles against your swollen clit, keeping you trembling, keeping you weak, keeping you—

You winced.

A barely-there little whimper, eyes wet and glassy as you tilted your head back, looking up at Michael through damp lashes, silently pleading.

No more.

You couldn’t. Not again.

Michael tilted his head.

Then—

“Stop.”

Lucifer stilled. His fingers froze against you. His teeth remained in your flesh, his breath hot against your skin. Then he hummed, a questioning little sound, muffled against the soft curve of your ass.

Michael ignored him. His gaze stayed on you, studying the way you trembled, the way your lips trembled, the way your fingers weakly gripped at the fabric of his dress shirt. His expression remained calm, composed, unreadable.

Then, he spoke.

“Do you want to pray again?”

Your breath hitched. Your body jerked slightly against his.

Lucifer’s mouth curved against your skin.

Michael leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, voice steady, smooth.

“Or are you done?”

Your throat was raw. You could barely speak. But somehow, you forced it out—a choked, weak little sound, barely a whisper.

“Need… rest.”

Lucifer sighed dramatically, teeth dragging lazily over your skin as he chuckled.

“Oh, come on,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “She just needs some water.”

Michael hummed.

Then, without releasing you, without loosening his grip—

He reached for the bottle of water on your desk, fingers closing around the plastic, unscrewing the cap with one hand, the other still pressed firmly against your back, keeping you flush to his chest.

“Drink.”

Your lips parted obediently, your body too exhausted to resist as he tipped the bottle against your mouth, pouring water past your trembling lips, into your aching throat. A few drops escaped, dribbling down your chin, wet and cool against overheated skin.

Michael’s gaze darkened.

His thumb dragged up, catching a stray droplet.

Then he pressed it to your lips, smearing the moisture across your mouth before following it with his own. Finally—finally—he kissed you. Slow, intentional, claiming. Not hungry, not rushed—just deep, just deliberate, just his.

You whined into his mouth. A soft, pathetic little sound, weak and spent and trembling.

Michael sighed against your lips, almost indulgent.

Then he lifted you. Effortlessly. Without struggle. Like you were nothing more than something meant to be carried, meant to be held.

Lucifer exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he watched Michael walk you to the bed, settling down onto the edge, pulling you into his lap, pressing your limp, trembling body against him, keeping you there, keeping you close.

You buried your face against the junction of his neck and shoulder.

Michael exhaled, a slow, measured sound, his fingers trailing up and down your spine, soothing, calming.

Lucifer smirked.

“Soft, Mikey.”

Michael ignored him. His arms stayed wrapped around you. His fingers stayed brushing against your skin. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet.

“You will rest now, little one.”

You nodded weakly against him, breath slow, deep, content.

"But not for long."

Michael sighed.

And for the first time, he let himself hold you.

Not as a vessel. Not as a conquest. Not as an experiment.

But as his.

You weren’t sure how long you had been resting against him—minutes? hours? eternity?—but it hadn’t mattered.

Not when his hand was still trailing idly up and down your spine, absent, possessive, grounding. Not when his body was warm beneath you, solid and unyielding, like an altar built for worship.

Not when Lucifer was still watching. His amusement had not faded. Not even as he stretched out lazily in your desk chair, his elbow resting against the arm, his fingers tapping against his lips in mock consideration.

Michael exhaled slowly. Then, he spoke.

“I’m going to fuck her soon.”

Your breath hitched.

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, you have to let me stay for that.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, glancing at his brother with something unimpressed, something chiding.

“Have some restraint.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Michael.” His grin widened, sharp, knowing. “Why start now?”

Michael sighed, his fingers still moving lazily against your back, keeping you soft, keeping you relaxed, keeping you close.

Lucifer leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees, his voice dropping to something warm, something taunting.

“You do know the vessels—” he gestured vaguely between himself and Michael, meaning Sam and Dean, meaning what they had always done to you. “��have quite a few memories of doing this together, don’t you?”

Michael hummed.

“I’ve seen my vessel’s memories of it.”

Lucifer exhaled sharply, grinning, pleased, entertained, delighted in a way that was wholly unholy.

“So have I.”

Michael sighed, as if this was merely a discussion of inevitability.

Lucifer tilted his head slightly.

“Then I suppose it’s just logistics, isn’t it?”

Michael was silent.

Lucifer exhaled, thoughtful.

“I want to go in her ass.”

Your breath hitched.

Michael hummed.

Lucifer smirked. “Not opposed, are we?”

Michael waved a dismissive hand, not interested in entertaining this right now.

“I do not care.”

Lucifer chuckled, leaning back in his chair, smirking at your body still trembling in Michael’s lap.

“Oh, but she does.”

Michael’s fingers stilled against your spine.

Lucifer sighed dramatically, as if he had the answer to everything, as if he had unraveled the grand design.

“She loves when our vessels do that to her.”

Michael’s grip tightened.

And you? You whimpered.

Michael exhaled sharply, his lips brushing against your temple, his voice rich and smooth and knowing.

“Are you feeling better yet?”

You nodded, weakly, softly, unable to do anything else.

Michael’s fingers slid up, tilting your chin so you were looking up at him. Then his voice dropped, deep, steady, authoritative.

“Words.”

The sound of it—Dean’s voice, Dean’s tone, that commanding weight that always broke you apart—made something inside you melt.

You purred. Soft, helpless, obedient. “Yes,” you whispered, voice raw, eyes glossy, body trembling.

Michael smirked.

Lucifer exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he watched the way your body reacted, the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers clung just a little tighter to Michael’s dress shirt.

Michael hummed, pleased, thoughtful, considering.

“We’re going to do what our vessels and yours used to.”

Your breath stilled. Then you nodded. Soft. Pliant. But vehemently, like you would not allow any other answer.

Michael smirked.

“Good girl.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, brother,” he sighed. “You really are falling.”

Michael didn’t respond. He just tightened his grip, kept you pressed flush against him, and finally—finally—let himself indulge. He shifted slightly beneath you, the movement barely a disturbance, barely enough to break the trance you had fallen into.

Your body was still tucked against his, heavy, pliant, boneless from everything they'd already done to you. You barely even registered it at first—his hands, working his belt loose, slipping the buttons free, shoving the fabric of his dress slacks lower with quiet efficiency.

Michael sighed, slow and measured, and you felt it—the way the heat of him pressed against your slick, sensitive core, the thick, unyielding weight of him resting against you.

Your breath hitched, a soft, hazy sound, a quiet little whimper that barely even left your lips.

Then Michael lined himself up. And sank home. One long, deep, unbroken stroke.

You gasped, sharp and choked, your entire body tensing around him as he stretched you open, as the overstimulation made your muscles clamp down tight, too tight.

Michael inhaled sharply, his fingers digging into your hips, his grip tightening as he bottomed out inside you.

He muttered something in Enochian.

A low, ancient string of syllables that rolled off his tongue like a prayer, like something old, something holy, something too sacred to be spoken over what was happening here.

Lucifer let out a sharp, entertained little laugh.

“Watch your language, brother.”

Michael ignored him. His fingers pressed deeper into your skin, grounding you, keeping you still, keeping you present.

“You are tight,” he murmured, his voice rich, indulgent, something reverent curling at the edges of his words.

Your body was still trembling. Still gripping him, clenching, your walls twitching and fluttering in small aftershocks from everything you'd already been through.

Michael exhaled, slow, measured, indulgent.

“Shall I loosen you?”

Lucifer grinned.

Michael didn’t wait for an answer. He shifted, rolling his hips up into you, lazy, controlled, slow, nothing more than a deliberate, grinding pressure, not fucking yet—just moving.

Your breath stuttered, caught in your throat, another weak little noise slipping past your lips.

Michael sighed.

“In the beginning,” he murmured, his voice slow, deep, rich, grounding, like a sermon whispered over your trembling body.

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, are we doing scripture?”

Michael ignored him. He rolled his hips again, just enough, just deep enough to pull another soft, whimpering sound from your lips.

“God created man,” he continued, his fingers tightening against your hips. “And from man,” he murmured, his voice sinking lower, his lips brushing against your temple, “came woman.”

Lucifer smirked.

“Are you saying you own her, Michael?”

Michael exhaled, his grip sliding lower, pulling your hips tighter against him, grinding you down against his lap, making you feel every inch of him.

“She was made for us.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, that’s rich.”

Michael’s hands held you in place, keeping you still, keeping you his.

“Are you listening?” He murmured, his voice steady, calm, patient, a teacher waiting for his student to respond.

You nodded weakly.

Michael sighed, almost pleased.

“Then tell me, little one,” he murmured, dragging his lips over your cheek, warm, indulgent, pleased with your obedience. “What was woman made for?”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, I love this game.”

Your breath hitched. You were whimpering, soft, desperate, too hazy to think, too lost in the slow, grinding roll of Michael’s hips, too wrapped up in the way his voice seeped into your bones.

You swallowed, voice breaking. “Man,” you whispered, barely audible.

Michael smiled.

Lucifer hummed.

“Oh, she is devout.”

Michael’s fingers slid up, catching your jaw, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Good girl.”

Your body shuddered.

Lucifer sighed.

“Well, while you’re giving your little sermon,” he muttered, voice mocking, indulgent, entertained, “I might as well get started.”

And then a sharp, intrusive press of fingers, slow, spreading, opening.

You yelped. Your body tensed, jerked, tried to shift away, but Michael held you steady.

His grip tightened, keeping you in place, keeping you grounded, keeping you still in his lap as Lucifer started prepping you with Sam’s fingers, soft and slow, teasing.

Michael sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“You always interrupt, Lucifer.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, please, brother. You should be thanking me.”

His fingers pressed deeper.

You whimpered.

Michael smirked, his lips dragging over your cheek, brushing against your temple.

“Shall I continue?”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, please do. Corrupt Father's teachings further while I corrupt her.”

Michael exhaled. He rolled his hips again, slow, deliberate, deep. And continued the sermon.

You were being worked open from both ends—Michael rolling you against him, keeping you steady, feeding you scripture while Lucifer’s fingers worked at your tight, untouched entrance, teasing, pressing, easing you open.

It was slow. Measured. Inevitable. This was not rushed. This was ritual.

Michael exhaled, his grip on your hips tightening, grinding you down against his lap, making you flutter around him, making sure you were still listening, still learning.

And you were.

How could you not?

Michael’s voice was the only thing anchoring you, keeping you present, making sure your body didn’t collapse completely between them. He rolled his hips up again, dragging another soft, broken little whimper from your lips, forcing you to react, forcing you to stay with him.

“For the husband is the head of the wife,” he murmured, Dean's voice smooth, slow, like velvet wrapping around your spine, sinking into your skin.

Lucifer chuckled, low and entertained.

“Oh, this is getting good.”

Michael ignored him. His grip on your jaw tightened slightly, forcing your dazed, hazy eyes to meet his.

“Say it back.”

Your breath hitched.

Lucifer hummed behind you, pressing another finger inside, stretching you, opening you, preparing you.

Michael felt the way you trembled, felt the way your breath stuttered, the way your body jerked slightly against his. His fingers dug into your hips.

“Say it.”

Your lips parted, a whimper, a broken sound slipping past your lips before you forced the words out, voice weak, breathy.

“For the… husband is the head of the wife…”

Michael’s smirk was small. Indulgent.

“Good girl.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Mikey.” His fingers twisted slightly, pressing deeper, his other hand splaying across your lower back to keep you still as your body clenched around him. “She’s a very good girl.”

Michael inhaled deeply, watching you closely, feeling the way your body responded, taking it all in like you were scripture written just for him. His lips brushed against your ear, voice a quiet, reverent murmur.

“As Christ is the head of the church.”

Lucifer sighed dramatically.

“Oh, brother, you are really laying it on thick now.”

Michael ignored him. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you pressed against him, keeping you where he wanted you.

Then—

“Say it, little one.”

You whimpered.

Lucifer’s fingers curled inside you, pressing against that tight, unyielding ring of muscle, stretching, opening, easing you into it.

You trembled. Fingers clutching at Michael's dress shirt, nails scraping against now-wrinkled cotton.

Michael tilted his head.

“I’m waiting.”

Your breath shook.

“As… Christ is the head of the church.”

Lucifer smirked.

“She really is devoted.”

Michael sighed, his lips dragging against your temple, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against damp skin.

“She is.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Mikey. That almost sounded affectionate.”

Michael exhaled sharply.

“Hardly.”

Lucifer laughed. Then his fingers pressed deeper, teasing at the final barrier, the last untouched part of you, the only thing left to be claimed by them.

Michael felt your body twitch, felt the way your breath stuttered, felt the way your fingers gripped at the front of his shirt. He hummed, pleased.

Lucifer sighed, his tone mocking, indulgent.

“She’s ready.”

Michael smirked.

“Of course, she is.”

Lucifer hummed.

“She was made for this.”

Michael’s lips brushed against your temple, again. Then he rolled his hips deep. And whispered, so close, so soft—

“Temptation.”

Michael’s grip on your hips was unrelenting. His cock was buried deep inside you, holding you still, keeping you grounded, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Lucifer was behind you now, humming, entertained, pleased, his hands gripping at your ass, his fingers spreading you open, teasing. He sighed, dramatic, indulgent.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured, one hand sliding around to your face, his fingers catching at your jaw, dragging a slow, lazy thumb over your lips.

“You’re drooling.”

You hadn’t even realised. Your breath was hot and wet, your mouth parted, saliva dripping from your lips, slicking your chin, smearing against your flushed skin.

Lucifer sighed, entertained, shaking his head slightly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He dragged his fingers through the mess of it, smearing your own saliva across your lips, down your jaw, down the hollow of your throat—

Then he coated himself with it.

Michael watched.

Lucifer hummed, satisfied, his fingers gripping at your hips, dragging the thick head of Sam’s cock to your untouched, sensitive entrance, pressing it against you.

You tensed.

Michael felt the way your breath stilled, the way your body twitched, the way your fingers clutched at his shirt.

He smirked.

“Pray.”

Your breath hitched.

Michael didn't let you hesitate. His voice was calm, steady, rich, unwavering.

“Now I lay me down to sleep.”

Lucifer pressed in.

You jolted forward, a sharp little whimper tearing from your throat as your entire body tensed at the stretch.

Michael’s grip tightened. His fingers tilted your chin, forced your glassy, hazy eyes to meet his.

“Follow me, little one.”

Your breath shook. You swallowed, voice trembling.

“Now… I lay me… down to sleep.”

Lucifer sighed, pleased, entertained, pressing in deeper, making sure you felt every inch of it.

Michael hummed.

“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

Lucifer sank in further.

You whined out. Your body clenched down tight, trembling, shaking, overwhelmed.

Michael’s hands smoothed down your spine, keeping you steady, keeping you grounded, keeping you still as Lucifer worked himself deeper inside you.

Michael’s voice did not waver.

“If I should die before I wake—”

Lucifer groaned, pressing all the way in.

You gasped, a sharp, broken sound, your entire body going rigid as you were finally, completely filled, stretched beyond anything you had ever known.

Michael felt it. Felt the way you clenched, felt the way you trembled, felt the way your body struggled to take it.

Lucifer laughed, smug, entertained, savouring the way you tensed between them.

Michael exhaled, slow, steady.

“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

You forced it out—

“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

Michael smirked. He rolled his hips up into you, pressing his cock just a little deeper, just enough to remind you who was inside you, who was keeping you in place, who you belonged to. His fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head back, making sure you were looking at him.

“You’re ready.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, she is.”

Michael smiled.

“Good.”

Michael didn't move at first. Not yet. Not until he'd settled you between them, not until he had felt every inch of you tighten, tremble, adjust, struggle to accommodate the weight of this sin.

Lucifer was the first to break the silence. He sighed, long, indulgent. Then, he laughed.

“Now, this,” he murmured, his voice sliding over your skin like something thick, something wicked, something made for sin, “this is divine.”

This was sin wearing scripture as its skin. This was worship painted in filth. This was the ultimate blasphemy, the union of Heaven and Hell inside your trembling, ruined body.

Michael wasn't just taking—he was consecrating, he was marking, he was etching himself into your bones with slow, deliberate thrusts, with scripture laced between each movement, forcing you to feel every syllable as deeply as you felt him.

Lucifer was mocking, taunting, indulging in the wickedness, revelling in the ruin of something pure, dragging you further into depravity while smirking at his brother’s unraveling.

Michael exhaled. His fingers gripped at your hips, keeping you pinned in place, keeping you where he wanted you, where you belonged.

Then—

He moved. Just a little. Just enough to make you whimper.

Lucifer chuckled.

“Oh, little thing,” he purred, his lips brushing against your shoulder, teasing, indulgent, his hands smoothing over your waist, gripping, feeling, taking. “Do you hear that, brother?”

Michael hummed, rolling his hips just enough, just barely, just teasing you into full, unbearable awareness.

“She is trembling.” Michael smirked. “She is tight.”

Lucifer sighed, feigning exasperation.

“Well, you did make her pray first. That’s bound to have some effect.”

Michael hummed, thoughtful. Then he thrust. Deep. Slow. Measured.

And you broke. Your breath shattered in your throat, your hands flying to clutch at the front of Michael’s shirt, grasping at the fabric like an anchor, like the only thing keeping you from sinking into something irreversible.

Michael felt the way your walls cinched around him, the way your body tried to keep him, the way you sucked him in deeper, the way your entire being reacted to him.

He smirked.

“Woman was made for man.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Michael, must you?”

Michael ignored him. His hands smoothed up your spine, dragging warmth, dragging control, dragging ownership.

“She was made to be filled.”

Lucifer’s fingers dug into your hips, keeping you still, keeping you spread, keeping you open for him, as he slowly pulled out again.

“She was made,” Michael continued, voice steady, rolling his hips up again, forcing you to feel every inch of him, “to take.”

Lucifer sighed dramatically, feigning boredom.

“Oh, please, brother, you don’t have to convince me.” His lips dragged over your shoulder, warm and wicked. “I’ve seen the memories of your vessel. And mine.”

Michael hummed.

Lucifer chuckled.

“They do share, often.”

“I'm aware.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Mikey. You don’t even know how ruined she’s been by them.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened.

Lucifer sighed, feigning sympathy.

“She’s already been broken by their hands, their mouths, their cocks.”

Michael exhaled.

“She will be broken again.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, you are falling.”

Michael didn't answer. He just rolled his hips forward, deep, slow, dragging another broken noise from your throat.

Lucifer hummed. Then he pressed forward again. The movement was agonisingly slow, deliberate, controlled. The stretch was excruciating, unbearable, unholy.

Your breath hitched, body trembling, body struggling to take both of them at once, body barely capable of withstanding the weight of this sin.

Lucifer groaned, smirking, entertained by the way you struggled.

“Oh, little thing,” he purred, voice warm, amused, indulgent, his lips dragging along the back of your neck, teasing, taunting. “You take it so well.”

Michael’s grip on you was unrelenting. His lips brushed against your ear.

“You will take all of it.”

Lucifer sighed, feigning disappointment.

“Oh, Michael, you ruin all the fun.”

Michael’s hands tightened around your waist, keeping you still, keeping you in place.

Then he thrust. And Lucifer followed. Your breath broke. Your body shuddered. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, your fingers clenching at Michael’s shirt, desperate, clinging, struggling to hold yourself together.

Lucifer laughed. “Oh, darling,” he purred, his hands sliding up your body, his lips dragging over your shoulder, “you were made for this.”

Michael exhaled sharply. He moved again. Slow. Deliberate. Perfectly in sync. And he watched you.

Your eyes were glossy, dazed, your lips parted, soft, trembling, lost in the sensation of it, lost in the weight of them, lost in the slow, brutal, stretching invasion of their vessels.

Michael’s fingers brushed against your cheek. His lips brushed against your temple. And he whispered—

“Pray.”

Michael was not just leading you to prayer. He was leading you to the water.

And you? You were already drowning.

Your body didn't know the difference between Sam and Dean and the archangels that had taken their place. Your body only knew them. Your body only knew how to be taken by them, ruined by them, worshipped by them.

Michael was moving slowly, measured, unrelenting, his cock pushing deeper, dragging you further into sin, further into something irreversible.

Lucifer matched him, his grip unyielding, his movements teasing, indulgent, savouring every broken noise spilling from your lips.

Your body was trembling. You were being stretched beyond anything you had ever known, your body wrecked between them, trembling, gasping, whining, unable to do anything but take.

Michael felt it. They both felt it. And Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, little thing,” he breathed, his lips dragging over the back of your neck, his hands gripping your waist, keeping you still, keeping you open for them. “She’s shaking, brother.”

Michael hummed, pleased.

“She is ready.”

Lucifer chuckled.

“Oh? Ready for what?”

Michael’s fingers smoothed down your spine, grounding you, keeping you in place as he thrust up into you, slow, deliberate, deep.

“Baptism.”

Lucifer froze. Then—he laughed.

“Oh, Michael.”

He sighed, mockingly exasperated, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushed deeper, forcing another broken sound from your lips.

“That is blasphemy.”

Michael smirked.

“Is it?”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, you are truly falling, brother.”

Michael did not respond. He only fucked you deeper.

Your breath was broken, your body overwhelmed, your mind drowning in it, lost to it, slipping further beneath the weight of them.

Michael felt the way you clenched tight, the way your body responded, the way you were unraveling beneath them. His lips brushed against your ear.

“Shall we cleanse you?”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Mikey. That was filthy.”

Michael only smirked at his brother.

Lucifer matched his thrusts, splitting you open from behind, forcing you further into destruction, further into the divine ruin of your own body.

“Oh, sweet little thing,” he murmured, his fingers dragging over your stomach, pressing at the protrusion of their cocks fucking deep inside you, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “You’re coming apart.”

Michael exhaled. Harsh.

“Let her.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, I intend to.”

Your body was breaking, unraveling, slipping further and further out of your control, trembling between them, lost in the sensation of them, lost in the stretch, lost in the weight of it.

Then it hit.

The sharp, unbearable crest of your orgasm, crashing through you like a flood, like something biblical, like something meant to be recorded in sacred text. You came undone completely, legs shaking, body convulsing, a high-pitched, gasping sob falling from your lips as you squirted into Michael’s lap.

Lucifer froze.

“Oh, little thing.” He sighed, slow, smug, delighted. “Seems like you’re the one doing the baptising.”

Michael groaned, his grip on you tightening, his body reacting to the sheer force of your undoing.

Lucifer laughed, smirking, pushing deep, relishing the way you clenched around them both.

“She truly was made for this.”

Michael exhaled sharply.

“Finish inside her.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, now we’re talking.”

Michael’s grip tightened, his movements growing sharper, deeper, more desperate, his composure beginning to slip, his control beginning to break.

Lucifer matched him, groaning, panting, revelling in the absolute destruction of you.

Michael’s fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head back, forcing your dazed, glossy, crossed-eyes to meet his.

“Take it.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, brother,” he purred.

They came inside you.

Lucifer was the first to move. He sighed, low, indulgent, something bordering on admiration bleeding into his tone as he finally, carefully, withdrew from you.

Your body twitched, a small, weak noise slipping past your lips, too wrecked to react properly, too spent to do anything but exist in the aftermath.

Lucifer hummed, amused, watching as Michael barely even acknowledged the loss, as he only tightened his grip around you, only kept you where he wanted you—

—on him.

Lucifer exhaled, pushing himself back into the desk chair, sinking into it, stretching his legs out in front of him, tilting his head back and wiping sweat from his brow.

Then he laughed.

Low. Amused. Inevitable.

“Oh, Michael.”

Michael didn't respond.

Lucifer grinned.

“Still holding her?”

Michael’s fingers slid through your hair, smoothing it, stroking it, his grip unyielding, his cock still inside you, still keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Lucifer sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“Well, well, well.”

Michael exhaled slowly.

“Rest.”

The word wasn’t for Lucifer. It was for you.

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, Mikey.”

He sighed, stretching, watching the way Michael’s fingers moved through your hair, the way he kept you close, the way he refused to let you go.

“You have fallen, haven’t you?”

Michael kept his grip on you steady, firm, possessive, unyielding.

Lucifer smirked.

“What would Father say?”

Michael’s fingers kept stroking your hair.

"I do not care what Father would say."

Lucifer hummed, tilting his head, watching, observing.

“You’re still inside her.”

Michael’s jaw tightened slightly.

Lucifer grinned.

“Do you plan on staying buried in her for eternity?”

Michael exhaled, slow, steady.

Lucifer sighed, dramatic, entertained.

“Oh, Michael.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his grin sharp, indulgent, something almost delighted curling at the edges of his voice. “You were always Father’s favourite.”

Michael didn't react.

Lucifer chuckled again.

“And yet, here you are.”

His fingers drummed against the desk, watching, waiting, savouring.

“The perfect soldier.”

Michael’s fingers didn't falter, didn't stop stroking your hair.

Lucifer smirked.

“The mightiest of all His creations.”

Michael stayed silent.

Lucifer leaned back again, tilting his head, his smirk widening.

“And yet, here you are.” His grin was sharp, knowing, entertained.��His voice was soft, deliberate, devastating. “Falling for a human girl.”

Michael’s fingers paused—just for a second.

Lucifer saw it and laughed.

“Oh, brother.” His grin was a blade, a dagger between Michael’s ribs. “You’re already gone.”

Lucifer’s laughter was slow, indulgent, something thick and amused curling through his voice.

“Michael.”

Michael didn't respond, didn't react, just held you close, fingers in your hair, cock soft inside of you.

Lucifer sighed, feigning sympathy, watching the way Michael’s fingers kept stroking through your hair, kept keeping you where he wanted you.

“You can keep pretending if you like.”

Michael’s jaw tightened slightly.

Lucifer smirked.

“You can sit there, holding her, keeping her plugged full of you, pretending this is just—what? An experiment? An observation?” His fingers drummed lazily against the desk, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet. “But we both know, don’t we?”

Michael exhaled.

Slow. Measured. Unshaken.

Lucifer grinned.

“We both know you’ve already fallen.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened slightly.

Lucifer’s smirk widened.

“Oh, come now, brother. At least admit it.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, his fingers never stilling in your hair, never once letting you go.

“Admit what?”

Lucifer groaned, dramatic, stretching his arms over his head, shifting comfortably in the chair.

“That you like it.”

Michael’s expression remained unreadable.

Lucifer sighed.

“That you like holding her.”

Michael didn't answer.

Lucifer grinned.

“That you like being inside her.”

Michael’s fingers tightened in your hair.

Lucifer hummed, his smirk widening.

“That you don’t want to pull out.”

Michael’s jaw twitched. Muscle ticking.

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Michael.” His voice was a slow, taunting drawl, dripping with satisfaction. “What would Father say?” He repeated.

Michael exhaled.

“Father is silent.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

“Oh? You don’t say.”

Michael’s gaze remained steady, his fingers still brushing slow, deliberate strokes through your damp hair.

“You mock, but we are both here.”

Lucifer chuckled.

“Well, yes, but one of us has always been a disgrace.”

Michael’s grip on you didn't loosen.

“And now, so are you.”

Michael’s expression remained unreadable.

Lucifer smirked.

“Oh, don’t look so pious, Michael. You were always destined for this. The most righteous always fall the hardest.”

Michael’s fingers tightened slightly in your hair.

Lucifer’s grin widened.

“There it is.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, voice steady, even.

“There is nothing.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Mikey.” He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning softer, lower, more dangerous. “Then pull out.”

Michael didn't move.

Lucifer’s smirk sharpened.

“Go on.”

Michael exhaled.

Lucifer tilted his head.

“Why are you still inside her?”

Michael’s expression did not change.

Lucifer hummed.

“Why are you still holding her?”

Michael said nothing.

Lucifer leaned back again, tilting his head, his smirk slow, indulgent, knowing.

“You’re still touching her.”

Michael’s fingers brushed slow, soothing strokes through your hair.

Lucifer’s voice dropped lower, more deliberate.

“You’re still keeping her warm.”

Michael’s grip on you remained steady, firm, unyielding.

Lucifer’s grin was devastating.

“You don’t want to let go, do you?”

Michael’s fingers paused. Then he exhaled.

“Be silent.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, brother.” His voice was velvet, smooth, knowing. “You’re lost.”

Michael’s fingers resumed their slow, soothing strokes.

Lucifer hummed.

“You ever think it would be a human girl that did it?”

Michael remained quiet.

Lucifer sighed, shaking his head, watching, savouring.

“You, of all of us.”

Michael exhaled.

Lucifer’s smirk widened.

“You, the first of all of Father’s creations.”

Michael’s fingers kept stroking through your hair.

Lucifer chuckled.

“And she ruined you.”

Michael did not react.

Lucifer tilted his head.

“You know that, don’t you?”

Michael exhaled, slow, deliberate.

“She is mine.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, Mikey.” His voice was soft, mocking, knowing. “And there it is.”

Michael’s fingers tightened slightly in your hair.

Lucifer chuckled.

“You really have fallen.”

Michael’s grip remained steady.

Lucifer’s smirk was victorious.

Michael’s voice remained calm, unwavering, even, as he repeated himself.

“She is mine.”

Lucifer hummed.

Michael exhaled.

Then—

“Say what you will, brother.” Michael’s voice was steady. “But I do not intend to let go.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Michael, Michael, Michael.” His grin was sharp, smug, indulgent. “You already have.”

The, the door opened with a creak.

You barely registered it, still blissed out, still wrapped in Michael’s lap, still trembling from everything that had just transpired.

Michael didn't move. Lucifer exhaled, stretching out lazily in the desk chair, his shirt still unbuttoned, his hair a mess, his entire body humming with satisfaction.

And then—

A familiar voice saying your name.

“I have been looking for you.”

It was stern, serious, ever-so-slightly exasperated.

Castiel.

Michael tensed beneath you. Lucifer grinned. Castiel stepped forward.

“You were not in Sam’s roo—”

He froze. The room went still. There was a long, agonising pause as Castiel’s gaze locked onto the absolute carnage in front of him.

Lucifer, lounging in your desk chair, half-dressed, smug, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Michael, still seated on the edge of your bed, fully inside you, holding you against him, his grip protective, possessive, his expression unreadable. And you?

You were a wreck. Flushed, trembling, completely blissed out, barely aware of what was happening.

Castiel’s head tilted slightly. His brow furrowed. His gaze flickered from Michael to you to Lucifer and then back again.

Then—

“…What is happening?”

Lucifer grinned. The most shit-eating grin you could possibly imagine, then he sat up, stretching dramatically, cracking his neck before chuckling at Castiel like a cat with a mouse.

“Well,” he purred, languid and entirely too pleased with himself. “You see, Castiel—”

Michael cut in, voice firm.

“Enough.”

Lucifer ignored him.

“—your little human pet here has been a very, very good girl today.”

Michael’s jaw clenched.

Castiel’s brow furrowed deeper.

Lucifer grinned, sharp, smug, drawing it out, making sure Castiel felt every single ounce of discomfort.

“I mean, you should’ve seen her.”

Michael gritted his teeth.

“Lucifer.”

Lucifer, the eternal-menace, continued.

“She prayed while we fucked her.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened, his entire body tensing.

Castiel’s expression did not change, but his head tilted slightly again, as though trying to process what he had just heard.

Lucifer smirked.

“Oh, Mikey, don’t get all holier-than-thou now. You were the one who made her recite the Lord's Prayer while you were buried inside her.”

Castiel blinked.

Michael exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against your skin.

“Stop speaking.”

Lucifer grinned wider.

“But I’m just giving Castiel the play-by-play.”

Michael’s jaw was tight, his expression unreadable.

Castiel was completely still, his head tilted just so, as if waiting for someone—anyone—to explain why this was happening.

Lucifer sighed, as though explaining something incredibly obvious. “You see, Castiel, I’ve always had a little soft spot for this one.” He gestured your spent form, still curled around Michael. “Can you blame me? I mean, look at her.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened.

Lucifer continued, relentless.

“And Mikey, well, he’s a bit of a hypocrite, isn’t he?”

Michael’s eyes snapped up, sharp, deadly.

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, brother. You're the one who refused to pull out.”

Michael’s jaw twitched.

Castiel blinked again.

Lucifer sighed dramatically.

“Face it, Mikey.”

He gestured lazily toward the scene before him, toward Michael, still buried inside you, still keeping you close, still refusing to let you go.

“You have fallen.”

Michael’s expression remained unreadable.

Lucifer leaned forward slightly, resting his chin in his hand, watching, savouring.

“So tell me, dear brother.” His voice dropped, smug, knowing, victorious. “How does it feel?”

Michael exhaled. “She is mine.” His grip on you remained steady, firm, unwavering.

Lucifer hummed.

Michael’s voice was steady, even.

“She belongs to me.”

Lucifer laughed. “Michael.” He tilted his head, grinning, smug, knowing. “I think you actually believe that.”

Michael’s fingers stroked through your hair, possessive, unrelenting.

Lucifer exhaled, stretching lazily.

“Well, Castiel, there you have it. Michael dearest seems to think she belongs to him.”

His voice was all sharp amusement, all self-satisfaction, all pure, unhinged menace.

Castiel did not leave immediately. He stood there, staring, unblinking, unreadable.

Michael held his gaze.

Lucifer only smirked.

Finally Castiel exhaled, slow, measured, something almost resembling disgust flickering across his features.

Then—

“She belongs to Sam and Dean.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened slightly.

Lucifer hummed, watching, waiting.

Michael tilted his head slightly, his fingers still stroking through your hair, still keeping you where he wanted you, still buried inside you.

“They will learn to take it.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed.

Michael’s voice was steady, unwavering, absolute.

“She is mine now.”

Castiel inhaled, slow, deliberate, his blue eyes sharp, cutting.

“They will kill you for this.”

Michael didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't falter.

He only tightened his hold, only tilted his chin slightly in defiance.

“They will learn.”

Lucifer sighed, stretching, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You know, Castiel—”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

Lucifer ignored him.

“You really should have knocked.”

Michael exhaled sharply, his grip on you unrelenting, his entire body coiled tight, tension radiating off of him.

Castiel’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes—

Sharp. Cold. Accusing.

Lucifer smirked.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.”

He stretched again, groaning in satisfaction, before tilting his head, gaze sliding to where you were still curled in Michael’s lap, limp, spent, ruined.

“Do you have any idea what we’ve done to her tonight?”

Michael snarled.

“Enough.”

Lucifer hummed. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, smirking. “I think Castiel deserves to know exactly how defiled his little human is.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened.

Lucifer grinned. His voice was smooth, indulgent, taunting as he turned back to Castiel with a smug expression.

“You should've seen her.”

Michael growled.

Lucifer ignored him.

“She repeated Michael's scripture.”

Castiel’s expression flickered, something unreadable, something unreadable settling in his gaze.

Lucifer sighed.

“Mikey had her reciting "Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep" while we fucked both of her tight little holes.”

Michael’s fingers flexed against your skin, his breath slow, measured, forced.

Lucifer smirked.

“And you know what the best part is?” Lucifer leaned back, stretching lazily. “She came for us so many times, I may have lost count.”

Michael’s body tensed beneath you.

Lucifer grinned.

“Didn’t you, little thing?”

Michael’s fingers curled into your hip, warning, possessive, but you—

You couldn’t stop the way your body reacted.

Lucifer noticed.

Michael felt it.

The involuntary clench around him. The way your body responded even now, even in front of Castiel, even while Lucifer taunted and mocked and recounted everything they had done to you.

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, would you look at that?”

Michael growled.

Lucifer sighed, stretching his legs out.

“She’s still reacting.”

Michael exhaled sharply.

Lucifer smirked.

“You feel that, Mikey?”

Michael’s jaw clenched.

Lucifer tilted his head.

“Of course you do.”

Michael’s fingers pressed into your skin.

Lucifer’s smirk widened.

“She’s squeezing you.”

Michael’s entire body tensed.

Lucifer sighed.

“And you’re getting hard again.”

Michael’s grip tightened, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin, his breath slow, deliberate.

Lucifer grinned, wicked and knowing.

“Oh, Mikey.”

Michael exhaled, sharp, warning. Hips beginning to undulate.

Lucifer hummed.

“You’re already fucking into her, aren’t you?”

Michael’s jaw tightened. Teeth clenching so hard you heard it.

Lucifer laughed.

“Even in front of poor Castiel?”

Michael snarled.

Lucifer’s voice dropped, smooth, indulgent, deliberate.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Lucifer’s gaze dropped to where Michael’s grip had tightened on your waist, where he was already moving, where his hips had begun a slow, involuntary roll into you, just a fraction of movement, but enough.

Michael’s breath hitched.

Lucifer smirked.

“Oh, that’s adorable.”

Michael’s grip on you was unrelenting, his fingers pressing into your skin, his jaw clenched, his breath heavy.

Lucifer hummed.

“You like it when she does that, don’t you?”

Michael’s breath was slow, controlled, but his movements were not.

Lucifer sighed.

“She’s still whimpering for you, Mikey.”

Michael’s fingers dug into your flesh, his jaw clenching, his body betraying him, his control slipping.

Lucifer’s smirk widened.

“She still wants more.”

Michael exhaled sharply, his hips grinding up into you just a little harder, just a little deeper, just enough to make you gasp against his neck.

Michael exhaled, forced, controlled, steady.

Then—

“Leave now, Castiel.”

Michael’s fingers slid through your hair, possessive, grounding, his grip on you unyielding.

Lucifer sighed dramatically.

“Oh, Castiel.” His voice was all smug amusement, all absolute indulgence. “Now you know what she's been up to.”

Castiel stared. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze still sharp, still cold, still accusing.

Then—

“Sam and Dean Winchester will not take this lightly.”

Michael’s grip on you remained steady.

“They will accept it.”

Castiel exhaled. Then, finally—he turned, and left. The door clicked shut behind him.

A long silence stretched. Michael exhaled slowly. Lucifer grinned.

Then—

“Oh, Michael.”

Michael said nothing.

Lucifer sighed, shaking his head, stretching lazily in the chair.

“You should just admit it already.”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

“Admit what?”

Lucifer smirked.

“You’ve fallen.”

Michael didn't react. Just kept rolling his hips under you, cock pressing into the over-sensitive heat of you. Wet squelching noises mingling in the air with your soft pants.

Lucifer tilted his head.

“You’ve fallen for a human girl.”

Michael’s fingers did not stop stroking through your hair.

Lucifer’s grin widened. “You’ve fallen.” He repeated.

Michael exhaled.

Slow. Measured. Unshaken. Unbothered.

Lucifer leaned back, stretching, watching, letting the moment sink in.

“You are absolutely fucked.”

Lucifer’s departure was a slow, deliberate thing.

He dressed lazily, as though he had all the time in the world, as though none of this had meant anything at all. He rolled his shoulders, stretched, fastened Sam’s jeans with an absent hum, then ran his tongue over his teeth as he tilted his head and cast one last, knowing glance over his shoulder.

Michael had not moved. He still sat there, his body coiled, his grip unyielding, his presence consuming. Still held you against him, still kept you where he wanted you, still refused to let you go. Still fucked up into you with tight, controlled thrusts.

Lucifer’s smirk deepened.

“Don’t miss me too much, little thing,” he drawled, his voice rich with amusement, low and indulgent and taunting.

Michael’s fingers tightened against your waist.

Lucifer noticed. His smirk widened. “Oh, don’t worry, Mikey,” he purred. “I’ll be back for round two.”

Then, with a low, satisfied whistle, he turned and left. The door clicked shut. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final.

A silence followed. Thick. Suffocating. Alive.

Michael didn't speak.

For a moment, there was only the slow, steady inhale of his breath, the press of his fingers against your back, the quiet, almost absent slide of his palm as he continued stroking through your hair.

Then a shift. A slow, almost imperceptible roll of his hips beneath you, a deliberate, lingering push into the deepest part of you, a slow press of his presence inside you, stretching, filling, grounding.

You shuddered, exhaling against his throat, too ruined, too soft, too spent to do anything but react.

Michael’s grip was unrelenting. Dean' scent was thick in the air, warm, clean, a sharp mixture of Dean’s leather and whiskey and gunpowder, but beneath it—

Something else. Something ancient. Something holy. Something divine.

He had ruined himself with you, had made a mockery of all that was righteous, had used his Father’s most beloved creation for his own indulgence, had kept you wrapped around him, full of him, and still, he didn't seem to regret it.

His breath was even, steady, measured, but the weight of him pressed into you, inside you, through you.

Then, finally—

His voice. Dean's voice.

Soft. Low. Measured.

“The righteous fall seven times.”

His fingers slid to your waist, securing you, grounding you, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His hips rolled again, slow and deep, a rhythm that was not meant to undo but to reinforce, to stake his claim, to seal his ownership in a way that could never be undone.

His voice was scripture itself. His presence was prophecy.

“But they rise again.”

You gasped, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, your breath stuttering against his skin.

Michael exhaled, slow and indulgent, feeling you react, feeling you shudder beneath him, around him, and something in him shifted. His lips brushed your temple, almost absent, his fingers tracing over the curve of your spine, and his next words were a confession, a prayer, an undeniable, inescapable truth.

“I do not know that I will ever stop falling.”

His hips pressed up into you again, a slow, claiming thrust, deep and reverent, deliberate in its possession. His breath was warm against your skin, his voice a murmur, a decree, an acceptance.

“But I do not plan on rising.”

He was not supposed to fall. He was never supposed to fall.

But now—

Now, he had you wrapped around him, warm and spent and still trembling in his hold, still marked by him, still his.

And now, he wouldn't stop. Now, he couldn't stop.

Because Michael had fallen.

And he would never rise again.

There is a moment after the fall—after the altar is desecrated, after the temple is burned, after the righteous no longer rise.

It is quiet. It is final. It is the silence after divinity has turned to dust.

This is the nature of gods. They are unyielding. They are unbroken. They are eternal.

And yet—

He is not.

Not anymore.

Because Heaven’s mightiest has fallen.

And he does not plan on rising.

[beatsheetromanroy]

i will never forgive season 14 for a.) giving so much screen time to nick. i understand the urge to explore the fallout of being a vessel for the devil, sounds neat, but they should have delved into that by season 7 at the latest and b.) not developing what it must be like to have the bunker full of strangers. dean and sam were raised in each other's pockets but ONLY in each other's pockets, they've never had to deal with a bustling living situation like this, unless sam had roommates at stanford. i am so curious-does the bunker have a chore chart? do they go grocery shopping individually or does everyone pitch in? how do meals work, the bathroom? did sam design this imaginary chore chart? i can't imagine mary likes all the hustle and bustle and she doesn't even live there full time! is there a lock to the dean cave? because dean is someone who values privacy and control over his own spaces so much, i can't imagine that he would be happy with any of this. does he stay clear of the dean cave to keep it a secret and he sneaks cas into his room like teenagers so they can watch movies with just the two of them and none of the other hunters knowing? i think cas and jack would hang out on the roof and outside for much of the time dean was possessed by michael. maybe jack likes having friends, he probably feels more normal than he ever has before. what do the other hunters who are themselves refugees from an angel ravaged world think about living with an angel and his son? are there rumors about dean and cas? and most importantly. sam is thrilled because the bunker is finally fulfilling its purpose of being a hunter's central network. and dean is pissed because there are people in his house!

[lab-trash]

There been an arranged marriage fic yet, where Dean and Michael are supposed to marry each other, but Dean falls in love with Castiel and Michael falls in love with Adam?

I think it'd be funny if everyone was like "Oh, yeah, Dean and that boy Castiel, they're definitely a thing. I wonder if Michael knows," meanwhile fucking no one suspects Michael and Adam, despite the fact that they're not exactly subtle.

[des-pa-three-toes]

my timeline:

- i read tig series

- i picked jameson to win the love triangle

- i was right! (this is VERY rare)

- i think to myself “oh surely this means jlb and i are just on the same page and therefore ill pick the right winner in any love triangles of hers

- i start reading the naturals series

- i lose the love triangle.

[kazuiislazy]

MY SILLY MASTERLIST!! 🥳

Basically a masterlist of stuff i write except i haven't really written much (haha, i'm crying, i'm so busy rn)

Supernatural "Don't Leave." [Dean Winchester x reader]

"You're Perfect To Me." [Jack Kline x reader]

"Oblivious or Obvious?" [Castiel x reader]

some spn characters as college/highschool students [no pairing, just headcanons in general]

"Entranced." [Castiel x reader]

"Stop Pulling Away." [Sam Winchester x reader]

"No One Deserves That." [Dean Winchester x reader]

"Don't Stop." [Sam Winchester x reader]

"Take My Hand." [Dean Winchester x reader]

"All For You." [Michael x reader]

"Kill For You." [Michael x reader]

"You Drew Stars Around My Scars.." [Dean Winchester x reader]

LOTR/Lord of the Rings

"There's No Need To Apologise." [Aragorn x reader]

"The Plan." [Aragorn x reader]

"What's There To Like?" [Aragorn x reader]

Shadow & Bone

"You Should Be Scared Of Me." [The Darkling x reader]

"Did You Just-" [Kaz Brekker x reader] "Promise Me?" [Kaz Brekker x reader]

[theyonlyhadeachother]

one of the funniest things about midam is the inherent fact that sam and dean are going to have an insane Reaction no matter the circumstances

there are so many reasons that they'd find michael and adam's relationship insane. like there is no way i can coherently explain them all. but im going to try my best

sam was in the cage with them. he intimately understands the experience of being in the darkest pit of hell. he knows what it does to a human soul. he was tortured by lucifer. he watched michael and lucifer fight. he knows the destruction that an archangel can bring. there is no way that he can look at michael and adam, look at the bond they forged in the cage, and not think that it was something like stockholm syndrome.

and dean. where do i even start with dean. dean knew michael, their world's michael, as a commanding, deadly presence. one who killed without a second thought and had no time for insignificant human feelings. and then he was possessed by apocalypse world michael. and described it as being underwater. as drowning. and being painfully conscious of every moment. theres no chance that he can look at adam and michael coexisting and think that its healthy

and i dont even know how much of sam and deans Reaction is based off the fact that Adam was their half brother – the one that John had in secret, who was an afterthought or just. not a thought at all until the apocalypse, the brother that they forgot in hell for a decade. that he's the one that The First Angel decided was his equal.

that the brother they'd deemed worthless enough to rot in hell has the full devotion of one of the most powerful beings in the dimension

[impala-dreamer]

The Beat Of Your Heart

A Supernatural Story

~ Friends become lovers who turn into the darkest evil that one can endure... ~

Dean Winchester x F!Reader; Michael!Dean x F!Reader

8,587 Words

NSFW, Fluff, Cute Banter, Friends To Lovers, There Was Only One Bed!?, All the Sex, Passionate Love, Hope, *record scratch*, Extreme Angst, Violence, NonCon, Torture, Blood, Major Character Death

For @jacklesversebingo “Friends to Enemies to Lovers” square

JacklesBingo Masterlist

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

She wasn’t bound by metal or rope. He hadn’t held her down with force or threatened her obedience with a blade. He had simply invited her to sit in the plush white armchair in front of the large wall of windows and she’d complied. 

As the sky darkened over the Chicago skyline, she sat with a blank expression, utterly frozen by fear. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and she held her hands clasped in her lap. She waited for him to speak, to move, to attack- she had no idea what was coming and it terrified her more than the icy flight he’d taken her on. 

Ripped off her feet in the middle of the street, he’d wrapped an arm around her middle and taken to the skies. The air was frigid; his grip unyielding. She’d hid her face from the cold, cringing into the lapels of his coat, and held on as tightly as she could. 

Minutes? An hour? A Day? She had no idea how long they moved through the clouds, but it was long enough to say a prayer and beg for help. 

There was no answer except his callous laughter in her ear. 

“They’re not coming to save you.” 

Those were the only words he’d spoken before and since. 

Y/N watched as he got comfortable. He took off his cap and carefully shed his coat. The ensemble was strange and only added to the unease in her gut. 

Dean would never wear something so tailored, so proper. 

Michael wore it well. 

He paid her no mind while walking around the posh suite. He hung his coat in the closet and placed his cap on the empty shelf above the rail. He checked his countenance in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair, setting it back in place after the long, windy flight. 

Y/N let her eyes turn to the room. Despite his seeming familiarity with the area, the place seemed untouched. The bed was made with crisp corners and perfect lines. Every fiber of the white carpet was fluffed and in place; every pillow on the couch was plump. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany wood, interspersed with calming muted blue trim and highlights. Prints of black and white cities hung catty corner on the walls by the door, and dual vases of tall white orchids framed the large bed. Everything was in perfect order, fit for a celebrity in residence.

The seating area she occupied held a bar to the left and Michael busied himself there, filling two crystal glasses halfway with scotch. 

He held one up to the window, letting the evening sun shine through. He turned it slowly and a tiny rainbow swept across his cheek. 

She couldn’t take her eyes off of it, or him. 

Michael’s eyes turned to her and narrowed. He rounded the bar and offered her the glass in his right hand. She hesitated but ultimately took it. One last drink for the doomed. 

“I’ve never had a taste for alcohol,” Michael said, settling into the chair opposite her. “But Dean’s… tongue seems to enjoy it.”

She shivered at the name, at the idea that Dean was sitting there but not. That Dean’s voice was speaking to her but not. She raised her glass and mustered up the courage to go down without giving him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. 

“To your health,” she toasted. 

He grinned and lifted his tumbler. “To yours.”

Michael took a delicate sip, but Y/N drank hers down in three hard gulps, hoping the sting would clear her head and the alcohol would steel her nerves. 

“Gluttony… How quaint.”

Michael never seemed to blink. His eyes stayed clear and focused on her face no matter how she reacted or moved. 

“Yeah, well, I was thirsty.” She clung to the glass as if it were the only thing holding her together. Her fingers tensed so tightly over the intricate designs cut into the sides, she wondered if she would bleed. “So, this is your… lair or whatever?”

He laughed gently at the term. “It’s just a room.”

Y/N nodded and looked away as if scanning the decor. “You bring all your victims here?” 

Michael took another drink. “Only the special ones.” 

“I’m special?” Y/N managed an impressed laugh. “Well, at least I got that goin’ for me.” She went to take another sip and remembered she was out of scotch. Holding up the glass, she shook it a bit and nodded towards the bar. “You mind?” 

Michael nodded slowly and Y/N managed to peel herself off the chair and walk on shaky legs to the bar. 

“Do you not think you are special?” he asked, not bothering to look over his shoulder at her. 

“Not at the moment, no.” Y/N unscrewed the bottle and tipped it into her glass. She drank it down quickly and refilled. Drunk was better than feeling the pain of whatever was coming. 

“Dean certainly believed that you were. He… begged me not to harm you.” 

His words stung her deep and she knocked back a third shot. 

“Oh?” 

“He’s… struggling even now.” Michael rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “He’s screaming… beating his fists… ordering me to set you free.” 

Y/N swallowed back the hurt and guilt. “Yeah, that sounds like Dean.” A fourth pour filled her glass. “He probably won’t stop, so maybe you should just vacate and go about your business in another suit.” 

Michael exhaled sharply and the lights flickered. His hand opened and closed over the arm of the chair, tensing over the fabric in an attempt to calm himself. 

He growled. “Come sit, Y/N.” 

She grabbed the bottle and followed his command. 

Michael set his unfinished scotch on the glass coffee table next to them and sat back, his spine straight, his face a cool mask of authority. 

“You need to contain your… attitude.”  

The sharpness in his voice forced fear to coat her skin. Goosebumps rose on her arms and chest as she sat down, pressing as far into the back of the chair as she could. 

“Hard not to be sassy when you’re on your deathbed.” She hid her shaking hand by gripping the glass and taking a heavy sip. “Kinda wanna go out with a bang.” 

She expected anger to follow, but Michael tipped his head to the side, curiously staring at her. 

“You are special, aren’t you?” He leaned forward a bit, peering deeper into her soul. 

Y/N could feel the prying gaze as if he were methodically peeling back her being layer by layer. A tightness closed around her heart and she held her breath for fear of crying out. 

“Dean was right in that assertion.” Michael dipped his chin and his eyes glowed a faint blue as a trickle of his Grace seeped free. “I have no concept of physical beauty, but… your… soul is quite intriguing. Your mind…” 

The intrusive feeling worked its way up to her head and Y/N felt as if her brain were swelling. A migraine-like throbbing began at her temples and she shut her eyes tight. 

“...Very impressive…” He licked his lips slowly as if tasting her essence. “Not overly intelligent, but you do make up for it in… what do they say? Personality.”

She wanted to snap back with a witty dig, but the pain worsened. His Grace prodded her mind and the throbbing grew worse, spreading across her scalp and localizing between her eyes. The bottle and glass fell to the floor as she grabbed her head. The amber liquid ran free, soaking into the pure white carpet. 

Pain spread like fire through a labyrinth, following the pathways between the gray matter of her brain.  “S-stop!”

Impressed, Michael’s mouth turned up in a half smile, and he dug in deeper. 

“The way your human brains work is so… fascinating.” 

Y/N’s eyes rolled back, unable to focus. She clawed at the sides of her head, desperate to ease the pain or at least divert it. 

“Electrical impulses shoot through every cell, keeping the brain alive… controlling the body… but the real you- your… soul… is in there as well.”

Nausea struck her and Y/N doubled over, dry heaving with her head between her knees. “Please! Stop…”

“What you perceive as ‘You’ is crammed up in the folds and crevices of your physical brain and yet… If I take you away… The brain still functions.” 

She hit the floor with a trembling cry. The vice in her head was tightening and she was sure she’d be gone in less than a minute. 

“So what good is your soul, Y/N?” he asked, falling to one knee and hovering over her. Curled in the fetal position, she had no defenses against his hand, or the Grace he pushed harder into her skull. “What are you if not a heavenly battery?” Michael traced a finger slowly down her cheek and the pain stopped. 

With a gasping breath, she sat up and scrambled away. She coughed hard, blinked to clear her vision, and tried to stand. Her legs were numb, her arms practically useless. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, barely a whisper above her tears. 

Michael spread his hands in a holy gesture. “Because I can. Because it’s slowly killing your lover.”

Her eyes went wide. Tears stung but she refused to look away. “Dean?” 

“Yes.” Michael smiled softly. “He’s fighting me. Clawing at me.” He sighed. “He wants you safe but… I think this is more fun.” 

Her stomach churned. “This is fun for you?” 

He shrugged. “Not really, but it is amusing hearing him beg for your life.” Michael closed his eyes for a moment, listening to Dean plead and threaten. “So sad.” 

Panting, Y/N fell forward onto her hands and knees. She was as close to him as she dared get, and she grit her teeth, hoping Dean could hear her. 

“Fuck. You.” 

Michael laughed. 

“You pathetic excuse for an archangel.” Her body ached but she pushed on, watching the twitch in his jaw as his anger surged. “I’ve met angels. Hell, I fucked one once. But you- you are no angel…” 

Electric blue flashed through his eyes and Michael sucked in a deep breath. “Are you sure you wish to continue?”  

Y/N pushed herself up, rising as he did. “Oh, I am. You distorted, alternate universe, bland Xerox copy of an angel.” She swayed on her feet but defiance kept her upright even as Michael towered over her. “I’m amazed you can even possess Dean, you weak excuse for the Commander of the Holy Hosts.”

Having had enough of her, Michael lifted his left hand and sent Y/N flying back towards the window with a burst of ethereal strength. Her scream echoed through the room, covered only by the sound of glass as it shattered around her. 

Pushed through the window, Y/N felt a moment of pure weightlessness before gravity took hold. Her body was pulled by the ground and she began to plummet the twenty-seven stories to the cement below. 

She held her breath against the rushing wind and the sting of a million shards of glass cutting into her flesh. 

She stared up into the pink dusk of sunset and said goodbye to the world, to Dean, to everything above and below.

“Holy shit!” Y/N doubled over, hands clutching her knees as she panted, amazed and out of breath from the fight. “That was insane.”  

Dean rushed up behind her. His boots came into view and Y/N looked up in time to see him collapse against the Impala’s hood. He leaned back and exhaled heavily. His face was splashed in blood; the left pocket of his green canvas jacket torn by fangs.

She cringed and reached for his pocket. “Did it bite you?”

Swallowing hard, Dean shook his head and reached into the canvas. “No. Just took a chunk out of my damn phone.” He pulled the useless thing out and flashed her the screen. It was punctured by a single hole that shattered the glass in a thick web. 

“Well, it’s… just a screen,” she said hopefully. “They can replace it.”

With an annoyed brow lifted, Dean flipped the device over and showed the three additional holes piercing through the phone.

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

She laughed. 

He rolled his eyes and shoved the ruined cell back into his pocket. “Fucking dogs.” 

Y/N’s initial shock returned and her jaw dropped. “Right? Have you ever seen a pack of demon-possessed dogs before? How- What?”

Dean laughed this time. “I have not.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and pulled away a glob of fur and blood. “Ew.” 

Y/N tried to politely hide the fact that she nearly gagged as he flicked the muck aside. 

“You’ve got a bit…” He pointed at her throat and then gestured to his own, showing her where to search. 

“Oh, come on!” She beat at the side of her neck and smacked the mess away. “So gross!” 

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

Dean looked from her to the house they’d left behind and shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know.” 

Laughter trickled between them. 

“I’m glad you called,” Dean said offhandedly as his gaze returned to her. “I’d hate to hear through the grapevine that you’d been ripped to shreds by a pack of wild purebreds.” 

Y/N ran a hand over her hair and tugged at her ponytail, tightening the elastic. “I’m so confused. Why purebred poodles? Why?”  

Dean shook his head and bit his lip, just as confused. “Wish I could tell you I understood this shit. I don’t. I just kill it.” 

She let out a heavy breath and lay a hand on her chest. “Fuck, my heart is beating so fast!” Amazed, she took a step closer to Dean. “Feel it-” Taking his hand, she covered her heart. 

He could feel it pounding, racing to restore blood flow to the proper areas while her muscles relaxed. “Damn…” 

He didn’t move to pull back and she didn’t cringe. They stood in the newborn quiet for a moment, just enjoying the fact that they were alive and the problem had been solved. 

When awkward struck hard, Dean smiled shyly and took a step back. 

Y/N coughed a bit under her breath and looked away. 

He cleared his throat.

“So, yeah-” 

“You wanna-”

He froze. “I’m sorry?” 

She laughed. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to go grab some food. I’m strangely starving.” 

Dean exhaled away a breath of worry and licked his lip. “As long as you’re buyin’ I’m eatin’.” He fished the car keys from his pocket and walked around to the driver’s side. 

“Me?” Y/N followed to the car, yanking open the passenger door with a loud creak of metal on metal. “I saved your life in there, man. I think you owe me.” 

He paused with one foot in the car and squinted over the roof. “Who saved who now?” 

“I saved you,” she said again, hopping in. “That hair-bowed bitch had you by the short an’ curlies before I got to you.” 

The leather crackled under his weight and the door eeked shut. “I had it under control.” 

“Sure you did.”

He turned the key and shot her a look over his shoulder as she settled into the seat. She was sassy and cute, and only slightly annoying. He liked hanging out with her, so he’d give her this one. 

“Well…” The engine roared to life and he cranked it into gear. “Thanks.”   

Y/N rolled down the window and took a breath of fresh air. A smile lit her lips and she sighed happily. He was fun. Annoying and stupid at times, but brave and kind. She liked being around him, so she decided not to push it too far. But a little never hurt anybody. 

“You can thank me with extra cheese.”

Dean laughed. “Deal.”

Y/N woke with a gasping scream, finding herself safe on the plush mattress and not splattered like a bug on the Chicago pavement. 

Michael was nearby, tinkering with something on the dresser by the foot of the bed. 

She cleared her throat and felt each rip her screams had caused. “What happened?” 

Michael turned his head, slowly looking over his shoulder at her. “You were angering me, so I stopped you.” 

Her heart was racing, terror pulsing through her limbs. She sat up against the pillows. “You- You pushed me out of the fucking window!” 

The glass-less window showed her the truth, letting in cold streams of air and the faint sounds of traffic below. 

“I did warn you.” 

The icy air hit her skin and Y/N looked down to see that she was naked. A hundred tiny cuts marred her arms and neck, but they no longer bled. Michael had healed them enough to keep her alive. He’d saved her from being crushed by gravity and concrete, but for what?

Y/N hugged her chest and crossed her legs, hiding her body as best she could. 

“Why did you save me?” she asked, calmer yet trembling. 

Michael turned around and she saw that his clothing had been reduced to a simple white t-shirt and plain white boxers. She shivered at the sight. Dean’s broad shoulders, muscular arms, thick thighs- but it was wrong. So wrong. 

“I wasn’t finished with you,” he replied simply. “I’m not through… examining you.” 

Her stomach flipped. “Examining me?” 

“Studying… observing… experimenting.” 

The word dried her mouth, tugged at her heart, flashed horrific scenes behind her eyes. “What- what are you going to do to me?” 

A bit of metal flashed in his hand as he approached. He held the scalpel tight between two fingers and knelt on the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight and Y/N cowered higher up against the padded headboard.

“I’ve looked into your mind, Y/N.” 

He came closer and fear blurred her vision. 

“I’ve tasted your soul.” 

Unexpectedly, he reached over and set the blade down on the nightstand. Y/N held her breath as he bridged over her body, refusing to sully the memory of Dean’s scent. 

“Now I want to know the rest of you.” 

Her brow furrowed with question but it was soon answered. Michael lay his palm against her cheek and Y/N shivered at the cool touch. Slowly, he dragged his fingers down to grip her chin and lift it upward. 

“I want to know… why Dean thinks you are so… incredible that he’s willing to trade his life… for yours.”

She shook her head. “He wouldn’t.” 

Michael grinned devilishly and pressed his lips to hers. 

The intimacy was torture. 

She remembered the push of Dean’s lips, every line of his chapped skin, the rhythm, the taste. Michael’s kiss was different. There was no swift breath escaping to float across her cheek; no desperate pressure behind it, no hunger. It was clinical, as if Michael had studied a textbook explaining the basic mechanics of the act. 

When he pulled back, he cocked his head and peered down at Y/N as if she had done something wrong. 

“It’s… rather… pointless, isn’t it?” he asked. 

Y/N stiffened and tried to squirm away, but Michael placed a heavy hand on her stomach, halting any movement. 

“What is?” 

“Kissing,” he clarified. “It’s crude and unsanitary.” 

She couldn’t help but laugh under her breath. “If you think that’s unsanitary, you should try oral.” 

His eyes widened with the sparkling idea and Y/N shook her head quickly. 

“No. No. It was… just a joke. You’re so right. Kissing is disgusting. I hate it. I hate kissing.”

“Dean recalls that you enjoyed it.” He bent down again, this time letting his breath coast across her lips. “He has many memories of your body, your… lips… the way you kissed him. He appeared to savor it.”

Again, he kissed her. This time, he drew from the memories he had stolen from his host, and the kiss was warmer, deeper. She shuddered when his tongue pushed through her lips, cringed when he licked the roof of her mouth. She wouldn’t engage, refusing to kiss him back. When he wouldn’t relent, she shoved at his chest and he pulled back, eyes bright with rage. 

“Did you not learn from your skydive earlier?” He grabbed the offending hand and twisted her wrist. The bone cracked and Y/N screamed as he shoved her arm into the pillow by her head. “Do not resist me.” 

Pain splintered up her arm and heat swelled around her wrist. She had felt worse before, but it had never been his hands, never been his face. 

“Please…” 

She cried through a heavy sob but Michael was unmoved by her pain.

Continuing his investigation, Michael licked at her lips once more. His lips trailed across her jaw and settled on her throat. “You will not fight me,” he warned. He pressed his lips against her pulse and closed his eyes, listening to the artery work. “You will submit.”

Y/N’s skin crawled and rebellion raged inside her. Dean wouldn’t want her to lay there helplessly whimpering. He’d tell her to fight no matter what. 

“If you gotta go, go down swinging.”

She took a breath and brought her knee up as fast and hard as she could, jamming it into his crotch. 

The angel fell back, not in pain, but surprise. 

He straightened up and grit his teeth, seething. The lights flickered and Y/N braced herself for whatever punishment she had coming. 

Instead of widespread pain doled out by invisible force, Michael balled his fist and swung at her. Unprepared, Y/N didn’t even attempt to move out of the way, and his knuckles sunk into her cheek. 

Another jolt of pain, another snapped bone. She screamed behind the hand he closed over her mouth. 

Leaning back down, Michael inched close to her face, green eyes twitching over the skin, watching as the blood vessels ruptured and oozed beneath the surface. 

“Miraculous…” 

It wasn’t just the pain, she could handle that. 

It was the way his eyes ticked over her face. The eyes that she loved, now utterly corrupted. 

It was the way his knuckles broke through her bones. The knuckles she had so often kissed, now brought devastation. 

It was the way his face contorted with clinical interest; the way words fell from familiar lips with otherworldly cadence. The voice she had loved her whole life, the lips she had kissed a thousand times, the face she dreamt of every night: it was infected with all the evil that Heaven could produce. 

Sick with pain, but flooded with spirited, dumb courage, Y/N pulled back her lips and sank her teeth into Michael’s palm. 

The punishment was severe. 

Another broken bone, another prodding investigation as the welt blossomed on her nose and her right eye sealed shut.

“You will behave.” 

Out of hope, Y/N agreed. “Yes. I’m- I’m sorry. I’ll behave!” Her voice sounded foreign, so defeated and raspy she barely recognized herself. 

Michael’s eyes glowed a bright, piercing blue. “I know you will.” 

She felt it again, that startling and somehow arousing burst of sensation as his Grace flowed into her. It worked on her instantly: stretching her arms out across the bed and spreading her legs wide. It locked her head in place and pulled her jaw slack. Not a muscle could move by her will, not a sound could be made except the quick, panting breaths that left her lips. 

She was frozen, held captive by his heavenly magic. 

Her eyes filled with tears as he straddled her hips, making himself more comfortable now that she was agreeable. 

The blue faded back to green, but the Grace stayed inside of her, holding her still. Without her resistance, Michael was free to inspect every inch of her body, inside and out. 

He reveled at the length and thickness of her eyelashes, plucking one from each open lid and tested them against each other. 

He pulled her lips further apart and ran his fingers through her mouth, feeling each minuscule bump on her tongue, the cut of each tooth, the strands of muscles lining her throat. 

Horror flashed through her eyes, unable to swallow or gag as he forced his hand deeper down her esophagus. With the passage obstructed, her breathing became heavy and labored. Her heart struggled and Michael counted each tick of the muscle. 

“So… intricate.” His wet fingers traced her collarbone. “So mechanical, every bit of you.” Scooting down, Michael set his sights on her chest. He ran his palm across her right breast and marveled as her nipple hardened at his chilly touch. “Humans truly are works of art…” He toyed with it, pinching and flicking, tugging hard and rolling gently. 

Y/N couldn’t shy away or even close her eyes as his unwanted touch continued. 

Fascinated, Michael swirled his tongue over her nipple. Her skin warmed and he felt the faint increase in temperature. Moving to the left side, he bit down on her tit and watched as blood met the indentation. He groped both breasts, kneading and pinching like he’d seen Dean do in his memories. 

Y/N couldn’t help the automatic flush of her body or the way her pussy throbbed and leaked. She could only pray that he wouldn’t notice, that he wouldn’t understand. 

Michael felt everything. He heard the blood as it rushed to her sex, smelled the arousal, and sensed her heat rise. 

“I have watched humans for eons… but never have I observed a body so… closely.”

Her eyes burned. She screamed inside. 

Michael slid a hand down her body and pressed it flat between her thighs. 

If she could have moved, she would have fought. She would have raged and kicked and thrashed at him. She would have fought until her body gave out and she had no choice but to jump through the broken window. She would have fallen happily. 

His touch was worse than death.

The wetness he touched made his eyes widen and his lips curl into a rapt smile. He dipped his fingers into her cunt, pulling out the warm slick and examining it closely. 

“How… wondrous.” 

Falling down, Michael jabbed his tongue between her folds and lapped at her hole, sucking the wetness and swallowing it down. His angelic mind calculated every molecule, sorting out cells and mapping its creation. As he licked, he saw her pussy respond. Blood filled her clit, making it hard. The skin of her lips darkened. He watched the muscles clench and heard the blood pump. 

“Blood… is everything, isn’t it?” He floated back up to look into her paralyzed face. “It is in every part of you, controlling your muscles, allowing your mind to churn, your cunt to ache. It’s… the perfect fluid.”

Y/N prayed for release. She called to Castiel, to Gabriel, to any and every angel she’d ever met and those whose names she’d only read on the thin pages of her father’s bible. 

Michael wiped a tear from her cheek. “They cannot help you, Y/N.”

She called to Rowena; she screamed for Jack. 

“No one can hear your prayers. You’re with me and I am hidden from all.”    

He held her gaze, listening to her thoughts. In one final, pathetic attempt for help, she cried for Dean. If he was in there, if Michael could see Dean’s memory, then maybe Dean could see through his eyes. 

Help me…

Michael laughed softly and kissed her forehead. “Nice try.” 

Her heart beat against its cage, thrumming faster and harder as she realized there was no end to the torture and no cavalry on its way to save her. 

Distracted by the pounding beat, Michael dropped his hand to her chest, covering her heart. He closed his eyes and felt each thump, heard the valves opening and closing, allowing the sacred wine to flow through. 

“Blood…” he whispered, entranced by the rhythmic palpitations. “Each beat keeping you alive… and for what?”

“I’m so glad you called, Dean. It’s really nice to see you.” 

Her whisper invaded his senses, making him temporarily forget that they were trapped in a closet together with death tiptoeing beyond the door. Dean held his breath when she looked up at him. In the dark, she looked so small and delicate, like a thing he needed to cradle and protect. The light streaming in through the seams of the door struck her face in the most beautiful ways, highlighting the curl of her lashes and the turn of her upper lip. She pressed in closer, simply trying to readjust herself in the cramped space, and Dean found himself against a rock and a soft place. His blood surged south and he had to shake the idea away lest she feel it too. 

He cleared his throat gently and stood up straighter, hoping to give himself an inch or seven. “Yeah, well, you could have ignored the call.”

She let out a faint laugh. “I could have. But then where would we be?” 

“Not hiding in this closet, that’s for sure.” 

Y/N bit her lip and stared up at him as he squirmed. The light was hitting his chin and the long line of his neck. She could see the hint of a scar by his ear and the shadow of a beard creeping up. He looked so big like this. So broad and muscular, safe. She swallowed hard and prayed he couldn’t feel how hot she suddenly was. 

“Jokes aside,” she whispered. “I am glad. I missed you.” 

Her smile was soft and he wanted to press the tips of his fingers to her lips and feel the pull. 

“Me too…” 

Realization struck them both like lightning and for the first time in years, they were on the same page. Attraction hit like a tidal wave and they both jerked back as far as they could, taking to the tiny corners of the dusty old closet in the back of that long hall in that big house on a hill in Tannersville. 

“Um… Dean?” 

He breathed in deeply, instantly regretting it as the sweet perfume of her shampoo flooded his brain and made his mouth water. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking, maybe- I mean if we ever get outta here-”

An inconvenient fact reared its face and broke the moment. The witch they were dealing with threw something against a wall nearby and the closet shook. Her wretched screech echoed through the darkness and Dean jumped, pressing one hand to his ear and the other to his gun.

“How ‘bout we, uh- put a pin in this. Yeah?” 

Y/N winced at the sharp pitch of the witch’s scream and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Murder first, chat later. Gotcha!”

“Hey, it’s not murder if she’s an evil bitch.”

“Let’s debate semantics later, shall we?” Y/N gripped her blade tight. 

He grinned and reached for the doorknob. “After you…”

“Such a gentleman.” 

“Always.” 

The witch went down with more than a bit of a fight and the friends were too tired later for anything more than a drive-thru burger and a side of aspirin. 

They stuffed their faces with grease and questionable meat; washed it all down with a few warm beers. 

Dean managed to somehow smear ketchup on his ear and Y/N wiped it clear with the only remaining clean napkin. 

Y/N burped so loud that it shook the bed and sent Dean into an impressive fit of laughter.

They took turns showering, and when Y/N was done, she found Dean setting up the couch like a bed, spreading out a spare blanket, and beating a pillow into submission.

She rubbed her hair with the shitty motel towel while watching him. He was down to a single layer of light blue boxers and a tight black tee. His hair was still damp from the shower and spiked up on the top like an early 2000s flashback. She stared a bit too long and was startled when he turned around. 

“Have enough hot water?” he asked. 

Y/N shrugged. “You didn’t quite use all of it. Most. But not all.” 

He grinned and let his eyes fall down her body. She was ready for bed- braless in a purple tank top and loose cotton shorts. She flipped the wet towel onto the floor and Dean realized he was staring too much. 

“You sure you don’t wanna get another room?” she asked, moving over to the bed and tugging the sheet down. “You shouldn’t have to sleep on the couch.” 

A dangerous idea sparked in his brain, but he pushed it away. Sure, he could insist on sharing the bed, but there was a line he was too afraid to cross. They’d been friends for so long, sharing thoughts and dreams over text messages. There had been hundreds of video calls late at night when the world was crashing down around them; casual meet-ups when monsters brought them to the same part of the country. Despite how he felt, she’d never given him a hint, so he kept his feelings to himself. 

If he shared the bed, he knew he’d try something. 

If he tried something, she’d have to respond. 

If she rejected him- well, he wasn’t ready to ruin a friendship over a shitty motel room with only one bed. 

“Nah,” he replied, turning back to the sofa. “I’ve slept on worse.” 

Y/N shrugged as if she didn’t care where he slept, but inside she crumbled a bit. It was dumb to assume he’d want to share a bed with her, but she had hoped he might. Hope wasn’t a bad thing, just an annoying inconvenience that generally left her unsatisfied and listless. Hope kept her dreaming that someday he’d finally recognize the chemistry between them. Dreams made her long for his touch, praying that he’d rush at her, scoop her into his big arms, and kiss her so hard the whole world would fade away. Sure, she could make the first move but rejection was worse than hope.

“Cool.” 

Dean hung his head. “Cool.” 

Sleep was a lofty goal that neither could achieve. 

The alarm clock on the nightstand was buzzing slightly as if electricity was leaking out of it and sizzling in the air. Y/N tried to ignore it, but the irritation kept her from shutting her brain off. 

She rolled onto her left side and tucked the blanket between her legs. In the darkness, she could see Dean stretched out on the sofa. He was facing the door but she could make his perfect profile in the shadows. One hand was tucked beneath his head and the other rested on his stomach. Y/N watched it rise and fall with each breath, wondering what he was dreaming about.

She sighed and he shifted a bit, readjusting his hips. 

Her exhale rang in his ears and Dean chewed his bottom lip as he stared at the ceiling. He’d fallen asleep twice, but each time his imagination pushed him awake. He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or his mind running wild, but he saw Y/N lying in his arms, face shimmering and lips wet. He felt her legs quake as he tasted her sweetness. Each time, he’d wake up with an aching cock and unrequited desire.

He huffed gently and she sat up on her elbow. 

“You up?” she whispered, squinting at his silhouette. 

Dean smiled to himself and waved at her over his head. “Why are you?” 

“Dunno. Brain won’t shut up.” She threw back the blanket and the bed creaked as she swung her legs over the side. “Why are you?” 

“Same.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and scratched at the tiny hairs on his jaw. “You wanna get a dr-”

Y/N was at his side before he knew it, biting her lip innocently as she knelt on the sofa. 

His eyes went wide and he sat up a bit. “Hi.”

She smiled. “Hi.” 

Without asking, she turned and moved to lay down beside him. Dean shifted, pressing himself into the back of the couch to give her room.

“This OK?” she asked, already settling down. 

Dean cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah…” 

She grabbed his hand and tugged his arm to fit around the curve of her waist. 

“And this?” 

He lay down and curled up behind her. “Yeah.” 

“Good.” 

It took a moment for their bodies to relax, for their brains to interpret the closeness or register the meaning. Y/N nearly kicked herself for taking such a chance, but when she felt Dean relax against her back, she smiled. He pressed his face into her hair and took a breath, nearly moaning when he exhaled. 

Y/N rolled her ass back just an inch, but it was enough to set him on fire. His mind was racing with a thousand imagined scenarios, all ending with her brilliant smile and his name on her lips. His fingers tensed on her stomach and she let out a tiny whimper. 

Slowly, Dean dared to press his cheek against her ear. His hand moved up a fraction of an inch and Y/N dragged a finger across it, caressing his hand and up his arm. 

He kissed her cheek. 

She threaded her fingers into his. 

He breathed hot against her ear. 

She dragged his hand up her stomach, leading him up higher. 

He sucked her earlobe between his lips. 

She shivered and closed his palm over her breast.

He moaned. 

She twisted her neck and found his lips, breaking their friendship with a deep kiss. 

Dean licked into her mouth and his blood boiled, pushing every sensation into hyperdrive. Her lips felt like heaven, her touch was like fire. He palmed her tit, rolled her nipple gently, nibbled on her ear. 

Y/N melted for him. Her body went soft and pliable; her pussy dripped, her breath grew heavy and fast. She could feel how hard he was, pressing into her ass. She snuck a hand between them and rubbed at the tip of his cock. 

Dean hissed and groped her tits a little harder. 

Her fingers snuck into his boxers and she traced a gentle line down his shaft, teasing him. He pinched her nipple hard and her gasping moan filled the room. 

“Fuck, Y/N…”         

Her fingers closed around his thick cock and she arched her back, laying her throat bare for him. 

“You know,” she whispered, “the bed is bigger…” 

Dean turned his wrist and dragged his hand down to her shorts, gently teasing at the elastic hem. “True, but then we wouldn’t be so close.” He kissed her neck.

Her jaw dropped when his warm hand slid down, covering her pussy with light pressure. “Good point.” 

She stroked him slowly as he rubbed her cunt. He licked at her pulse while she caressed his sack. 

When his breath grew hot and fast, Y/N spun around and attacked his lips. She held his face in her hands and pushed every late-night dream, every lonely fantasy into her kiss. She wanted him to feel it. Wanted him to know how long she’d waited to touch him like this; how desperate she’d been to feel his hands on her. 

Dean tried to keep his eyes open, wanting to remember every second and sear it all into his memory, but her lips tugged them closed. Her kiss was so deep, so devastatingly perfect that he couldn’t hold on. His will vanished in a rush of lust and he grabbed at her soft flesh, plucked at her sensitive spots, rolled his hips against her wetness. 

“God, I wanna fuck you so bad,” he groaned, fingers digging into her ass while she bit down on his shoulder. 

Y/N hummed and licked at the bite marks she’d left. “Me too. Fuck, Dean…” 

He pulled her closer and she sat up, straddling his hips as she pulled her tank top off. Dean gripped her hips and stared in awe at her beautiful body writing above him. She rocked down onto him and he had never hated cotton so much. The layers between them prevented his cock from sliding in, but Y/N didn’t seem to mind. She rubbed her slick cunt up and down his shaft, driving them both insane. 

When he couldn’t take it anymore, Dean sat up and wrapped his arm around her back, holding her tight. He tried to stand but stumbled and Y/N laughed softly while fumbling for balance. 

They made it to the bed without injury; shed their clothes without hesitation. 

Dean pushed her onto her back and licked deep into her mouth. She moaned into him and scratched a hand through his hair. Her legs spread wide for him and Dean kissed his way down her body. She held her breath when his lips pressed into the softness of her inner thigh. 

“Always wanted to taste you,” he breathed, running the tip of his middle finger down her slit. 

Y/N’s legs shook and her fingers tensed over his scalp. “Please…” 

Dean smiled and exhaled gently while slipping his finger into her. She was wet and warm and he hummed darkly. 

“So fucking beautiful…” 

His tongue pressed flat over her pussy and then slid inside, swirling around her clit like a spiral that entranced her body and mind. Y/N squirmed against his mouth, held her breath when the pleasure spiked, tugged on his hair. It was as if her dreams were seeping into reality and God was answering every blasphemous prayer. 

Dean was ravenous, licking her hard and pushing his fingers deeper with each thrust of his wrist. He closed his eyes and listened to the hitch of her breath, the exquisite moans she set free. Every pulse of her cunt on his fingers made his cock twitch. Every buck of her hips made him suckle harder. He wanted to drown in her juices, happy to let this be his last act on earth. 

She came hard and fast, leaking pleasure onto his tongue. 

Dean pushed back enough to see her face. He kept his hand in place, fucking her through the throbbing orgasm even as she tried to push him away. 

“Dean… please…” 

Her brows creased and her lips pushed out in a pout that nearly broke his heart. He floated up to her, climbing up the mattress and shifting his right thigh between hers. She pressed down on the thick muscle and rocked hard as he kissed her again. She tasted herself on his lips and moaned. 

“You’re amazing…” 

Dean’s heart raced at the whispered praise and he kissed across her jaw and down, lapping at her throat and sucking a tiny mark on her shoulder. She scratched a hand down his back and grabbed his ass, tugging him forward. He fell down, his full weight crushing her into the bed. 

Y/N wrapped herself around him, arms and legs holding on tight. With every bit of strength she could muster, she rolled him onto his back and popped up, sitting on his stomach. 

Wide green eyes fell down her body, soaking in the perfect view. 

With the tables turned, Y/N followed his previous trek, laying kisses down the length of his torso and biting his inner thigh. Dean jumped at the sting and then relaxed into nothingness as she licked the head of his cock. 

She kissed and hummed at the peak of him and a drop of precum zinged her taste buds. Enthused, she took him in until she gagged and then pulled back with tightly sealed lips. 

Dean let out a moan that she’d remember until the day she died. His big hand fit against the top of her head, gently guiding her up and down until he was curling in on himself and fighting to hold back. 

“Fuck, Y/N/N… Ya... ya gotta stop or I’m done…” 

She retreated with a loud pop of her swollen lips and Dean reached for her face. He dragged her up and kissed her hard while rolling her back onto the pillow. 

“Want you, Dean…” 

He hummed and shifted between her legs. “Yeah?” 

She nodded quickly and clung to his broad shoulders. “Yes. So fucking bad…”

He nudged at her cunt, dipping his cock in only an inch. She shuddered and her nails sunk into his arms. 

“You OK?” he asked, watching her eyes flutter and her mouth go slack. 

Again, she nodded; her face washed in frustrated agony. “Please…”

He kissed her gently and then set his arms aside her head. 

When he pushed fully in, they both stopped. Time froze around them and for a long moment, there was nothing else in the world. She could feel him trembling and lay her hand on his cheek. He turned towards her hand and kissed her palm. 

There was no banter, no salacious teasing, no further begging. Dean fucked her slowly, taking his time to wind her pleasure back up to the highest point before they both gave in, breaking in each other’s arms and stealing the air from the rest of the world.  

When his pulse steadied, Dean rolled onto his side and held his head in his hand. He couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t stop smiling. 

Y/N felt a wave of shyness as he stared but it was the good kind. She wanted him to keep watching. She reached for his free hand and brought it to her lips, carefully kissing the pads of each finger. 

He sighed happily. “You know… I really think… I mean…” His stomach flipped with nerves and he bit his lip, holding back everything he needed to say.

She laughed gently. “What?” She kissed his middle finger again. 

He took a deep breath. “I think I could really fall for you.” 

A soft smile turned her lips. “I’m pretty sure you already have.” 

His cheeks burned. His soul felt at ease. Dean laid his hand over her heart and felt the steady beat. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re right…”

Y/N felt each swipe of the scalpel, every drop of blood that leaked from the wounds. Locked and awake inside her immoble body, she tried to think of other things, to keep her mind away from the torture. She called up old dreams, sacred poems, and blissful moments with Dean. 

Whenever she drifted, Michael pulled her back. 

He kissed her again and again, breathing more Grace into her body to keep her alive. The deeper he cut, the harder his magic worked. The wounds lay open and he dipped his fingers or tongue inside, learning her flesh, tasting, feeling everything. 

His expression was crazed but childlike. He truly wished to understand everything about her, to figure out why she was so important, why God loved his pathetic creations more than his firstborn sons.

Most of all, he marveled over her heart. He listened closely to the flow of blood, trying different techniques to make it quicken or slow. If he stopped her breathing, her heart would race and then halt. If he cut an artery, it would slowly pump her life force out onto the crisp white sheets, staining the bedding in deep crimson. If he stimulated her sex, it would race and skip, meeting his touch. 

Twice, he’d killed her only to bring her back. He wanted to hear the absolute death of her heart and before kicking it back into motion. 

Y/N remembered every second, felt the pull of his Grace waking her back up. She had long ago given up on prayer, and sank into the pain, letting it consume her soul. She deserved to bleed. She couldn’t save Dean, couldn’t help him in any way. She deserved the torment. 

“Human skin is so… delicate,” Michael mused, running the razor edge down the length of her chest, splitting the flesh wide. “So… easily broken…” Again, he dragged the blade through her, deepening the gash until he saw a peek of white bone. “Like your hearts.”

Y/N screamed as intense pain shot through every bit of her. 

Michael pushed the bleeding meat aside and exposed her ribcage. 

She felt every touch and her vision faded. Consciousness was slipping away and she welcomed the darkness like an old friend. 

“No, no, Y/N,” he whispered, laying a hand on her cheek. “Stay with me.”  

Grace jolted her awake and she cursed him with everything she had. He heard her silent blasphemy and smiled. 

“Don’t you understand? You’re doing a good thing. You’re helping me.” 

Digging into her chest, Michael wrapped two fingers between the fourth rib on each side. 

“You’re teaching me.”

He pulled his hands apart and her sternum splintered. The cage tore open and Y/N felt the terrifying sensation of cool air on her lungs. 

“You’re teaching Dean that I will always win.” 

He ignored her screams and pressed his fingers to her exposed heart, observing the blood pumping from the source.

“No matter how he screams, how he… begs, claws, fights… I will always win.” 

On a whim, Michael shifted to sit between her legs. Watching her heart, he pulled his cock free and tapped her clit with the tip. 

Y/N struggled to break the spell, to move, to scream, but there was no escape. Her fate was sealed. 

“Interesting…” 

The muscle pumped faster. Michael narrowed his gaze on the aorta and slipped his stiff cock into her vagina. Blood moved quicker, the aorta swelled, the beats quickened. He grinned. 

“How exquisite.”

The faster he fucked her, the harder her heart beat. He watched like a scientist, tracking individual blood cells as they moved through her system, rushing through the expansive highway of veins to visit every part of her body. When they returned to the heart, he chose another part to focus on until he had learned all that he could.

There wasn’t much left of her mind, only a fading memory of her first kiss with Dean. That single, exhilarating instance when friends became more, and this vile moment was far, far away. 

Michael knelt between her thighs and straightened up, fully filling Dean’s impressive form. He looked deep into Y/N’s frozen face and felt a surge of pride and understanding. 

“Thank you, Y/N.”

Inside, Dean was fighting. He tore at his cell, screamed and cursed until his throat filled with blood and then started all over again.

Michael leaned close and kissed her lips, retrieving his Grace and setting her free. 

Her shrieks shook the room, but Michael had no pity for her. She was simply a thing to him now. A toy made of cells and air and blood. 

He snapped his fingers and her neck, finally giving her peace. 

Dean had seen every moment, felt his hands digging into her chest cavity, tasted her blood on his lips. 

Insane with grief and enraged beyond what he could truly feel, he let out a surge of strength that tickled Michael’s insides. 

“Calm down, Dean. It’s over.” 

You fucking monster!

“Now, now… Relax.”

I’m going to kill you. I’m going to rip you apart.

Michael wiped the blade clean on the ruined bedsheet and smiled. 

“Good luck.”  

[unfortunate-brat]

Forbidden Fruit

winchester!twins x latina!reader

synopsis: when adam and eve stumbled into the garden of eden, god had only one rule. the fruit that came from the tree, with it’s beautiful green leaves and delicious looking fruit was forbidden. neither one would eat it, or they shall face a consequence worse than death. yet when both twins meet you, a face far too beautiful for a school like this, they face the same temptation that adam and eve once did.

series warnings: smut, angst, jealousy, dark themes, sibling rivalry

yazzy's comments:okay i do have to give credit to @floralscented because their stanford!dean fics came out before my own. i love a good twins au and love triangle. this will not have chapters in order as each piece can be read as a standalone. also ave and I were discussing this so they are also credited for the brain rot we had with these fuckers.

jackles crew: @deansbeer / @soldiersgirl / @stereotypicalbarbie

18+, must have age in bio to interact. minors and ageless accounts will be blocked !!

follow @unfortunate-bratfics for just new posted imagines !!

you met the boys in the fall at stanford during orientation, noting their similar features and contradicting behaviors.

michael, the oldest, was reserved. didn’t speak much and often used his eyes to communicate. his clothes were ironed and tailored to every single inch of skin. glasses perched on his freckled nose, pillows of pink pursed into a thin line unless he turned them upside down for a brief frown. hair parted and combed neatly to the side. you’d find him in the library, in his own reserved study room getting a head start on other assignments or reading greek history. book in one hand and an apple in another. the man was a health freak.

dean, the youngest of the two was more outgoing. that charming smile and way with words had anyone practically under his spell. usually his hair was spiky, not really combed out and left alone. unlike his older twin, dean had no issue speaking his mind, yet when it came to feelings he would keep them inside. his eyes always a soft green, ones any girl would lose themselves in. you’d often see him on the football field running laps or drills. being captain was a tough position but he made it seem easy. his diet was terrible, always ditching lunch breaks for burgers across the street. the cheesier the better.

both boys gained lots of attention that first year and though it took time to not confuse them, eventually people spotted the differences. knew which twin like or didn’t like, sometimes the hard way. michael didn’t like to make chitchat, so when the cheerleaders would spot him in the hallway and rush over, he’d flash them a glare before walking away. and when dean spotted those same cheerleaders later, flaunting his infamous smile, they’d walk away. dean hated how michael ruined his reputation sometimes, he wanted to fit in for once. or at least try to.

you had spotted signs to not get the twins confused, recalling michael always carried his watch and had a slightly darker shade of green in his eyes. though that’s if you could stand looking at him in the eyes long enough. the older twin was easily annoyed, looking down upon everyone like a god and his mortals.

when it came to dean, the young man instantly brightened up the room. his hair was either spiky or somewhat shaggy. eyes a bright green like a candy apple, lips curled into a sweet smile. a total sweetheart and the poster boy for any rom com. sometimes though, he carried a faint smell of cigarettes. if anyone were to ask, no he hadn’t been smoking.

·̩͙།† ͝ ︶ ͝ ⏝ ͝ ︶ ͝ †། ·̩͙

Please note; I do not allow translations or redistributions of my work by anyone else except myself. MDNI, if your account is ageless or empty, I will block you !! Minors are NOT welcome here.

[gabalicious-g]

you know what fucked up lil theory i have? i bet if zachariah showed dean his actual timeline's future, like just a hint of the mark of cain or leviathans existing or lucifer escaping the cage via cas, then dean would've said yes to michael.

dean was really close to saying yes from endverse- being forced to interact with his actual, bullshit z-plan plotline of a life might actually tip him over the edge, especially considering the negative effects of the apocalypse come to pass anyways. he could rationalize it to himself. he'd do it possibly as damage control on a future he thinks is terrible, and i think that's very doomed of him <3

cas would be devastated but that's a different story

[sup38008]

Y’all, I have this midam fic idea I wanna write. Like a CEO au with like a bunch of characters and I don’t know where to start. I don’t wanna miss-characterize any of the characters. But I wanna sooo bad. And I don’t know the first thing about how company’s fuckin work. Idk what to do, I wanna contribute to my fellow midam community. Especially now since I’ve got the inspiration and energy to do it. And time since it’s winter break. I wanna make it into a long chaptered one too. Ughhhh it’s gonna be my first fic if I do write it and I have no idea how to write it cuz it’s been so long since I’ve watched spn. And someone help meeeeee😭😭

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

anathema

part I

Pairing: Michael!Dean x Fem!Reader (with a hint of Sam x Fem!Reader and Samifer x Fem!Reader)

Summary: You have been with Sam and Dean for years now, you have always loved both of them equally, and while they were reluctant at first—they came to an agreement to share you. When Sam and Castiel return to the bunker without Dean, you learn a horrifying truth. He is no longer your Dean.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, biblical references, religious metaphors, smut (dirty talk, degradation, fingering, oral, p in v, dp, overstim, forced orgasms, cockwarming, dom/sub dynamics), heartbreak, pining, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 8,523

A/N: This is my first time writing on tumblr, so I hope it's alright... let me know what you think, and if you read this all the way through—thank you!!!! <3 Also... gonna be multiple parts to this. So while the warnings listed above (and the pairings) may not be evident in this part, they will in the next one. All the love.

Without further ado: ANATHEMA

There is a moment before the fall—before the first stone is cast, before the altar crumbles, before the faithful are forsaken.

It is quiet. It is sacred. It is the breath before ruin.

This is the nature of gods. They do not love. They do not fall. And yet—

He does.

The bunker door opened, and only Sam and Castiel stepped through.

No Dean.

Something inside you split, sharp and silent, like a fault line in the earth.

Sam wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You didn’t need to hear it. You already knew. But he said it anyway.

"He said yes."

You thought you would have felt it—some cosmic shift in the air, some unseen force tugging you awake in the middle of the night with the knowledge that something had gone terribly wrong. But there had been nothing. Just silence.

And now, there was only absence.

Sam’s voice was gentle, careful, like he knew you were seconds from breaking.

"He said yes."

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense because Dean never would.

You opened your mouth, closed it. The words felt too big to push out of your throat.

Somewhere beside you, Castiel shifted his weight. You barely noticed.

"You’re lying." It came out flat, but your heart was slamming against your ribs. Hope dying violently inside your chest.

Sam exhaled sharply, guilt bleeding through his expression, he said your name. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

The world should have ended in that moment. The walls of the bunker should have cracked apart, the ceiling caving in, the earth splitting wide open. But everything remained still, unchanged, and yet—nothing was the same.

The moment the words left Sam’s mouth again, something inside you snapped.

Not cleanly, not painlessly. It was a fracture deep in the marrow, a violent splintering of something you weren’t built to live without.

"He said yes."

You shook your head. No.

The denial crawled up your throat like bile. No, he didn’t.

You saw the way Sam braced himself, the shift of his stance, the slight wince as you reached for him with shaking hands. He knew what was coming.

And still—he let you break against him.

Your fists hit his chest first. Desperate, useless. Not enough to hurt him, barely enough to hurt yourself.

"You’re lying!"

The first time, it was a snarl, a sharp thing, fury over heartbreak.

The second time, a sob.

The third time, barely a whisper.

Your fists faltered, fingers curling into the worn fabric of Sam’s jacket as you pressed your forehead against him, breath shuddering.

"Tell me you’re lying, Sam. Please."

Sam didn’t say anything. He just held you—strong, steady, like an anchor in a storm too wild to be tamed.

You kept fighting, but it was all for nothing. It had already happened.

Dean was gone.

By the time your body gave out, wrung dry from grief and fury, Sam caught you before you hit the floor. He carried you without a word, like you weighed nothing, like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

You didn’t remember being laid down in his bed, only the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath you, the warmth of his hand resting on your back as the weight of it all finally, fully, crushed you.

You didn’t dream that night. You weren’t sure if you even slept.

The bunker was too quiet.

Not in the way it usually was—filled with the low hum of machinery, the faint rustling of old pages, the familiar sound of Sam pacing in the library.

No.

It was quiet in the way that only loss could create.

You moved through the halls like a ghost wearing borrowed skin. A shell of yourself, too heavy, too hollow.

Dean’s shirts swallowed your frame, the sleeves too long, the scent of him still lingering in the fabric, fading more each day.

You stopped eating full meals. Stopped sleeping in your own bed. Sam didn’t push, didn’t demand anything of you, only watched with quiet understanding as you sank deeper into your grief.

Castiel would sit with you sometimes, as if waiting for something to change.

It didn’t.

Nothing changed. Because Dean was gone.

Gone.

No teasing. No smirks. No more stupid bunker date nights, lying tangled in your bed, listening to vinyl records and laughing into each other’s mouths when he sang a line in that deliberately awful voice just to make you roll your eyes.

No more warm hands sliding under the hem of your shirt when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

No more soft chuckles against your throat, his nose nudging your jaw before he whispered, “C’mon, sweetheart, gimme one more song.”

No more Dean.

The realisation sank into your ribs like lead.

He was never walking through that damn door again.

And if he did— It wouldn’t be him.

The whiskey burned your throat, but you drank it anyway.

Dean’s whiskey.

Dean’s glass.

Dean’s flannel hanging loose over your frame, the hem brushing bare thighs.

Everything in this room had been his first.

Now, it was only yours.

Sam had offered to sit with you, had hovered near the doorway with his hands shoved into his pockets, worry lining his features.

"Just give me some space, Sam."

You didn’t know where Castiel was. You weren’t sure if you cared.

The bunker felt too big when you were alone.

The war room lamp cast a low, amber glow, flickering over the glass in your hand, over the bottle beside you—half-empty now, a quiet act of defiance against the silence.

You weren’t drunk.

You wanted to be.

Maybe then, the weight in your chest wouldn’t feel so unbearable.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the deep amber liquid swirling in the glass.

It was stupid.

You didn’t even like whiskey that much.

But Dean had.

And so, you drank.

The door slammed open and you flinched. The glass nearly slipped from your fingers.

Your first thought—your first foolish, desperate, agonising thought—was that it was him.

Dean.

Finally.

But the moment you lifted your head, you knew.

It wasn’t him.

It was his body, but it wasn’t him.

Michael stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, chin high, the posture too rigid, too proud.

Dean had swagger. He leaned against doorways, arms crossed, mouth quirked in a cocky smirk, always pretending he had all the time in the world.

Michael did not lean. He stood like a king surveying his kingdom, like he had already won.

And his eyes—

Not Dean’s eyes.

There was no warmth, no teasing glint, no flicker of recognition.

Just something ancient, something calculating, something detached.

His gaze swept over you, slow and clinical, taking in the flannel, the whiskey, the way you sat curled in Dean’s chair like you belonged there.

And then, he spoke.

"Interesting."

The voice was Dean’s, but the inflection was all wrong.

It sent a cold spike down your spine.

Michael took a step closer.

"This vessel reacts to you."

The words settled over you like oil—thick, suffocating, clinging to your skin.

You should have moved. You should have said something.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there, whiskey glass in hand, wearing a dead man’s flannel, and stared at the thing that wore his face.

The silence stretched.

Thick. Suffocating. A living thing smothering the room.

Michael didn’t move at first—just watched. The weight of his gaze settled over you like something ancient, something inhuman, something vast and unfeeling.

Dean’s body. Not Dean.

You gripped the whiskey glass tighter, but your hands had gone cold.

Michael took another step forward.

Then another.

Measured. Controlled.

Your pulse pounded against your ribs, a trapped thing, desperate and screaming.

He reached the edge of the table. He didn’t stop.

Another step.

You could see the grain of his shoes scuffing against the floor.

Another step.

You could smell the soap, the faintest hint of whiskey lingering on the dress shirt he wore.

Another step.

Too close.

Too much.

Your breath hitched.

Michael tilted his head, fascinated.

"Strange." His voice was low, observational. "Your body reacts to my presence."

Your body.

Not you.

Not your mind, your grief, your agony, your devastation.

Just the body.

The words struck something deep and ugly inside you, something feral, something that had been clawing at your throat since the moment he stepped through that door.

And then—

You snapped.

"Get the fuck out of him!"

The glass hit the table with a dull thud as you lurched up, the chair scraping against the floor, your hands trembling, your chest heaving.

Michael didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all.

Just watched.

"He is mine."

You felt it before you heard it—the sob breaking loose from your throat, sharp and sudden, ripped straight from the centre of your chest.

"No—no, you don’t—" You shook your head, vision blurring. "He’s not—he’s not yours, you son of a bitch—"

"This vessel belongs to me."

A sob choked its way out of your throat. Your nails dug into your palms, your knees going weak.

The chair wobbled behind you.

You grabbed the table to stay standing.

"No—no, he’s Dean. He’s Dean."

Michael blinked, as if bored of your grief.

"Dean Winchester was merely the temporary steward of this form." His head tilted again, dissecting you like a puzzle with missing pieces. "It is fascinating how deeply you mourn something so impermanent."

The sound that left you wasn’t even human.

It was grief in its rawest form—a sob so deep it burned.

Footsteps.

Heavy, fast.

Sam.

"HEY!" Sam’s voice was sharp, dangerous, already moving between you and Michael before your knees even gave out. "Get the hell away from her."

Michael didn’t so much as blink.

Then, Castiel.

The sudden shift in energy made the air crackle.

"Michael." Castiel’s voice was measured, controlled—but there was something heavy in it, something unyielding.

Michael finally—finally—tore his gaze from you.

"Castiel." A pause. A flicker of something too cold to be recognition. "This is hardly your concern."

"She is under our protection."

"She is not yours to protect."

"And she is not yours to claim."

The moment stretched too long, too tense, electric with the threat of something breaking.

Sam’s hands were already on you, pulling you back, tucking you into his chest, holding you together as you trembled in his arms.

"Let’s go." Sam’s voice was softer now, spoken against the crown of your head, he murmured your name. "Come on."

Michael didn’t try to stop you.

But you felt his eyes on you until the moment Sam pulled you through the doorway and into the halls of the bunker.

You weren’t sure if it was hours or days since Sam had pulled you from the war room.

Since Michael had looked at you and said this vessel is mine.

Since you had shattered in Sam’s arms.

Now, you sat curled against him, half-draped over his lap, your forehead resting against his chest, fingers clutching at the soft cotton of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from dissolving completely.

Sam hadn’t let go of you.

Not when you went limp in his arms, silent tears staining his shirt, grief leaving you hollow.

Not when you finally, finally stopped crying and just lay there, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a sound that belonged to the past as much as the present.

Dean’s heartbeat had been steady, too.

Once.

Now, you didn’t know if it beat at all.

The bunker hummed quietly around you, the air still heavy from what had happened.

Michael was still here.

His presence was a stain in the walls, a crack running through the foundation of your world.

Somewhere deep in the silence, footsteps echoed.

Not Michael.

Sam didn’t tense.

You didn’t have the energy to care.

The door creaked open.

A long pause.

Then—

"He says he will be staying here."

Castiel’s voice was always deep, always low, always solemn. But now?

Now, it carried something heavier.

Finality.

Sam exhaled slowly, the rise and fall of his chest shifting beneath your cheek.

"For how long?"

"Until his business is finished."

You stared at nothing. At the stitching on Sam’s shirt. At the way his chest moved, up and down, steady and warm.

Castiel shifted, stepping further into the room.

"We need to keep her away from him."

"Yeah," Sam muttered, the exhaustion thick in his voice. "I know."

You barely blinked.

They were talking about you.

Like you weren’t there.

Like you were something fragile, breakable.

Maybe you were.

"She’ll stay here, with me," Sam said, one hand rubbing absentminded circles into your back. "We’ll keep her safe."

Safe.

As if there was safety to be found anywhere anymore.

Safe from what?

From Michael? From the thing that wore Dean’s face? From the sound of his voice, sharp and clean, stripped of warmth?

Or safe from the truth?

That no matter how long you stayed curled against Sam’s chest, no matter how much they protected you, Dean wasn’t walking through that door again.

"Sweetheart."

Sam said it softly, an instinct, the way he always did.

The way Dean had.

And before you could stop it, before you could pretend it didn’t hurt—

You flinched.

Sam froze.

A sharp inhale, his body going rigid beneath you.

You wished you could take it back.

You wished it didn’t feel like someone had just taken a blade to your ribs.

But it did.

God, it did.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then—soft, careful, Sam whispered, "I’m sorry."

The words settled heavy in the air, something unspeakably sad laced beneath them.

Not just sorry for saying it.

Sorry for all of it.

Sorry that this was real.

Sorry that Dean was gone.

Sorry that this grief had nowhere to go but deeper.

"She stays with me," Sam said again, voice firmer this time, as if it was the only thing in his control.

Castiel hesitated. Then, a quiet, knowing nod.

You closed your eyes.

The weight of it all pressed down like stone.

Michael was still here.

And you weren’t sure how long you could bear it.

Time blurred.

The bunker existed in half-light, in the soft glow of lamps and the heavy hush of grief.

You didn’t leave Sam’s room.

Not unless you had to.

Not unless your body forced you to remember it had needs beyond grief.

Even then—

You were never alone.

Sam followed you to the bathroom. Waited outside the door.

Castiel walked with you to the shower. Stood like a silent sentinel while the water burned your skin.

They didn’t say it outright, but you knew.

They were keeping you away from him.

From Michael.

From the thing that wore Dean’s body like a vessel carved from flesh and sinew, like a ruin he had no intention of rebuilding.

Even without seeing him, you felt his presence in the walls.

Felt him existing just out of reach.

You imagined him in the halls, never in Dean’s clothes, never sinking into the couch with a beer in hand, never kicking his boots onto the table with a cocky smirk.

He didn't smirk.

He didn't look at you with warmth.

Michael walked through the bunker like a king waiting for his throne to be built.

And you?

You were locked away like a thing to be protected.

Or a thing to be hidden.

Either way, it was suffocating.

Sam barely left your side. At night, you curled into his warmth, buried beneath blankets, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing anchoring you.

He didn’t talk much.

Because what was there to say?

He was grieving too.

The difference was—he hadn’t seen Dean’s body standing in the war room.

He hadn’t felt it in the air, the echo of something wrong, something missing.

That weight belonged to you alone.

And after days, maybe a week, maybe more, you finally whispered, "I want a book."

Sam stirred beside you, shifting slightly to look down at you, brows drawn in quiet concern.

"What?"

"The library." Your voice felt foreign in your own throat. "I just—just want to read something. I need something else to focus on."

Sam exhaled. Nodded.

"I’ll get you one. What do you want?"

You swallowed.

"I want to go."

His body tensed. Not much—but enough that you felt it.

"I’ll come with you."

You shook your head.

"I just—I just want to walk for a minute."

Sam didn’t like that. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his fingers curled slightly where they rested against your back.

"Five minutes," you said softly, pressing a hand against his chest. "Just five. I need to move, Sammy."

He was still frowning, still uneasy, but after a long pause, he nodded.

Kissed your temple.

"Not long." His voice was quiet, firm. "And if you need me or Cas—"

"I know."

"You call."

You nodded.

He watched as you slid out of bed, as you pulled one of his hoodies over Dean’s flannel, as you pushed your bare feet into socks.

He watched, and he didn’t stop you.

Not yet.

Not now.

You stepped out into the hallway—alone for the first time in days.

The bunker air felt different.

It tasted different.

Or maybe that was just the weight of inevitability settling in your bones.

Because even if you didn’t want to admit it—

You already knew.

You were going to find him.

The library smelled like dust and old paper, the weight of time woven into every faded spine, every yellowed page. You dragged your fingertips over the rows of books, feeling the leather, the cool press of worn lettering beneath your touch, searching for something to hold your attention—anything to pull you out of your own head for a while.

Something on mythology, maybe. Or astrology. Or something in a dead language that you could waste hours trying to decipher, letting your mind stretch and bend around unfamiliar symbols just to keep from thinking too much.

The bunker had been suffocating these past few days. Not because Sam or Castiel had made it that way, but because you had let it. You had tucked yourself into the safety of Sam’s room, hidden beneath blankets and the warmth of his presence, because leaving that space meant acknowledging reality.

It meant existing in a world where Dean was gone.

And you weren’t sure how to do that.

You curled your fingers around the spine of a heavy, leather-bound volume, its title written in elegant, looping Latin. The moment you touched it, something in the air shifted.

It wasn’t a sound.

It wasn’t anything tangible.

But you felt it.

A thick, unseen pressure settling over the room, an almost imperceptible change in the atmosphere, like the oxygen had thinned just slightly—like the air itself was waiting.

You went still, fingers tightening around the book.

The bunker had always been quiet, but this was something else. This was silence in its purest form, deep and all-consuming, pressing at the edges of your awareness like a thing alive.

Your stomach twisted.

It was instinct before anything else.

You weren’t alone anymore.

The realisation lodged itself behind your ribs, weighty and inescapable, curling through your veins like ice.

You didn’t move. Didn’t turn.

Just stood there, breath slow, measured, as if that would somehow make you smaller, less detectable. But it was already too late.

The air had changed because of him.

Michael.

You knew it before you saw him, before you had to look at the thing that wore Dean’s body like it was nothing more than a borrowed suit.

The book in your grip felt too heavy, your heart beating sluggishly in your chest, each second stretching unbearably long as you exhaled through your nose, fighting to keep your breath steady.

Still, you didn’t turn.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

Maybe if you just grabbed the book and left, you wouldn’t have to.

Your fingers dug into the leather, and you ripped it from the shelf, spinning on your heel in one sharp movement, your pulse a frantic drum in your throat.

And there he was.

Standing at the far end of the room, utterly motionless, utterly still, like some relic of a long-dead empire, unshaken by time or ruin.

His posture was too rigid, his shoulders squared, the clean, sharp lines of his dress shirt pristine, ironed to perfection. The fabric stretched taut across Dean’s body, but there was no comfort in the familiarity of it, no ease in the way he held himself.

Michael didn’t slouch. Didn’t lean against doorframes. Didn’t tip his head with that cocky smirk, eyes flashing with something teasing, something warm.

Dean did those things.

Dean had always felt human.

This was not Dean.

This was something else entirely.

His gaze flicked over you, slow and clinical, nothing in his expression shifting, nothing giving away what he was thinking. He didn’t react to the sharpness of your movement, didn’t blink at the way your chest was rising and falling just a little too fast, didn’t even acknowledge the way your grip had gone white-knuckled around the book in your hands.

He just watched.

Observed.

Like you were something peculiar, something fragile, something not entirely understood.

Your lungs felt too tight, too full, like you’d forgotten how to breathe correctly.

You didn’t know what you had expected from this moment, but the sheer wrongness of it was settling into your bones like rot, sinking into the hollow space in your chest where grief had already begun its slow decay.

The silence stretched between you, unbearably thick.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And that was worse than anything he could have said.

Your vision blurred at the edges, heat prickling behind your eyes, but you swallowed hard, tightening your grip on the book like an anchor, like a lifeline.

You couldn’t do this.

Your legs carried you forward before you could think better of it, your feet silent against the floor as you strode past him without a word, feeling his gaze on you the entire way, tracking your movement with something unreadable.

You walked faster.

You didn’t look back.

But the weight of him followed you all the way down the hall.

The walk back to Sam’s room felt longer than before.

Your breath wasn’t right. Too shallow, too uneven.

The book felt heavy in your hands, the leather binding warm from your grip, but your fingers were still cold. The chill had settled in your bones, numbing the edges of everything, leaving you raw and weightless, untethered.

You had seen him.

You had felt him in the room with you before you even turned.

And it wasn’t Dean.

It would never be Dean.

Your steps slowed as you neared Sam’s door, your body hesitating before you even realised it. It was one thing to leave. One thing to push for just a few minutes of air, of space, of movement.

But coming back meant admitting it was a mistake to leave.

You didn’t want to say it.

But Sam already knew.

The moment you stepped inside, his gaze lifted from where he sat on the edge of the bed, sharp and knowing, something heavy settling behind his eyes before you could even speak.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t demand an explanation.

He just opened his arms.

And that was it.

Whatever tension was holding you up finally snapped, and you let yourself sink into him, your knees hitting the mattress as you climbed into his lap, pressing your face into the solid warmth of his chest, fingers curling weakly in the fabric of his shirt.

His arms came around you immediately.

Strong, steady.

A quiet anchor in the storm.

His hand stroked over the back of your head, slow, soothing. He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

You exhaled shakily, mouth barely moving against his chest when you finally whispered, "I shouldn’t have left."

Sam let out a soft breath, his chin resting against the crown of your head.

"I know."

The words weren’t condescending. They weren’t I told you so.

They were understanding.

He knew why you left. He knew why you regretted it. He knew why you weren’t ready to say more.

So, he didn’t make you.

He just held you.

For minutes, maybe longer.

The quiet stretched, nothing but the sound of his heartbeat, the warmth of his palm moving slowly over your back.

Then, his hand shifted, fingers grazing the book still clenched loosely in your grip. He pulled back just enough to glance at the cover, brows drawing slightly together.

"Latin." His voice was low, careful. "Do you want me to read it to you?"

You didn’t lift your head.

Just nodded.

His arm tightened around you as he shifted, reaching for the book properly, adjusting you against his chest so he could hold it in one hand while the other remained firm at your back.

And then, he started reading.

His voice was low, deep, smooth, rolling over the foreign words like they belonged to him, like he had memorised them lifetimes ago and was only now speaking them into existence again.

You weren’t even sure if you were listening.

Just that the sound of it filled the empty spaces.

That the warmth of him kept the cold at bay.

Your fingers twitched against his ribs, tension fading by degrees.

Your body began to sink further into him, exhaustion creeping in at the edges, soft and quiet.

You barely registered the moment when sleep finally took you.

But for the first time in days, you weren’t afraid to close your eyes.

You woke slowly, warmth pressed against your back, the steady rise and fall of Sam’s chest beneath your cheek.

At some point, he had moved you—pulled the blankets over you, curled himself around you like a shield against something neither of you could name.

For a moment, you just lay there.

Safe.

Still.

But it wasn’t enough.

There was a pit in your chest, something deep and aching, something that had been gnawing at the edges of you since the moment he walked through the bunker door.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of avoiding him. Weeks of silence. Weeks of pretending.

You couldn’t pretend anymore. Not after seeing him in the library earlier.

You needed to see him.

Carefully, slowly, you peeled yourself away from Sam, breath caught in your throat as you shifted out from under his arm. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake, and you hesitated, guilt curling at your ribs.

You almost stayed.

Almost let the warmth keep you in place.

But you couldn’t.

You slipped out the door and into the hallway, your bare feet silent against the floor, the cool air raising goosebumps along your skin.

Your heart was already hammering.

You didn’t let yourself think too hard about what you were doing, about what you were walking toward.

But when you reached Dean’s door, you froze.

You hadn’t stood here since before the hunt.

Before everything changed.

Before you lost him.

Your fingers curled into a fist. You knocked.

Silence.

You swallowed, exhaling through your nose before knocking again, voice barely above a whisper.

"Can I come in?"

A pause.

Then—

"If you must."

The words landed like a weight in your stomach.

You turned the handle.

And the air was ripped from your lungs.

It wasn’t his room anymore.

It was the same space, the same four walls, the same furniture, but it wasn’t his.

The bed was made, the sheets pulled too tight, too pristine. The clutter was gone. No jackets draped over the chair, no worn-out boots kicked to the corner, no weapons haphazardly left on the desk.

Everything that had made this space Dean was gone.

Stripped bare.

Your feet remained planted in the doorway, heart slamming against your ribs, breath too thin.

And there he was.

Sitting on the edge of the bed.

Rigid. Composed. Back straight, hands resting on his thighs, chin lifted just slightly in that way that made him look like he was surveying a kingdom, rather than sitting in the hollowed-out shell of a life he had erased.

He wasn’t looking at you.

But he didn’t have to.

Dean’s body. Dean’s scent. Dean’s voice when he finally spoke.

"Why are you here?"

The air was thick with it. Grief, loss, the unbearable weight of what was missing.

You swallowed against the sharp ache in your throat, curling your fingers into your palms.

"I needed to see you." Your voice was quiet, uneven. "I needed to see Dean."

That got his attention.

His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—the wrong eyes, too sharp, too ancient.

"Dean Winchester is not here."

A breath shuddered out of you.

You took a step inside.

"I know."

You knew. God, you knew. But it didn’t stop the way your chest ached, the way everything inside you felt like it was caving in.

"I need to pretend."

The words felt like a confession, raw and fragile.

A slow, deliberate smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Pretend?"

You nodded once, your throat working around the lump forming there.

"Just for a little while."

Michael’s expression remained unreadable, but the amusement was there, just beneath the surface, something cool and sharp.

"And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?"

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

You didn’t know how to say it.

How to ask.

How to put words to the need that was eating you alive from the inside out.

"I want you to hold me."

His brows lifted slightly.

Not in shock.

More like intrigue.

He studied you for a long moment, head tilting ever so slightly, the way someone might observe a strange phenomenon, something they didn’t quite understand but found interesting nonetheless.

And then, finally—

"No."

The rejection landed like a blow to the ribs.

It was a clean refusal. Not cruel, not angry, just absolute.

Your stomach twisted, your chest tightening, something breaking just a little bit more inside you.

Michael watched it happen.

Watched as your face fell, as your hands curled into fists, as your body tensed against the sharp sting of rejection.

You blinked hard, forcing down the heat rising behind your eyes.

Your voice came out hollow, flat.

"Fuck you."

And then, before he could say anything else—before you could do something stupid, desperate, pathetic—you turned on your heel and left.

Your feet carried you back down the hall, your chest tight, your throat aching.

By the time you reached Sam’s room, your legs felt like lead.

You climbed back into bed carefully, curling into yourself, pulling the blankets up tight, tucking yourself into the warmth of Sam’s body as if it could pull the lingering chill from your bones.

He stirred, his arms instinctively wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest, but he didn’t wake.

And this time, you didn’t cry.

Because there was nothing left to mourn.

Dean was gone.

And you had been foolish enough to ask a god to hold you.

You weren’t sure why you were here again.

No—that was a lie.

You knew exactly why.

You had left the night before with the sting of rejection still burning beneath your skin, with the weight of his refusal pressing against your ribs like stone.

You had crawled back into Sam’s bed, swallowed by warmth, by safety, but it wasn’t enough.

Because it wasn’t him.

And that was what you needed.

Even if it was a lie, a cruelty, a foolish, desperate thing.

So, you found yourself standing in front of his door again, jaw tight, hands curled into fists.

You didn’t knock this time.

You opened the door, stepping into the room like it was an act of defiance.

Michael was exactly where he had been the night before.

Sitting on the edge of the bed.

Still. Perfectly composed. Back straight, hands resting lightly on his thighs, gloved fingers flexing just slightly at the intrusion.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

He didn’t look anything.

"Back so soon?"

You ignored the mocking lilt in his tone, the way it slid under your skin like a blade.

"Hold me."

His head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth curling upward in something close to amusement.

"Again?"

"Yes." Your voice was firm, unwavering. Not a request this time. A demand.

His smirk deepened.

"And what makes you believe that my answer will be any different?"

You exhaled sharply, hands tightening at your sides.

"Because I will not stop asking."

Something flickered behind his gaze.

Interest. Calculation.

A slow inhale, a long, measured glance down the length of you, like he was studying a subject under a microscope.

And then—

A single hand lifted.

Not to pull you in.

Not to embrace you.

Just a single gloved hand, pressing lightly against the curve of your upper arm.

The touch was barely there, almost clinical.

But it was enough.

Your body betrayed you instantly.

Your muscles loosened, the tension seeping from your shoulders like sand slipping through fingers. A slow exhale left your lips, your entire frame softening, melting into the contact you had been starving for.

Your head tipped forward without permission, without thought, without resistance.

And then—

You were pressing your forehead against his chest.

His body was too rigid, too still. But the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something warm and familiar beneath it all—was enough to send a violent ache through your chest.

Michael didn’t move.

Didn’t acknowledge the way you had collapsed into him so easily.

Just let his hand remain where it was.

Felt the way your body reacted to the smallest contact.

"Fascinating." His voice was a quiet hum, detached but intrigued.

You swallowed, eyes shutting tightly, forcing yourself to stay still, to stay pressed against him, to take whatever he would give.

"What is?"

His hand flexed slightly against your arm, fingers pressing just enough for you to feel the cool leather through the sleeve of your shirt.

"This vessel," he mused, more to himself than to you. "It responds to you. Strongly."

You shivered.

Because it wasn’t just the vessel that responded.

It was you.

"And you," he continued, voice dropping just slightly, something sharper creeping into it. "You react with the same force. Almost involuntary, I’d say."

His free hand lifted, brushing lightly along your wrist, the touch barely a ghost against your skin, but it sent heat licking down your spine.

Your fingers twitched.

He noticed.

"Interesting."

The way he spoke, the way he observed, it should have made you pull away, should have sent ice into your veins instead of warmth.

But it didn’t.

Because his voice was Dean’s voice. His scent was Dean’s scent. His touch—no matter how detached, how calculated—still belonged to the body you had spent years craving, memorizing, worshipping.

Your breath was uneven, shallow, every part of you locked in place, unwilling to move away, unwilling to break the fragile, fragile thread of contact.

"You’re weak," he murmured.

Your eyes snapped open.

A sharp flicker of anger cut through the haze, and you wrenched yourself backward, away from his chest, away from the touch, away from the way your body had folded into him like an addict getting a fix.

Michael let his hand fall away easily.

Didn’t fight to keep you close.

Didn’t need to.

He had already won.

Because he had seen it. He had felt it.

The way your body had surrendered to something you swore you would never give in to.

The way you wanted this, needed it, despite knowing how cruel it was.

Michael’s smirk was infuriatingly self-satisfied.

"This is why you will return to me," he said simply.

Your teeth clenched.

"Go to hell."

He chuckled.

"I’ve already been."

And that was it.

That was the moment you knew—this wasn’t the last time.

Even as you turned on your heel, storming back to Sam’s room, pulse still erratic in your throat, body still betraying you with the echoes of warmth where his hands had been.

You would return.

Because he was right.

You were weak.

And Michael knew exactly how far he could push before you’d break.

The first night, you told yourself it was just one more time.

One more visit. One more touch. One more fleeting moment of borrowed warmth before you locked the door to this madness and never returned.

And yet, the second night, you went back.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Each time, you stood at his door, heart in your throat, regret already gnawing at the edges of you even as you knocked, even as you asked if you could come in.

Each time, he answered with that same measured, indifferent tone.

"If you must."

Each time, you pushed the door open.

And each time, he was waiting.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, still and composed, gloved hands resting lightly on his thighs, watching you like a scientist observing a subject in the midst of an experiment.

You never crossed the threshold immediately.

You always hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want this.

But because you did.

Because your body had already learned the pattern of it—the way his scent filled the air, the way his voice hit your ears, the way his touch, no matter how distant, still burned like an old memory come to life.

"Persistent." He mused it against the quiet one night, his tone dissecting you rather than speaking to you. "What is it you hope to achieve by this?"

You swallowed thickly.

You didn’t answer.

Because there wasn’t an answer that wouldn’t make you sound pathetic, desperate, weak.

"Come closer."

And you did.

You always did.

His gloved hand would find its place on your arm—one single point of contact, nothing more.

Just a press of leather over fabric.

Just enough for your body to register it, to recognise it, to react.

Your muscles loosened, your head bowed forward, your breath hitched.

And then, your forehead found his chest.

Every night, you sank into him just a little easier.

And every night, he let you.

Not out of kindness.

Not out of comfort.

But because he was watching.

Because he was testing something.

"Curious," he murmured on the third night, his voice low, speculative. "Your body’s response to this vessel remains… consistent."

You swallowed against the warmth flooding through you, your breaths already coming slower, heavier.

You felt the deep timbre of his voice vibrate through his chest where your forehead rested against him.

"Tell me," he continued, as if reading through notes in a ledger. "If I were to slide my hand lower, would you arch into it? Would your pupils dilate further? Would you make that noise you just swallowed?"

Heat licked up your spine.

"Stop."

"Why?" His tone was mocking, but underneath it, there was something sharper. Something truly fascinated.

"Because I said so."

He chuckled, and it was the worst sound in the world.

"Dean used to say that to you too, didn’t he?"

A slow, deliberate exhale left your lips, your fingers tightening at your sides.

"Fuck you."

"Not yet."

And then, the fourth night.

The night everything shifted.

You had been trembling the moment you stepped through the door, your body already recognising the ritual, already sinking into the warmth of it before he even touched you.

This time, when he mocked you, when he observed the way you melted at the smallest touch, you did something different.

You looked up.

Straight into his eyes.

The wrong eyes. The wrong gaze.

But still Dean’s face.

Still Dean’s voice.

Still the body that had once held you like you were something precious.

"I need more."

Michael blinked.

It was the first time you had ever truly caught him off guard.

"More?"

Your hands lifted. You pressed against him—not rough, not pleading, just enough to move him, guide him, push him onto his back against the mattress.

For a moment, he allowed it.

Allowed you to manoeuvre his vessel as if it still belonged to you.

And then, carefully, deliberately, you climbed onto the bed with him.

You laid against him, your arms slipping around his waist, your head pressing to his chest, your body curling against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Michael didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the heat of him seeping into your skin, sinking into your bones.

The world tilted.

For a second, just one second, you could almost pretend.

But then—his voice.

"You are quite pathetic, aren’t you?"

You stiffened, fingers tightening against his dress shirt, but you didn’t pull away.

"Tell me," he continued, the mocking lilt in his voice sending warmth curling in your stomach, shameful and unbearable. "Does your body know the difference? Between Dean holding you and this?"

You exhaled shakily.

"I don’t care."

Michael hummed.

"Liar."

His gloved hand lifted, resting on your back this time, the touch just enough, just barely, just cruelly light.

"Your body craves familiarity," he mused, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. "It clings to what it has been conditioned to respond to. This is chemical, biological. Nothing more."

His fingers flexed slightly.

And then—he shifted.

Just the slightest movement beneath you.

Just enough that you felt the tension in his muscles, the weight of his body pressing into the mattress, the reality of what you had done.

And still—you stayed.

Because he was right.

Because you didn’t care.

Because you needed this, even if it was a lie.

The fifth night, you didn’t hesitate.

Not at the door. Not when you knocked. Not when he said, "If you must."

You stepped inside like you belonged there.

Like this wasn’t a mistake.

Like you hadn’t spent the past four nights pushing a god to the very edge of amusement and tolerance.

Michael was exactly as you left him.

Seated at the edge of the bed. Composed. Controlled. Back straight, shoulders squared, watching you before you even opened your mouth.

But tonight, you were different.

Tonight, you needed more.

"What is it you’re seeking from me?"

His voice was smooth, deliberate, but there was something else curling at the edges of it.

Something new.

Something like expectation.

You swallowed hard.

"Not from you." Your voice was steady, but your fingers curled at your sides. "From Dean."

A slow inhale, a quiet exhale.

He tilted his head slightly, considering you like a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

"And yet, you keep coming to me."

"Because you’re all I have."

Michael hummed, unimpressed.

"Then allow me to remind you—this is merely a vessel."

"I know." Your pulse was too fast, too loud in your ears. "I don’t care."

You stepped forward.

The air shifted between you.

"I want to kiss you."

Michael stilled.

Not a flinch, not a sharp reaction, but a pause.

His lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, but the words never came.

Instead, his eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate, tracking the way your chest rose and fell too quickly, the way your hands trembled at your sides.

"No."

"You know I’ll keep asking." You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "Every night, I’ll keep coming back and asking."

There was silence.

A long, sharp silence.

And then—

A shift.

Michael leaned back against the headboard, settling into it like a man utterly unbothered, utterly in control.

Then, he nodded.

It was barely there, barely permission.

But it was enough.

You were on him immediately.

Straddling his lap, pressing yourself against him, your fingers shaking as they slid up over the curve of his shoulders, settling at the junction of his neck.

His body was so still beneath you, rigid, watching, waiting.

"Trembling." His voice was quiet, amused. "Your nervous system is overriding your rationale."

"Please," you whispered, barely able to breathe through the need clawing at your ribs. "Just be quiet. Just let me pretend for a moment."

Michael considered that.

Then, he nodded once.

And you kissed him.

Heat.

That was the first thing you noticed.

The warmth of his lips, the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something darker beneath it all, something that had always made you weak in the worst ways.

His hands didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t pull you in.

So you moved them yourself.

Your fingers wrapped around his wrists, guiding his hands to your waist, pressing them against you, forcing the contact you were starving for.

Michael let you.

Let you position him like a doll, like something meant to be used.

Let you kiss him harder, panting softly against his mouth, your breath shaky, uneven.

Your body was reacting before your mind could catch up.

Heat curling deep in your stomach. Your pulse hammering against your ribs. Your thighs tightening where they straddled him.

You shifted against him, barely, just a small, involuntary roll of your hips.

And that was when he stopped you.

His hands—firm, strong, unyielding—tightened against your waist, halting your movement instantly.

You gasped softly against his lips, shocked by the sudden force of it, by the sudden realisation that something had changed.

And then you felt it.

The pressure.

The hardness pressing against you through the thin fabric of your panties, through his dress pants.

Michael was aroused.

Not because of intent.

Not because of desire.

But because Dean’s body remembered you.

Because Dean’s body responded to you.

And Michael knew it.

Knew it the moment his head tilted back against the headboard, the slow, satisfied smirk curling at his lips.

"Ah."

Your breathing was uneven, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.

Michael just watched you, entirely composed, entirely aware of what had just happened.

"It appears the vessel remembers you after all."

Heat shot up your spine, shame and arousal battling in equal measure, leaving you dizzy and aching.

Michael wasn’t fazed.

"Biological response," he murmured, "but fascinating nonetheless."

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

The room was too hot, too small.

Your body was still reacting, still betraying you, still trying to roll against something that was now off-limits.

"Get off."

Your breath hitched.

"Please—"

"Now."

His voice was calm, but his hands lifted you easily, placing you beside him on the mattress with no more effort than one might handle a fragile object.

His composure was immaculate.

His breathing steady.

Not a single trace of arousal in his expression, only cold curiosity.

You were the one trembling.

You were the one still aching, still needing, still gasping for breath like you had been drowning in it.

Michael exhaled slowly, running a hand down his chest, smoothing out his dress shirt, before finally turning his head to look at you properly.

"That was informative."

"Fuck you."

"Mm." His smirk deepened, gaze flicking over your face, lingering on the way your lips were swollen from kissing him. "Not yet."

You pushed yourself up, stumbling slightly, legs unsteady beneath you as you moved toward the door.

Michael didn’t stop you.

Didn’t say anything.

Just watched.

Just waited.

Because he knew this wasn’t the last time.

Because you would be back.

And next time, he would see just how far you were willing to fall.

The sixth night, you weren’t hesitant anymore.

There was no uncertainty in your hands as you pushed open his door, no faltering in your steps as you crossed the threshold.

Michael was waiting.

He always was.

Seated at the edge of the bed, posture too straight, too composed, too godlike to belong to Dean.

But you weren’t here for him.

You never were.

"You are predictable."

His voice was smooth, teasing, already amused at your presence.

You didn’t care.

"Shut up."

Michael chuckled, watching as you climbed onto his lap without permission, settling over his thighs, pressing yourself flush against him.

His hands remained where they were.

"Eager," he mused, like you were nothing more than a specimen under a microscope. "Tell me, is this how it always was? Were you always so desperate for my vessel?"

You ignored him.

Your hands found his face, slid into his hair, pulled his mouth to yours.

He let you.

Of course he let you.

But it wasn’t Dean.

It wasn’t the way Dean kissed you—hot and desperate, full of reverence, like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there.

This was Michael.

Calculated. Amused. Letting you press your lips against his, letting you drag him into something that he was above.

"Mm." His smirk barely broke the kiss, his voice a cruel hum against your lips. "Interesting. You truly believe this is helping you, don’t you?"

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

You just kissed him harder, drinking in the taste of him, pretending, pretending, pretending.

His hands still hadn’t moved.

You didn’t let yourself care.

Your fingers slid lower, trailing over the front of his dress shirt, undoing buttons as you went, but not lingering—because you weren’t here to waste time.

You needed more.

You needed everything.

Your hands reached the buckle of his belt.

Michael exhaled through his nose, a quiet huff of amusement, but still—he didn’t stop you.

"And what is it you think you’ll accomplish?"

Your fingers worked the leather open, pulling the belt loose, undoing the button, sliding the zipper down.

"I don’t care," you murmured, your voice breathless against his mouth. "Just let me pretend."

Michael laughed.

Soft. Quiet. Cruel.

"What a fascinating, little creature you are."

You freed him from his slacks, your hands wrapping around hot, heavy weight, and a sharp inhale shuddered through your chest.

Dean’s body. Dean's cock.

The shape of him, the heat, the feeling of him in your hands—

It was all Dean.

Michael let you soak in the moment.

Let you shudder, let you lose yourself in the familiarity of it, the unbearable, agonising relief of having him under your touch again.

Then—

"Go on, then."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You sank down onto him, slowly, taking every inch, gasping softly at the stretch.

Michael didn’t react.

Didn’t grip your waist.

Didn’t push up into you.

He just let you use him.

"So desperate," he observed, watching the way your mouth parted, the way your hands trembled against his chest as you adjusted. "I wonder—was my vessel always so willing to let you take what you wanted?"

Your breath hitched as you began to move.

Slow at first.

Rocking over him, adjusting to the way he filled you, the way it ached, the way your body reacted before your mind could stop it.

"Or perhaps," Michael continued, tilting his head back against the headboard, watching you through half-lidded eyes, "he was just as weak for you as you are for him."

Heat licked up your spine, pooled deep in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter with each slow grind of your hips.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

You moved faster.

Your hands braced against his chest, nails biting into fabric, and Michael exhaled sharply—

Not a groan. Not a moan. Not a sound of pleasure.

Just an exhale.

Like he was cataloging something.

"It is remarkable," he murmured, "how your body continues to betray you."

"Shut up," you panted, your breath uneven, your head light, your pulse wild.

"You respond to every stimulus," he continued, entirely unaffected, entirely detached. "Your temperature has risen significantly. Your heart rate—"

"Michael—"

"—is erratic. Your body—"

"Michael, shut up—"

"—is tightening around me."

Your orgasm ripped through you violently, sudden and unrelenting.

Your body convulsed around him, waves of heat flooding through you, pleasure shattering every last ounce of shame, of resistance, of self-preservation.

You didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t hesitate.

Because you weren’t done.

Because Dean wasn’t done.

Your hips kept rolling, faster, chasing after something for him—

But then—

A sharp jerk of your hips.

Michael’s hands—firm, strong, commanding—suddenly gripping your waist and stopping you completely.

"No."

Your head snapped up, dazed, confused.

"What?"

Michael exhaled slowly, his fingers digging in, holding you still, forcing your body to remain motionless over him.

"It is one thing for you to take your pleasure."

You shivered.

"But I will not allow you to decide what happens to my body."

Your stomach twisted, the pleasure still lingering, still humming, but suddenly cold.

"It isn’t your body." Your voice was weaker than you wanted it to be.

Michael smirked.

"It is now."

You stared at him, breath unsteady, the reality of what you had just done settling into your bones like ice.

Michael tilted his head.

"What’s the matter?"

His grip tightened.

"Isn’t this what you wanted?"

You climbed off him slowly, like moving through deep water.

Your body was too warm, too heavy, too full of something thick and suffocating. Your legs trembled when they met the floor, and for a moment, you thought you might collapse under the weight of it.

Michael remained where he was, leaned back against the headboard, his dress shirt open, belt undone, watching.

Always watching.

You didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

The shame was a living thing, curling tight around your ribs, clawing up your throat.

And then, his voice.

"Leaving so soon?"

You flinched.

Not outwardly—he’d never see it, never know he had that power over you—but inside, something twisted violently.

You swallowed, fists clenching at your sides.

"I’m not coming back."

Michael hummed, a soft, knowing sound.

"No?"

"No."

A pause.

You knew he was still watching. Memorising the tension in your shoulders, the erratic rhythm of your breath, the way your body still radiated heat from what you had just done.

His voice was unhurried, composed.

"You’re lying."

Your teeth pressed together so hard your jaw ached.

"I’m not."

Michael sighed, the sound mocking in its ease, in its certainty.

"Yes, you are."

You turned on your heel and walked out without another word.

The hallway was colder than before.

Your body still burned, still ached, still carried the weight of him.

Your skin was flushed, your pulse uneven, shame still threading through your veins, mixing with something darker, something you weren’t ready to name.

The door to Sam’s room was only a few feet away.

You needed to tell him.

You needed to say it out loud, spill it onto the floor between you, let him take some of the weight.

Your hand trembled slightly as you pushed open the door.

Sam was asleep.

Curled on his side, the blankets tangled around his waist, one arm stretched across the empty space in the bed—where you should have been.

Your stomach twisted sharply.

He had known.

Even before you spoke a word, before you took a single step forward, before you placed a hesitant hand against his shoulder—

He had already known.

"Sam."

His breath caught slightly as he stirred, but his eyes were already soft when they blinked open, already full of something achingly familiar.

"I know." His voice was heavy with sleep, warm and quiet in the dim light. "Come here."

You didn’t hesitate.

You climbed into bed, pressing yourself into his warmth, tucking yourself into the space where you had always belonged.

His arms came around you easily, instinctively.

Not holding you together—holding you through the breaking.

"I’ve been sneaking away." The confession was muffled against his chest, your voice raw and thick with something close to grief.

Sam exhaled slowly, his fingers threading into your hair, grounding.

"I know."

Your throat tightened.

Your hands fisted into his t-shirt, gripping something solid, something real.

"I—I’ve been with him."

Sam didn’t tense.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t react the way you thought he might.

Instead, he just held you tighter.

"I know."

The dam cracked.

Tears burned hot behind your eyes, pressing, threatening, breaking.

"I just—" Your breath shuddered, the sob barely contained. "I needed to feel close to him."

Sam let out a quiet breath, a soft whisper of your name.

"I know."

Not an accusation. Not what were you thinking. Not you shouldn’t have.

Just understanding.

Because of course he understood.

Because he had lost him, too.

Because he knew what it was like to ache so deeply for something you could never have again.

Because he had been watching you drown for weeks, and he had been powerless to stop it.

His hand slid up, fingers pressing gently into the back of your neck, his lips brushing against the junction of your shoulder—a quiet gesture, a steadying touch.

"You’re hurting yourself."

Your ribs tightened, something sharp catching in your throat.

"I know."

"Then stop."

"I can’t."

Sam sighed, but it wasn’t frustration.

It was just sadness.

"I know."

Your tears slipped past the barrier, hot and quiet, dampening his shirt, seeping into the space between you.

Sam didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t tell you to stop crying. Didn’t try to fix it.

He just held you.

Held you because it was the only thing left in the world that made sense.

Held you because he didn’t know what else to do.

And for tonight—just for tonight—

You let yourself believe that it was enough.

[anassemblageofpassions]

Wicked spn au. Sam is elphaba, dean is glinda, cas is fiyero, johns the wizard, Lucifer is madame Morrible, adam is nessa, michael is boq, rowena is Dr dillamond.

[rosemariad]

Were you dissatisfied with spn’s ending?

Think Sam & Dean deserved better?

We’ve entered our s11 era! The Darkness is free, and while the angels give it a good go protecting the humans, someone's gotta deal with Amara, so here's our Godsquad:

Part 8 of SPN: Roads Untaken - Book 8 - Walking in the Darkness

Read here on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62046454/chapters/158680174

vs.

but Cas isn't an archangel - right? 😏

Gabriel 😲 coming back ahead of schedule? find out how!

[sevensinswithin]

Thinking about a world where Adam is pulled out of the cage early without Michael and is unwillingly pulled into Sam and Dean's emotionally incestuous codependent relationship. He hates it, but his brothers have made too many enemies for it to be safe for him to live by himself and he doesn't have a certain angelic companion to help keep him safe. So he's kind of just stuck there, reluctantly playing a part in his brothers codependency because he doesn't really have a lot of options and occasionally lashing out at them whenever they cross a line he's uncomfortable with

Edited 04/15/2024: I made a little ficlet set in this universe.

Edited 07/26/2024: I've decided to rewrite the fic and am in the process of doing that, so the old one is going to be deleted.

[dark-dragon-8]

So, I've seen a lot of fanart of it and from now on will headcanon/add to my fics that, whenever an angel possesses somebody, their wings will appear on that person's back like a tattoo.

It's not permanent, obviously, imagine a person letting an angel possess them and then waking up with golden wings tattooed on them three years later. They'll never let anything "holy" in their vicinity again.

But I like to imagine they can still have them even when they're possessing somebody and can use them, too, for example, they can move them (the tattoos/wings) around the body as well as "detach" them from their vessel (IE. Spread them, since they're actually folded/closed when they're on the skin/body as tattoos) whenever they wish, like when Castiel showed his wings to Dean when they first met. But Dean could only see their shadow since only angels and/or (previous) vessels can see the wings themselves, kinda like how only they can hear the angels talking while in their true forms.

I do think people who are considered the Angel's "true vessels" (such as Dean, for Michael, Sam, for Lucifer, Jimmy, for Castiel, and so on) have some sort of remainder of the wings on them, something like a mark or something, even in their bones (like carved into them), that appears after they're first possessed (by their angel) and stays there even after they're no longer possessed by them.

[lebanon-wip]

Is it truly a @disabled-dean fic if there isn't a fucked up dream sequence? Is it really the ship of Theseus? Much to ponder......