#soft Michael!Dean

[colorlessjay]

Part 14 of "Back to the Future" AU

Castiel had fun messing with Dean of the past, but even he can't stop himself from getting soft seeing Dean barely scarred by life. The only scars on his soul were from hell, and it pains Castiel to know that those scars will be covered by even deeper ones in the coming years

So, when Castiel feels Dean will be taken back to where he belongs, he takes the younger hunter down to the lake near his home and lets himself be vulnerable again

A few stories are exchanged, not enough to rattle the timeline, just enough to make Dean smile and scoff in disbelief

It's a somber moment between them, Castiel can tell Dean is struggling to let himself relax. But it's nice.

But when Dean tells him he's changed, smiling all cheeky like a joke, Castiel is brought back to more than a decade in the past

"Don't ever change."

Castiel remembers the almost desperate tone Dean had spoken those words before passing it off as a jest

He remembers dying through Michael's spear, confessing how he has changed, and how he loves

He remembers a more personal, more vulnerable confession, his moment of true happiness, where he tells Dean of how the hunter has changed him

He remembers confessing his doubts about heaven, sitting on a separate bench from Dean

And in a flash, he's back in the present with a reminder of his past, and there's a dull ache behind his ribs that threatens to spill over, to confess more than what he should

unbeknownst to Dean, whose smile is more beautiful than the sunset

And Castiel can't help but smile back like he did all those years ago

"Don't ever change," Dean asked him

Castiel was never good at following orders

Dean will learn that soon enough

And Castiel hopes he will love him regardless of it

Part1 || Part2 || Part3 || Part4 || Part5 || Part6 || Part7 || Part8 || Part9 || Part10 || Part11 || Part 12 || Part13 || Part14

---

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[j2archives]

angel-winged ꨄ︎

── - ˚.⋆ 𝜗𝜚˚.⋆ - contains headcanons!! featuring castiel and sam mentions <3 deans a lover boy . set between s4-5, no michael sword mention.

pairings dean winchester x fem!angel!reader

— He first met you after Castiel called you for assistance due to the war in heaven.

— usually, the angels he met were dicks, but dean could pick up on your soft aura almost instantly (which he thought was strange).

— dean was the one who worked to introduce you to the real world.

— it turned out you loved junk-food as much as he did. dean was sure he hadn’t smiled like this in a long time.

— when heaven called you up above, he didn’t want to let you go. he’d gotten so close to you, he didn’t want to lose you. not like he’s lost his brother, and cas.

— you stayed though. the emotion on your newfound friend’s face broke your heart. it made your heart ache in ways it never had before.

— when you told dean that, a fond smile grew on his lips. he taught you of human emotions with the help of sam, sam welcomed you like a little sister, even teaching you other languages sometimes before dean dragged you away.

— “so you’ve never gotten up there in heaven? not even a little?” he knew cas was a virgin, but he would assume someone would want you. you were a beautiful soul. in his eyes.

— dean taught you about intimacy, he was slow, he slowed himself down purposefully so he could worship your body like the angel you were (he thought you were a goddess though)

— “I know you think ‘s wrong, sweetheart. But it isn’t, you know I’d never lie to you, princess.” everyone noticed the way the elder winchester went soft on you, everyone. god himself. your brothers and sisters.

— dean felt safe with you in his arms instead of you watching over his bed. he wanted to embrace you, and hold you. he wanted you to be at peace as well, your human vessel needed care too.

Taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @theamuz @starzify @h8aaz @bejeweledinterludes @dulcescorderitas @bluemerakis — for dean!!, @immodestly-marina @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth

[supernotnatural2005]

Lebanon

Paring: Dean x Reader

Summary: A wish gone wrong right brings back a familiar face. However, you all soon discover it's not as simple as it seems when what you’ve all accomplished, and your family, hangs in the balance.

Word Count: 7.4k (yikes 😬)

Warnings/tags: Major spoilers!! S14 Ep 13 especially, angst, fluff, canon (semi) divergence, episode rewrite (kinda).

AN: Okay so this was a lovely request from an anon which you can read here. The summary of it was John interacting with his grandson, fathered by either Sam or Dean. Ofc I went with Dean on this one. Personally I struggled finding a way to fit this in and be faithful to the boy's journey. The only thing that felt right to me was what I have written. I hope that is okay anon? ❤️

Main Masterlist

You sit at the library table with Bobby, your three-year-old son, surrounded by scattered crayons and sheets of paper filled with colourful scribbles. His tiny fingers clutch a crayon tightly as he drags it across the page, his little tongue peeking out in deep concentration. His brows furrow—just like Dean’s do when he’s focused—and the sight tugs at something deep inside you.

“Good job, baby,” you murmur, smoothing a hand over his soft, sandy hair.

Even now, three years later, you still found yourself in awe of him. Of the fact that he was yours. That despite everything—despite the life you’d lived, the battles you’d fought, the countless times you weren’t sure you’d even see another day—you had him.

You never thought you’d even be able to have a kid after all the knocks your body had taken over the years. But then Bobby happened—an accident, sure, but never a mistake. Not once. And Dean… Dean had loved him from the second he knew he existed. He loved him with everything in him.

A lot had happened since you first met Dean. You’d bumped into him and Sam on a case years ago, all of you unknowingly hunting the same thing. Sparks flew instantly—partly from attraction, but mostly from the sheer force of your clashing egos. Neither of you were the type to back down. He was cocky, you were stubborn, and together, you were like gasoline to his flame.

But somewhere between the banter and the bickering, a friendship formed. The three of you started meeting up more, sharing research, trading expertise. And then, one night, that tension between you and Dean finally broke.

After that… Well, life never stopped moving.

Losing Bobby Singer. Dean being dragged to Purgatory. Losing him for a year. Getting him back. Then the angels fell. Metatron. Almost losing Sam. Sam being possessed by Gadreel. Losing Kevin. Losing Charlie. The Mark of Cain. Losing Dean again—only to get him back as a demon. Getting rid of the Mark, but unleashing something worse—God’s sister, the Darkness. Oh and God was Chuck? Then Mary came back. Then Lucifer and he had a son, Jack—a Nephilim who, against all odds, had become family. And then there was the discovery of other earths, alternate realities bleeding into their own, which had led you here.

To Michael.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, you’d fell pregnant and raised a, now, three-year-old.

Bobby had been the one good, untouchable thing in all of it.

But since Michael… Everything was different, because of your son.

Dean had been in turmoil. He hid it well most days, but you saw it—in the clench of his jaw, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shake off a weight he couldn’t see.

Michael was still there, buried deep, locked away—for now. And that terrified him. Not just for himself, but for you. For Bobby. Because no matter how strong his will was, no matter how hard he fought to keep control, there was always that lingering fear…

What if the lock didn’t hold?

So you did what you always did. You held everything together. For him. For Bobby. For all of you.

Because no matter how much the world took from you, you still had each other.

And maybe—just maybe—you were still holding out for another miracle.

The heavy bunker doors creaked open, and Bobby’s head snapped up. His green eyes went wide with excitement, his crayon slipping from his grasp.

“Daddy!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the library.

You barely manage to help him down from his chair before he bolts, little legs pumping as fast as they can across the cold bunker floor. His tousled hair bounces with each hurried step, arms swinging as he races toward the only person in the world who could make him forget everything else.

Dean barely has time to brace himself before Bobby collides with him, tiny hands grabbing at his flannel. A tired but genuine laugh escapes Dean as he scoops him up with ease, holding him close. The exhaustion lining his face softens, replaced by something warm and unshakable.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Bobby’s head. “You miss me?”

Bobby nods enthusiastically, burying his face into Dean’s shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

The sight pulls at something deep in your chest—Dean, looking worn from whatever they’d just faced, but still lighting up the second he has his son in his arms. His perfect little double. The same green eyes, the same cluster of freckles dusting his little nose.

Sam steps forward, offering you a tired smile before ruffling Bobby’s hair. “Hey, little man.”

Bobby grins, immediately stretching his arms toward his uncle. Sam chuckles, taking him with ease, and Bobby squeals as he’s lifted high, giggling when Sam playfully swings him in the air. Your son has them both wrapped around his tiny fingers, and they don’t even try to hide it.

But your gaze flickers back to Dean, and you immediately notice the weight in his stance. The way he rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to shake something off but can’t. The way his smile, as bright as it is for Bobby, doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What happened?” you ask softly, stepping closer.

Dean and Sam exchange a look—silent, heavy, something unspoken passing between them. And then, after a beat, Dean finally meets your gaze.

-

“A Baozhu?” you echo, brows knitting together as you absorb everything Dean and Sam just told you. The day they’d had sounded like something straight out of a horror novel.

It started with them tracking down an old friend—well, former hunter—who had been murdered. His death led them to an antique shop owner who had a whole damn room full of occult objects. Dean had rattled off some of the inventory like a bad joke—dragon’s breath in a perfume bottle, a skull supposedly belonging to Sarah Good from the Salem witch trials.

And then, just when things couldn’t get crazier, a couple of idiot teenagers stole Baby, along with all the cursed artefacts they had loaded into the trunk. Dean’s jaw still ticked when he mentioned it, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing—because, yeah, it was serious, but the way he got so damn worked up about his car was just so him.

That would’ve been enough of a headache, but then came the kicker. One of the stolen objects contained a spirit. And not just any spirit—the ghost of John Wayne Gacy.

“Seriously?” you’d blurted when Sam told you. “Like, the John Wayne Gacy?”

“Yup,” Dean had muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Evil clown and all.”

Sam still looked a little queasy at the memory, and you knew why—his fear of clowns was legendary. But thankfully, the boys had handled it, no one got hurt, and the worst that came out of it was a couple of traumatised teenagers who now knew the truth about what lurked in the dark.

But out of everything, the most important discovery was the pearl.

Sam sits at the table now, flipping through an old lore book, his eyes scanning the pages. “It’s supposed to grant the user their heart’s greatest desire,” he explains. “Like a wish.”

You inhale sharply, the weight of those words pressing into your chest. “A wish? Like, an actual wish?”

Sam nods. “That’s what the lore says.”

Your mind starts racing. If it works… if Dean uses it…

You glance at him, and you can tell he’s already there, thinking the same thing. Michael. The archangel still locked inside his head, slowly eating away at him.

It hasn’t been easy. Not for him. Not for any of you. The sleepless nights, the migraines that leave him clutching his skull, the way his hands sometimes shake when he thinks no one’s looking. The moments where he just stares, zoning out, fighting a battle no one else can see. You’ve watched him struggle, pushing himself beyond his limits, trying to hold it together when you know he feels like he’s falling apart.

“Dean…” you murmur, reaching across the table, lacing your fingers through his. “You're sure?” You ask softly and his grip tightens, warm and solid. He exhales, steadying himself, his voice quiet but firm. 

“Yeah,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “If this thing works—Michael’s gone. For good.”

All Dean had to do was hold the pearl and concentrate—wish Michael away for good. Simple.

But the moment he did, the bunker’s lights flickered violently, plunging the room into an eerie, stuttering darkness. Then, without warning, a deep, unnatural red glow pulsed around you, filling the air with a static charge that made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

Your breath hitched as you clutched Bobby tighter against your chest. His little fingers fisted into your shirt, his small body trembling.

“Dean?” you called, alarmed, but his sharp, commanding voice cut through the chaos.

“Take Bobby to our room. Now.”

The authority in his tone left no room for argument. Your heart pounded, panic clawing at your ribs, but keeping Bobby safe was all that mattered.

You turned and bolted down the hall, his small arms locked around your neck as you ran. Behind you, the sounds of grunting and scuffling echoed—something was happening, something bad.

“Mommy?” Bobby’s voice was small, uncertain, his wide green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. His bottom lip trembled, and the sight of it nearly broke you.

You placed him gently into his cot, cupping his soft cheeks between your palms, forcing yourself to smile. “Mommy’s just gonna make sure Daddy and Uncle Sammy are okay, alright?” You kept your voice steady, though your pulse pounded erratically.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the bunker fell silent. The flickering lights steadied. The air no longer buzzed with electricity.

You swallowed hard.

“You’ll be my brave boy and stay here, yeah?”

Bobby hesitated, then gave you a small nod despite his fear. You kissed his forehead firmly, lingering just a second longer than usual, then forced yourself to pull away. You slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind you, willing your hands to stop shaking.

As you rounded the corner, your steps slowed, your breath catching in your throat.

Dean and Sam stood frozen in place, their expressions a mix of shock and something almost… reverent. But it wasn’t fear in their eyes. It was disbelief.

A man stood before them, his stance rigid, a gun poised tight in his grasp, not aiming, but gripped tight. He wasn’t Michael— you’d met that bastard before he possessed your boyfriend. No, this was someone else entirely.

“You boys better tell me what the hell is going on.” The stranger demanded, his voice deep, weary.

Your grip on your gun tightened as you raised it, the chamber clicking into place, shattering the heavy silence.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You demanded, voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

All six pairs of eyes flickered to you at the sound of your voice, and the moment the strangers gaze met yours, a chill ran down your spine. You knew that face.

It took another heartbeat before the realisation struck like a freight train.

You’d seen him before. In the small collection of worn photographs Dean kept tucked away—memories of a childhood long gone.

John Winchester.

After leaving Dean, Sam, and John to catch up, you had gone to check on Bobby. He was still curled up in his cot, clutching the stuffed moose Sam had gotten him for Christmas last year. You’d learned quickly that it was his comfort toy, and seeing him holding onto it so tightly made your heart clench.

His green eyes found you instantly, and he climbed to the edge, making grabby hands. His bottom lip jutted out, a clear sign of distress.

You scooped him into your arms without hesitation, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Hey, sweetheart.” Your voice was soft as you ran a soothing hand over his back. Truthfully, you needed the comfort just as much as he did. John was back. Just when you thought life couldn’t get any crazier…

“Where’s Daddy?” Bobby mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“He’s with Uncle Sammy and—” You hesitated. How exactly do you explain to a three-year-old that his grandfather—who’d been dead for over a decade in your timeline—was alive and plucked from another?

Bobby frowned. “I wanna see Daddy.”

His voice wobbled, and that was all it took for your hesitation to crumble. You weren’t sure if barging in with a toddler was the best timing, but Bobby didn’t understand that. Right now, he just wanted his dad.

“Alright.” You kissed his forehead. “Let’s go see him.”

He clung to you as you carried him down the hall, his little fingers curling into your shirt. As you neared the kitchen, low murmurs drifted through the doorway—John’s voice, rough and gravelly, eerily similar to your boyfriends.

“So, you’ve, um… been busy,” John said, amusement laced with something softer.

Before Dean could respond, Bobby stirred in your arms. The second he spotted his father, his whole face lit up.

“Daddy?”

The room fell silent.

Dean turned at the sound of his son’s voice, surprise flickering across his face before his eyes found yours. You mouthed a quick I’m sorry before setting Bobby down.

John’s gaze never left the toddler as he toddled toward Dean, arms reaching up without hesitation. Dean scooped him up with practiced ease, a small, uncertain smile tugging at his lips as Bobby buried his face in his neck.

John let out a slow breath, eyes flicking between you, Dean, and the boy in his son’s arms. His voice was quiet as he added. 

“Really busy.”

There was no teasing in his tone. Just awe.

Dean swallowed, bracing himself. He wasn’t sure how John would take this—learning he was a grandfather, seeing a piece of Dean’s life he’d never expected to, but John’s eyes glistened with something unreadable, his throat working around words he couldn’t seem to find. Finally, his gaze softened. 

“What’s his name?”

Dean hesitated for just a second before answering, shifting Bobby slightly. “Robert John Winchester.”

John inhaled sharply. His lips parted, but no words came. His gaze flickered between Dean and Bobby, something glassy and overwhelmed in his expression. Then, after a beat, he cleared his throat and reached out, hesitating.

His voice was quieter than before, rough but vulnerable.

“Can I?”

Dean held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

Carefully, he passed Bobby over. John took him like he was made of glass—almost reverently—his arms wrapping securely around his grandson. Bobby, unaware of the weight of the moment, gripped onto John’s shirt with tiny fingers, tilting his head curiously.

John let out a shaky breath, one hand settling on Bobby’s back, the other gently cupping the small boy’s head. A tearful huff escaped him as he whispered, “Hey, little man.”

Bobby blinked up at him, studying his face with quiet curiosity. Then, slowly, his tiny hand reached out, cupping John’s cheek. John froze for a moment, his breath hitching as Bobby assessed him with those big green eyes—the same shade Dean’s had been at that age.

Then, Bobby giggled at the prickle of John’s beard, the sound breaking the heavy air in the room. A small, watery smile pulled at John’s lips as he let out a quiet chuckle, his hold on Bobby tightening just slightly.

You, Dean, and Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

But after a moment, Bobby shifted, his little arms reaching back toward you. Instinctively, you stepped forward, and John, though reluctant, carefully handed him over.

His eyes lingered on you, then flickered to Dean and Bobby—his grandson, his son, this family he had never gotten the chance to know.

His voice was rough with emotion as he admitted, “I just… I just wish I’d been here to see it all.”

Dean’s throat tightened. He knew John wasn’t just talking about Bobby—he was talking about everything. The years they’d spent fighting, losing, surviving. The pain, the victories, all the impossible things that had led them here.

Dean met his father’s eyes, his voice steady when he said, “Dad, none of this would have happened without you.”

John looked at him then, really looked at him, his eyes flicking to you, to the boy in your arms, before landing back on Dean with a soft, knowing smile.

Then, as if needing to ground himself in something familiar, John let out a breathy chuckle. “Well, I went out taking out Yellow Eyes. I mean, that was the point, right? Get the thing that killed Mom.”

The shift was instant. You felt it in the way Dean’s grip on your hand tightened, in the way Sam tensed across the table. The air in the room seemed to still.

He didn’t know.

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, the same realisation hitting them both at once.

And then, before anyone could figure out how to tell him, the bunker door creaked open.

“Boys? Y/N?” Mary called out and John’s face twisted in recognition and something deeper. 

John turned as she approached, pausing in the doorway, eyes wide, breath catching the second she saw him.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stared. The kind of stare that cut through time, through decades, through life and death itself.

Then John stood and surged forward. 

She barely had time to whisper his name before he was there, pulling her into his arms, kissing her like he’d never let her go.

It was raw, desperate, a reunion, decades in the making.

You felt Dean exhale beside you, his grip on your hand loosening as he watched his parents cling to each other like the world had stopped moving.

You met Sam’s gaze, then tipped your head toward the hall. A silent suggestion. He gave a small nod.

You turned back to Dean, giving him the same look, and he sighed before nudging his head toward the hallway.

Giving them this moment was the least you could do.

You followed Sam and Dean out of the kitchen, Bobby tucked securely in your arms. Dean let out a breathless chuckle, running a hand through his hair, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and exhilaration.

“It’s Dad,” he murmured, like saying it out loud might make it feel real. His eyes flickered between you and Sam, wide with wonder. “This is amazing. I’m—I’m freaking out.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, his own voice tinged with the same stunned disbelief. You met his gaze, both of you thinking the same thing.

Sam turned back to Dean, grounding him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “But Dean—Dean, listen.” His tone was steady, cautious. “How did this happen?”

Dean blinked, still reeling. “I—I don’t know,” he admitted, stumbling over the words. He was overwhelmed, barely holding onto the moment, and as much as you loved seeing him like this, you couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your gut. When did anything this good happen without consequences?

“You said the pearl gives you what your heart desires, right?” He continued, looking to Sam for confirmation, who nodded pensively, “so my heart desired—“ He shook his head, trying to articulate it clearly, “I’ve wanted this. Man, I've wanted this since I was four years old.”

Your hold on Bobby tightened, the weight of Dean’s words settling deep in your chest. His gaze lingered on you, desperate and vulnerable, like you were the only one who could truly grasp what this meant to him.

And you did.

Dean had carried this ache his whole life, a longing so deep it had shaped the man he became. How many nights had he wished for just one more moment? One more chance to have his dad back—to have his family whole again?

“Okay, I know,” Sam began, voice softer now, careful. “And I—I love this too, Dean, really I do…” He sighed, not in frustration but in that way that said he knew better. “But messing with time… You know how this ends. Things change—”

“Yeah, great—we got our family back together. I’ll take that change,” Dean interrupted, voice sharp with defensiveness. You could see the way his shoulders tensed, how his jaw clenched like he was bracing for a fight. And damn it, you wanted so badly to agree with him. To ignore the reality Sam was trying to lay out.

“That’s not what I mean—”

“Stop. Just stop, okay?” Dean cut in, his voice tighter now, more upset. He looked between you and Sam, his expression pleading. You knew he wasn’t delusional—just desperate. Desperate to hold onto something that never should’ve been taken from him in the first place.

“Look, can—can we just have one family dinner?” Dean’s voice cracked slightly as he exhaled, his walls barely holding up against the weight of this moment. “Just one. Us—All of us together. That’s all I want. Can you just give me that?”

Before either of you could respond, Dean turned on his heel, walking off, his frustration radiating from every step. He didn’t want to hear the truth. Not now.

And your heart broke for him.

Because even knowing what Sam was saying was right… What was so wrong with just one dinner?

Sam sighed, exasperated, his expression torn. He turned to you, searching for some kind of understanding, and you squeezed his hand gently. 

“This means everything to him, Sam,” you murmured, your voice quiet but certain. “Just one dinner can’t hurt, right?” You weren’t just pleading for Dean—you were pleading for both of them. Because you knew how much this meant to Sam, too. Even if he didn’t want to admit it. Even if it hurt to be the one pointing out the reality of it all.

Sam let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Yeah… maybe.” He gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, before squeezing your hand back. Then, with a sigh, he kissed Bobby’s head and walked off, leaving you standing there, staring after them—standing in the wake of something you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

You found Dean in your shared room, shrugging on his jacket like he was heading out. He barely looked up at first, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

“Hey,” you said quietly, not sure if he still needed space or if he was ready to talk.

Dean hesitated for a second, then glanced your way, his expression softening just a little.

Bobby had started dozing off on the way to the room, his small head resting against your shoulder, warm and heavy with sleep. You carefully lowered him into his cot, tucking the blanket around him. He barely stirred, his little chest rising and falling steadily, completely lost to the world.

A quiet sigh left you as you straightened, only to startle when you felt Dean’s hands slide around your waist from behind. He pulled you in against him, resting his chin on your shoulder as he looked down at Bobby. You felt the deep inhale he took, like he was trying to memorise this moment—like he was afraid to blink and lose it.

When he finally turned you in his arms, his hands found your hips, his forehead pressing to yours in that familiar way that made the world go quiet. You let out a slow breath, your fingers instinctively sliding up his arms before wrapping around his back, holding onto him just as tightly as he was holding onto you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion.

You shook your head, but he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his hands tightening on you like he needed you to hear this.

“I really did wish for Michael to be gone,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “But I guess… this just won over that.” His lips pressed together like he still couldn’t believe it, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. 

“My whole family—together again. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And after Bobby was born…” His voice broke just slightly, and he let out a shaky breath, eyes flickering to his sleeping son with something deeper, something that made your heart ache. “God, I wanted it even more.”

You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, bringing him back to you. His stubble scratched against your palm as he leaned into your touch, his lashes fluttering shut for a moment like he was grounding himself in it.

“Dean,” you whispered, aching for him.

He opened his eyes again, searching yours, something pleading in them. “I know the risks,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “But just for tonight… I just wanna pretend.” His fingers traced soft, absentminded circles against your lower back, his forehead still pressed to yours. “Pretend this is how it’s supposed to be.”

Your throat tightened, your chest aching with how much you understood. How could you not? You knew what it meant to him. Knew what it was like to want something so badly it hurt.

So instead of answering, you kissed him.

Soft, slow, tender.

Dean melted into it immediately, his hands gripping you tighter, like he was afraid you might slip away. His lips were warm, familiar, desperate in a way that made you feel like you were the only thing holding him together. You let yourself sink into it, let yourself pour every bit of understanding, every ounce of love into that kiss.

When you finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, his forehead dropping against yours once more. His hands lingered at your waist, his thumbs brushing gently over your sides.

“I was just gonna grab a list of ingredients from Mom,” he murmured after a beat, his lips ghosting over yours. “She wants to make dinner.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, your fingers carding through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Then I guess you better go make sure she has everything.”

He smiled against you, but there was something fragile in it, something that made you brush your lips against his one last time before stepping back, your arms slipping from around him reluctantly.

Dean lingered a moment, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, before finally heading for the door.

For tonight, you’d let him have this.

For tonight, you’d pretend too.

After Dean left, you turned to one of your most reliable coping mechanisms—cleaning. If your hands were busy, your mind had less room to spiral.

You started small, straightening the blankets on the bed, smoothing out every wrinkle with practiced hands. You fluffed the pillows next, then folded Dean’s shirt—the one he’d tossed carelessly over the chair earlier. The fabric was warm from the heat of him, smelling like him, like home. You exhaled, a quiet ache settling in your chest.

Then there were Bobby’s tiny socks on the floor. You picked them up, rolling them together, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the weight pressing down on you. It was funny, really. You were standing in the middle of another damn apocalypse, juggling the chaos of archangels and time travel, but here you were, folding laundry like it could anchor you.

But no matter how much you focused on the small, mundane tasks in front of you, the worry still crept in. About what came next. Not just with John but Michael, too.

A sudden knock at the door shattered your thoughts. You flinched slightly, blinking as you turned.

And then you saw him.

John Winchester stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was the same man from the stories—the ones whispered among hunters, the ones Bobby had grumbled about over a glass of whiskey. And yet, he wasn’t.

You knew enough about him to form an opinion. Maybe more than an opinion. You resented him for what he put his boys through, for the way he shaped them into men who never got to just be. And yet... you understood grief. Knew how it could twist a person into something unrecognisable. You had lost Dean before—more than once—and each time, the world blurred at the edges, reality tilting until you weren’t sure how to stand up straight again.

John was staring at you now, his expression unreadable. But something in his eyes—something raw—made your breath hitch.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” His voice was rough, quieter than you expected. He raised a hand, almost apologetic.

You shook your head, straightening. “No, it’s fine.” You set a folded pair of Dean’s jeans on the bed and turned to give him your full attention.

His gaze lingered on the crib. You followed his line of sight, your lips twitching at the edges. You supposed it must be surreal—coming from a time when his sons were much younger, still in the thick of his mission, only to find himself here, where Dean was not just a man, not just a hunter, but a father.

John exhaled, shaking his head slightly. Then, with a small, almost hesitant smile, he looked at you. “You know, I owe you a thank you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For taking care of my boys.” His voice was steady, but you could hear the weight behind it. “For giving Dean something real.”

Your throat tightened.

John glanced at the crib again before meeting your gaze. “I know I should’ve been—could’ve been—a better father to ‘em.” His jaw clenched, his voice thick with something heavy. “But seeing Dean with Bobby... It’s proof of how much better he turned out than I ever could’ve hoped.”

He took a slow step forward, stopping just short of the crib. He didn’t reach for it, didn’t intrude, just stood there, watching his grandson sleep. His fingers curled into his palms at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to be here.

The hardened hunter was gone. In his place was a man who carried the weight of too many regrets.

“You weren’t always a good father,” you admitted, voice even but not unkind. “You did things that left scars. On both of them.”

John nodded, accepting it without argument. He didn’t try to justify himself. Didn’t try to fight you on it.

“But they’re still here,” you continued. “Despite everything, they’re still standing.” You huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “And knowing them, they’d probably say they’re proud to be your sons.”

John’s throat bobbed, his gaze flickering with something close to pain.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.” A beat of silence. “I’m proud to be their father, too.”

For the first time since you met him, you saw it. Not the soldier, not the myth—but the man.

And before either of you could say anything more, the bunker door creaked open.

The boys were back.

“A temporal paradox.” 

John repeated the words slowly, almost like he was testing them out, rolling them around in his mind. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, like he couldn’t quite believe it. But that glimmer of amusement was fleeting. The weight of the situation pressed down, the reality of what it all meant sinking in fast.

During Dean and Sam’s trip into town, they were faced with all the reasons why you should never mess with time. It wasn’t just that things were different—it was that if they didn’t undo what Dean had unintentionally wished, they could lose a hell of a lot more.

“That’s what Sam’s calling it.” Dean shook his head, huffing out a small breath. “Egghead.”

John chuckled softly, a flicker of something warm in his expression. But then, as quickly as it came, the smile faded. The truth settled in. He’d suspected as much.

“Basically, uh,” Dean started, exhaling through his nose, like the words were heavier than he expected. “If you don’t go back, Sam never gets into the life, and Mom, she, uh…” He trailed off for a second, his throat tightening.

John’s expression shifted—something sad, something knowing.

“Well, without everything that we did, with God, the Darkness… she never comes back.”

Dean cast his gaze downward, the words pressing into his chest like a tone of bricks. He’d already told you, and you’d left him to have this moment with his father while you tended to a restless Bobby. But saying it now, out loud, made it all feel so much more real.

“And, uh—” His voice wavered, betraying him. John caught it immediately, and his face softened in a way that Dean wasn’t used to. 

“What?”

Dean swallowed hard. “I never meet Y/N,” he admitted, voice raw. “And, uh… Bobby is never born.”

John let out a slow breath, nodding in understanding. “Sam thinks they’ll just fade away,” Dean added, his voice barely above a whisper, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

John then looked at him—really looked at him. His mind already made up. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

“Okay.”

Dean blinked, caught a little off guard. “Okay?”

John nodded again, firmer this time. “I mean, me versus your Mom? Your family?” He scoffed slightly, shaking his head. “That’s—That’s not even a choice.”

Dean looked away, but nodded in agreement. Despite how impossible of a choice this was, his heart and soul had already picked you and his son. 

John studied him for a long moment, his sharp gaze flickering with understanding before he tilted his head slightly. “Does she know?”

Dean exhaled. “Sam’s telling her now.”

Before anything else could be said, the quiet moment was broken by the sound of tiny, excited babbling from the hall. Bobby.

Dean and John both instinctively turned toward the sound, and despite the weight of everything hanging over them, a small smile pulled at their lips.

“I think that’s your cue,” John chuckled, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

Dean let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah.”

With that, Dean turned, already set on making a beeline for you—until John’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Dean.”

Dean hesitated, glancing back.

“I, uh…” John exhaled slowly. “I never meant for this.”

Dean shook his head immediately. “Dad, we pulled you here.”

“No, son.” John’s voice was steady, unshakable. “My fight. It was supposed to end with me, with Yellow Eyes. But now you—” He trailed off, eyes scanning Dean’s face like he was taking him in for the first time. Like he was seeing just how much his son had lived through, how much he had lost, how much he had become, and Dean held his breath.

“You’re a grown man,” John said, voice quieter now, but no less firm. A small, almost wistful smile touched his lips. “And I am incredibly proud of you.”

Dean swallowed hard.

For years—his whole damn life, really—he had chased those words, hunted them down in every action, every sacrifice, every order he had followed without question. He’d needed them more than he ever wanted to admit.

And now, hearing them…

He didn’t know what the hell to do with them.

John let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I guess I always hoped, eventually, you’d get yourself a normal life. A peaceful one.” His lips twitched in something between amusement and regret. “But you did get a family. And boy, what a wonderful one you got.”

Dean’s chest ached. Not in the painful way it usually did, but in something lighter, something warmer, and he nodded, voice thick. “I really do.”

John placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. His eyes were glassy, his expression proud, happy, even.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before they both let out small chuckles, both clearly not used to this kind of open emotion between them.

John cleared his throat, smiling. “Alright. What’s next?”

Dean patted his dad’s shoulder, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“We eat.”

The library was quiet—too quiet. The usual warmth of the bunker felt dimmed, weighed down by the unspoken grief hanging thick in the air. The large wooden table was set with plates of home-cooked food, a rare sight among the usual takeout containers and beer bottles. Dishes of mashed potatoes, roast chicken, green beans, and cornbread were carefully laid out, though none of it seemed as comforting as it should have been.

At the head of the table, Bobby sat in his high chair, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak surrounding him. He kicked his little feet, happily munching on soft baby carrots, babbling to himself between bites. The sound was a bright contrast to the silence of the adults, their appetites dulled by the weight of what was to come.

Mary sat beside John, her hands resting in her lap, her gaze downcast. Her expression was unreadable—except to those who knew her well. The tight set of her jaw, the slight furrow of her brow, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve—it was grief, raw and quiet. She was trying to hold herself together, but you could see the cracks forming. Your heart ached for her, for all of them.

Dean sat beside you, his posture tense, his grip on his fork loose. Sam sat next to him, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darting between his parents. No one knew what to say.

And then, John cleared his throat.

“Near as I can tell, we have two choices,” he announced, his voice steady but thick with meaning. He looked around the table, making sure each of you heard him. “All right, we can think about what’s coming, or we can be grateful for this time that we have together.”

A smile ghosted his lips as he reached for Mary’s hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The tenderness in his touch, the way she squeezed back with slightly trembling fingers—it was enough to make your throat tighten.

“Now me,” John went on, his voice quieter, but firm, “I choose grateful.”

He lifted Mary’s hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her skin. The small, simple act of love shattered something inside you, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You discreetly wiped it away, exhaling a shaky breath—until you felt Dean’s hand slip into yours under the table.

His grip was firm, grounding, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining—not just with unshed tears, but with love, with quiet adoration. His lips quirked into a barely-there smile, as if to say I’ve got you. And you squeezed his hand back, a silent I know.

John cleared his throat, straightening in his seat. “So, to whatever brought us together,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “We owe you one. Amen.”

You swallowed hard and echoed softly, “Amen.”

John’s gaze landed on you, warm and grateful, before Dean murmured his own amen, followed by Mary and Sam.

And then, as if on cue, Bobby lifted his sippy cup with both hands, grinning as he let out his own version of an, Amen, but without the A. The moment of it—so innocent, so sweet—broke the tension, and laughter rippled through the room, soft but genuine.

Dean chuckled, kissing his son's head, lingering a little before lifting his own beer bottle, and with a glance around the table, everyone followed suit, toasting together.

The warmth lingered long after the laughter had settled, weaving through the quiet moments that followed. Plates clinked softly as forks scraped up the last bites of dinner, the heavy weight of earlier conversations giving way to something lighter—something cherished.

Bobby remained in John’s lap for the rest of dinner, small hands grabbing at whatever was within reach. He giggled happily, his little voice rising and falling as he gestured animatedly, as if telling the most important story in the world. John listened intently, nodding along, his expression soft in a way rarely seen. Mary reached over, brushing Bobby’s soft, blonde hairs from his forehead, her smile tender, her eyes brimming with emotion as she watched her husband and grandson together.

Across the table, you and Dean sat close, his arm draped around you, his thumb moving in slow, absentminded strokes against your shoulder. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he exhaled deeply, soaking it all in. When Bobby let out a bright burst of laughter—pure, unfiltered joy—your heart clenched.

Dean must have felt it too because he pressed a lingering kiss to the side of your head, his lips warm against your temple. When you turned to meet his gaze, his eyes were already on you—shining, full of something deep and unspoken. He didn’t need to say anything. It was all there.

The moment stretched, the low hum of conversation, the occasional bursts of laughter, the soft clatter of dishes—it all melted together into something perfect. Sam leaned back in his chair, watching with quiet amusement as Bobby shoved a piece of bread into John's mouth, earning a chuckle from the older man. Mary shook her head fondly, her fingers tracing small circles on John's forearm.

It was a picture of something rare.

A family—whole, just for now.

The air felt impossibly heavy, thick with unspoken words and the weight of what was about to happen. The time they had borrowed was running out.

John turned to Mary, his eyes soft, glassy with unshed tears. He reached for her, brushing a strand of golden hair behind her ear before cradling her face in his rough hands. "My girl," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. 

A choked sound left Mary's throat as she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. They kissed—slow, lingering, as if they could hold back time just a little longer. Your heart clenched as you clutched Bobby closer, rocking him slightly as if to soothe both him and yourself.

When John turned to you, his expression was unreadable for a moment, but then, with a tremble in his voice, he asked, "May I?" He gestured toward Bobby, and your throat tightened as you nodded, tears spilling over. Carefully, you passed your son to him, watching as John pulled Bobby close, pressing his lips to the little boy’s hair.

"I'm so grateful I got to meet you, buddy," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Bobby blinked up at him, small hands reaching out to cup John's scruffy cheeks. The gesture made everyone smile through their tears, the sheer innocence of it grounding them all in the moment. John closed his eyes, pressing another lingering kiss to the top of Bobby's head before exhaling shakily.

When he looked back at you, his expression was serious, but not heavy. There was something lighter in his gaze now, something settled. "You watch out for these boys, yeah?"

You swallowed past the lump in your throat and nodded. "Always."

John lingered, giving Bobby one last kiss before handing him back to you. As you stepped away, Dean's hands found yours, holding tight, grounding you as you passed.

Then, John turned to his sons.

"I'm so proud of you boys," he said, voice breaking, eyes shining as he looked between them. The words hung in the air, sinking in deep, and neither Sam nor Dean could stop the tears from spilling over as they stepped into their father’s embrace. He held them tight, arms wrapped fiercely around them, as if trying to memorise the feeling, as if trying to make up for lost time in a single moment.

You couldn't hold back your own tears as Bobby nuzzled into you, his small arms wrapping around your neck. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he sensed your sadness, and in his own little way, he was comforting you.

John stepped back, his fingers intertwining with Mary’s as he took one last look at his family. His gaze swept over all of you—his boys, his grandson, you—before he nodded, a final acceptance settling in his features.

"Okay," he murmured, squeezing Mary’s hand. "Okay. I'm ready."

Sam hesitated for only a moment before he laid the pearl on the table and then the sharp crack of breaking glass echoed through the quiet space.

Everyone watched in wonder and sadness as John Winchester faded into nothingness.

A heavy silence followed, the air still trembling with his absence. But as the initial grief settled, something else remained—a sense of peace, fragile but real.

And yeah, maybe this wasn’t how things were meant to be. Dean’s wish had rewritten fate. But if it gave them this—a chance to say what had been left unsaid, to mend wounds that had ached for too long—then maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

AN: Okay so this one was a long boi 😅. But I would love to know everyone's thoughts? Did you think this fit well for the request? Also I know John Winchester is a bit of a sensitive topic, not everyone likes him and it's understandable, but I feel I catered more to his human side a little here. Plus this episode was pretty heartbreaking. Anywho I hope you guys enjoyed and thank you anon for the request! 💕

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[omgitskaii]

love that y’all liked the hc’s so i’ll bring some more to the table:

sam sometimes ask castiel to check if his soul is intact; no matter how many times cas assures him it’s there, sam always doubts himself

cas gets phantom pain on his shoulder blades from his wings

when dean has nightmares, he often gets violent with himself or things around him; there’s occasions he’s woken up with deep scratches on his arms or his fingernails stubbed and bloody from abuse to his wall. he tries to hide them when he wakes up.

dean sometimes flinches whenever cas raises an arm to him. he tries to play it off when it happens, but cas will always notice and assure him with a gentle touch afterwards.

when dean was still hosting michael in his head, whenever he’d fall asleep, dean would unintentionally visit him in the bar. michael would taunt him through the door, so often that dean has come to believe some of the stuff he said. he doesn’t tell anyone.

there’s a pillow in the library dedicated to sam for whenever he falls asleep/passes out reading lore books or cataloging

dean will get someone else to hand him painkillers, saying he’s too lazy to get them himself. but it’s really because he doesn’t trust himself.

cas will intentionally seem “dense” just to make dean laugh and does it mostly to fuck with sam.

sam and dean will play mystery puzzle games together to try to do “normal things,” but both of them will just apply hunters lore to it, which makes the game 10x more complicated, and then both give up.

it’s a habit he picked up when he was a kid hunting with john, but dean will still try to hide his injuries no matter how bad they are. it’s gotten him into trouble on multiple occasions.

sam bites his nails when he’s nervous or stressed out.

sam keeps an old jacket that dean gave him once when he was a kid that was way too big for him, even in his teens. it was a ratty thing from the thrift store and dean picked it out for him because he was too cold in the motel their dad set them up in. sam still wears it sometimes. it finally fits now that he’s older.

dean is soft on jack and claire because he sees himself in them, but deep down it’s also to reconcile how he first failed ben. he thinks of him sometimes, and on one occasion has sent him an anonymous birthday card. he believes he’s not father material and wasn’t made for it, no matter how badly he wants it.

dean has turned tricks in order to fend for him and sam when he was young. he’s never told sam.

cas makes rounds in the bunker to make sure both brothers are safely asleep

sam hates needles

dean has spent a lot of his time alone studying spell books to find some way to safely see cas’ true form, or some extension of it. later on, when he finds a way to make it possible, assures rowena with a quick text that he knows what fifth base is now.

sam and cas make an effort to hang out one on one. they go out for coffees sometimes when dean is off on a solo hunt, trade notes on different pieces of history and lore, or they’ll watch lengthy documentaries together.

dean goes to visit bennys grave in louisiana

whenever cas is pissed off he’ll mutter things in enochian

both dean and rowena actually do make an effort to be friends. they both just pretend to be insufferable for the sake of appearances, even though they did initially hate eachother. they’ll occasionally meet up for drinks, and rowena calls it ‘girls night’ despite deans annoyance.

cas gets pissed (and/or jealous) whenever someone touches deans shoulder

sam will sometimes jump on dean on the couch or throw shit at him when he’s relaxing in his room to piss him off, because he’s an annoying little brother. in older sibling fashion, dean will always chase him around the bunker at least once when he gets fed up before inevitably giving up to grab a drink or when cas yells at them for being idiots

dean lets jack, claire, and cas put on their own music in the impala. sam is furious about it when he finds out, but also secretly happy for him knowing how personal that actually is for his brother.

they used to do this when they were little, but sam and dean will still share clothes sometimes, even though they are sometimes too big/small. dean will lend cas his clothes too. it’s more of a comfort thing.

dean buys fidget toys for sam. sam has a collection of fidget spinners in almost every room in the bunker and multiple laying around in the impala for when they have to do stakeouts.

selectively mute dean. there are times where dean will go a few days without talking, usually due to rough nightmares or hunts gone wrong. he’s tired of taking his anger out on people, so he keeps to himself.

cas has robotically perfect handwriting, even when he needs to write something down quickly

dean likes to sing when he’s alone and he’s very good at it, but will purposefully sing off key when anyone comes in. he’ll usually sing whenever he’s cooking or working on baby, using his tools or utensils as a microphone.

[ultravi0lence14]

BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN

DEAN WINCHESTER X DEMON!READER

WARNINGS: angst, before dean and lil monster got together, bloody chaos

SUMMARY: little monster is new to the bunker, new to living with sam and dean. all she wants to do is show dean she is not a bad person, but the eldest won’t budge.

WC: 889

LITTLE MONSTER’S CABINET OF CURIOSITIES

dean sighs, his hands balling into fists as he hears the annoyingly loud classical music blaring from your room. why did sam allow you to stay with them? why did he allow you to buy that freakish gramophone from the thrift store, along with dusty old records of soundless tunes that were fit for a gothic waltz.

you were weird, probably the most freaky person dean had ever come in contact with. he knew a lot of demons — hell, he’s killed a lot of demons, but you were. . . different.

he wanted to kill you, badly did he want to drive the demon killing blade into your chest. but something deep inside of him wouldn’t allow it. and it was pissing him off because you were pissing him off.

the bug obsession was just gross; always coming inside with new insects inside of jars, curating them to put into shadow boxes. it was disturbing, and dean had to shield his eyes whenever he reluctantly went into your room.

your room was a enigma that dean didn’t even want to interrupt. all the bugs, dead animal bones (he hopes), jars filled with trophies you took from supernatural creatures you killed; it was all so morbid, and dean saw enough death in his life to have a room in his home dedicated to it.

he was expecting you to turn on him and sam, a ploy that was ready to swing into full motion at any moment. you were the first angel turned demon for christ’s sake, lucifer’s second hand when he battled michael. why should he and his brother trust that you wouldn’t turn on them.

the pleading and forced explanations were getting tiring. you tried to explain to dean that lucifer had manipulated you, throwing you away when you weren’t needed and turning you into a demon for punishment. you tried to make him believe you were bullied in hell, that your bloodlust came from years of demons and death picking on you and making you believe you were nothing. it was so laughable, dean didn’t even listen anymore.

today had been dean’s final straw; he’d been cleaning his gun in his room, getting ready for a demon hunt a couple towns away when you knocked on his door. the distinctive knock you refused to let up rang through his ears, eliciting an eye roll from dean as he got up from his bed. when he swung his door open, a scowl on his face, he saw you standing in the threshold expectantly, a tiny music box perched in your palms as you stared up at him through your lashes.

the look on your face was mesmerizing, your hair falling down your back in long ebony waves. the long black sleeve shirt mixed with a black skirt had dean believing you were death itself, a beacon that grew rot and decay around them.

looking down at the item in your palms, he noticed that the music box had intricate designs on it. small butterflies and wilting flowers decorated the brass sides, a string of ivy going around the lid. it was beautiful, and dean couldn’t help but let his scowl let up.

“what’s that, little freak?” dean grit out, his hands gripping onto the doorframe as he noticed the mud caked on your knees.

pushing your hair behind your ear, dean got front row views to your razor sharp jaw, a line like the grim reapers scythe. “i was at the thrift store and found this, thought you’d like it.” you muttered, sock clad feet knocking against each other as dean’s stare penetrated your blackened soul. “i didn’t recognize the song that played, but it sounded like something you’d like.”

carefully taking it out of your hands, dean opened the box to hear a soft, yet piercing melody burst into his ears. it truly was beautiful, and he couldn’t find it in himself to hate you for thinking about him when you saw this.

“thanks.” he murmured, turning to place the item on his dresser. “now go get ready for the hunt, need that blood fein to come out and play tonight, little freak.”

you just nodded, mouth parting with words on your tongue before dean slammed the door in your face. he didn’t want you to see the turmoil in his eyes, the way he couldn’t justify hating you anymore.

dean couldn’t find all those hobbies you had disgusting anymore. the bugs were something he affiliated with you, a gross yet endearing tendency that dean realized he never really hated. the animal bones were also very you, alongside all your trophies which dean realized symbolized your loyalty to his and sam’s cause. you were killing supernatural creatures, not working with them.

and when the demon they were hunting solidified your story of being lucifer’s protege, a laughingstock in hell that got bullied for not being full angel, dean couldn’t help but slashing the vile creatures throat with his demon blade, watching as life drained from their eyes and blood filled with yours.

there were more demons left, and dean watched with awe and confusion as you slaughtered them all. dean didn’t know what the feeling he felt was, but he valued you like the bride of frankenstein; a beautiful and dark woman who loved destruction.

god, dean was screwed.

TAGS: @titsout4jackles @starzify @floralscented @deansbeer @bluemerakis @figthoughts @haunteres @foolinthera1n @deanangel

NAT BABBLES: another head canon post is in order bc bree and i cannot stop brainstorming prompts for our little monster!!

[shelbgrey]

Gabriel Being your guardian angel and falling in love with you

Paring: Gabriel x Singer!Reader

Summary: the only thing gabe has ever tooken seriously is keeping you safe, but what he didn't expect is falling in love with you. -SMUT warning

🧡MasterList 🧡ML2 🧡Dating Moodboard

When he found out he didn't really care. Michael and Lucifer were desened to inhabit the Winchesters bodies and he got the boring job of being Bobby Singer's Nieces.

But it's the first and almost only thing he has ever taken seriously. He was the trickster after all and it was mostly deadly jokes to him, but when he saw you he immediately took the role of guardian angel seriously.

You didn't have an encounter intill years. You were an adult and a hunter. Your first case involving him, he was just known as the trickster. He left you untouched but screwed with Sam and Dean.

That pattern continued when with the mystery spot Fiasco. Gabe knew how much you cared for Dean so he didn't put you in the time loop with Sam.

He didn't bring Dean back till you asked.

During his TV land joke he purposely put you and the boys in shows you liked. Like Dr. Sex MD was based off Greys anatomy(a show you liked).

“it's him! It's Dr. Sexy” Dean said excided.

“McDreamy trumps Dr. Sexy” you said, rolling your eyes.

After you got out of TV land, you confronted him while he was in the holy fire.

“I'm always left untoched during your practical jokes, why is that?”

he just chuckled, crossing his arms. 'Dammit.' He thought, he couldnt get a rise out of you. It was time to see his more sincere side. “What? You dont think the big bad "Trickster" has a soft spot?”

His sarcasm to drop. He wanted you to know the real reason but was he supposed to be like "oh. I'm your angel. I dont like putting you in harms way when I can control it?"

“I don't know... Do you have a soft spot?”

For some reason you felt some kinda connection. You never looked into his eyes until this point, there was this feeling of safety you felt. Heck, looking back you never felt threatened by him. He was good at being your guardian angel.

“Not usually. But for you? Maybe a little” He just grinned and winked. He did have a soft spot for you and he felt a sense of overprotectiveness over you. he has to deal with you being in constant danger and being a hunter doesnt help.

“Why?” you looked down at the holy fire he was trapped on. “you ain't going anywhere any time soon... Might as well awnser”

“I'm your guardian angel, baby” he smirked, his his eye brows bouncing up and down like it was some big spectacle he just revealed.

“wow... I thought guardian angels was just bullshit”

He nodded, his normal goofy and sarcastic tone dropping to more sincere and gentle. He also hated that you picked up on the sarcasm quickly. “Yep. Most are. They are assigned randomly. But well, I was your guardian the second you were born... Now let me out- I dont like being in a holy fire” He teased, a smile creeping back on his face.

You chuckled sarcastically. “you think I'm just gonna let you out just like that? You're still the trickster”

“Pretty please?” He smirked and gave you an innocent look with wide puppy dog eyes. He knew he was playing dirty but hey, it's the only way he was getting out.

“Pretty please? Seriously?”

“Pretty. Please” He said the words slow and with exaggerated hand motions. He was pushing his luck now.

“If I do, you have to lay low for a while... No more tricks”

“For how long?” He groaned at the idea. He has been playing tricks on people for centuries. So he wasnt very keen to stop. But it was you. That's the only reason he would do it. Not that hes even admitted that to himself yet.

“Until I say so”

He groaned. “Fine. Fine”

You paid mercy on him and convinced the brothers to let him go. You also didn't speak to sam or Dean about him being your guardian angel.

After that he wouldn't leave you alone. It annoyed the hell out of the boys but you brushed it off.

“Gooooodd Morning miss. Y/n Singer. It's a beautiful day in Lawrence Kansas. The weather is gonna be sunny and dry. But better get ready because the forecast predicts a pesky Windego on the loose. I'm your host Gabriel the Trickster”

You groaned, rolling over on your stomach and hiding your head under your pillow to drown out the noises. This happened for weeks, he'd use his tricks to tap into your alarm and annoy you. Every morning.

“And now for music time! Because everyone loves moooousic!!” He spoke the last word, the music switched to Rick Astleys 'never gonna give you up'. Just another stupid prank to piss you off, because he was in denial about his growing feelings.

Guardian angels aren't supposed to fall in love with their person. It was just the rules.

Then again when did gabe ever follow the rules.

After yours and Dean's failed atempt at a relationship gabe flew in. It started off casual. You slept together once or twice but Never confermed anything.

Not wanting that in a relationship you told him how you felt. “everyday I'd wake up to your stupid music and your stupid voice. I feel in love deeper and deeper with you”

You kept it on the down low afraid of how the boys would react.

The boys didn't find out about you guys dating or the fact he was still alive until the boys walked in you guys fucking in the library in the bunker. They had gone on a hunt and you thought it was gonna be days before they came back, oh boy were you wrong. Gabe has no shame, he was balls deep inside you and had you seeing stars when the brothers walked back into the bunker because they forgot something.

“How long have you been alive!?” Sam asks, exasperated.

“How long have you been banging y/n?” Dean grumbles, with jealousy in his eyes.

The first time you watched him died hurt worse than any wound you got on the job. He lied there lifeless after saving you from Lucifer. The boys didn't know how to comfort you. It felt like part of you was missing.

He stayed 'dead' to keep you safe.

Then you found out Asmodeus had captured and torchored him, you were beyond furious. Gabe was beyond scared when he was in the bunker but he trusted you. It was your turn to protect him.

You were the one to convince him to take his grace and heal himself. “I need you gabe, I can't lose you again”

He took his grace then looked at you. “I love you...” that was the first time he ever said that.

He didn't leave your side after that and even helped you look after Jack who you took under your wing. He took the role of an uncle oddly seriously.

Then came your time in purgatory. You were determined to get jack back and Gabe wasn't gonna let you go alone. He loved you and by the laws of heaven he had no choice.

He never left your side during your time in purgatory. It angered Dean and Sam but Gabe could care less, you were his girl.

During that time Lucifer teased the both of you. It infuriated Gabe and he did his best to keep distance between the both of you. “lay one hand on her it'll be the last thing you ever do”

During the cold nights you lied awake next to gabe wrapped in his leather jacket.

When it was time for you to leave gabe didn't make it back. And he was gone for real this time. It took all Sam's power to pull you back as you screamed and cried his name. “Gabriel!”

While everyone celebrated their return home you stayed in your room in the bunker crying in his leather jacket he left with you.

The pockets of the jacket were filled with candy wrappers. you never took them out.

After he died your post hunt injuries hurt worse and they were more often. That proved gabe did his job well.

Dean nor Sam didn't know how to help you. He comforted you when you cried but Castile was the only one that willingly talked to you about it.

“he really did love you... In fact him being your guardian angel was the only thing he ever took seriously.”

NSFW headcanons:

He loves missionary, keeping eye contact while he fucks you. He loves how you dig your nails into his back and wrap your legs around his waist to bring him impossibly closer.

If he's had a rough day, he either needs one of two things. A rough fuck or he needs to curl up beside you and rest his head on your chest while you play with his hair.

He's not very vocal during sex. He mostly moan or grunt, but he's never not praising you. If your giving him head or ridding him he's a complete moaning mess though.

He's a boob guy. He'll bury his face into your boobs as he pounds into you. He loves it when you start moaning and tugging at his hair, He honestly can’t get enough.

Cock warming and usually he's a little shit about, conveniently gets in the mood for it during move night with the Winchesters and Cas. Usually it's dark and you're both under a blanket together in the back in the Dean cave. “Gotta be still for me. Can you do that?” He murmured, making your pajama bottoms disappear with a quiet snap of his fingers. You'll have to bite your lip to keep quiet as he helps you sink down on his cock while he litters your neck with kisses.

It'll be hard to keep your mind off the feeling of his hard cock inside you and not the movie you were supposed to be watching. Don't even try to roll your hips, Gabriel will stop it immediately by giving your hips a warning squeeze. “the movie is almost over, just a little longer Sugar”

He always wraps your legs around his waist so he can go faster and harder,hitting your g-spot every thrust, keeping control of every movement.

He loves the feeling of you wrapped around his cock. It's like a vice, and loud moans escaping your lips is just icying on the cake.

He has a huge wing kink, the feeling of your fingers running through his feather or gripping them is a feeling he'll never get tired of. Sometimes he'll thrust into harder because he knows you first thing you'll grab to ground yourself is his wings.

 The way your small hands grip his feathers hard, especially at the base of his back will have him losimg all common sense.

He'll lift himself up on his knees with you still wrapped around him and pound into you. This new position helps him sink deeper as he jerks your hips down as his spring forward.

When his tongue enters your mouth, you didn’t even try to fight for dominance, you never have a problem with him taking the lead.

He'll lap at your clit with so much hunger, circling his tounge over your swollen bud until you're a moaning mess. When he thinks he's teased you enough he'll take it into his mouth, eating you out like a starving man until you're cumming hard on his tongue.

Gabe doesn't let you off easily either, He'll have his arm over your pelvic bone keeping you on the bed bed and overstimulating with his tongue till you're begging. “G-gabe...t-too much, P-please”

“I’m sorry, sugar. You’re too damn sweet” he sat up, his face slick from your release.

[fleursfairies]

i think its really funny when people say that it's unrealistic for will AND mike AND robin AND vickie to all be gay in the 80s cuz clearly they have never even looked back to the past. people in the 1900s were gay as hell! and heres some examples

james dean (1931-1955) bisexual !

marlon brando (1924-2004) bisexual !

rock hudson (1925-1985) very gay

leslie gore (1946-2015) lesbian

dusty springfield (1939-1999) lesbian

norma tanega (1939-2019) lesbian

(dusty springfield and norma tanega dated)

elton john (1947-present) gay

freddie mercury (1946-1991) gay

george michael (1963-2016) gay

david bowie (1947-2016) bi

crazy that david and elton were born the same year and george and david passed the same year

john lennon (1940-1980) bi im pretty sure unless yoko was lying for some reason

joan jett (1958-present) bi but google ai wants to argue with me about it

janis joplin (1943-1970) bi

whitney houston (1963-2012) bi?? maybe

debbie harry (blondie) (1945-present) bi (or ex bi LMAO)

billie holiday (1915-1959) bi

im lovin all the bi people

andy fraser (free) (1952-2015) gay

i do NOT like boy george at all but unfortunately hes an iconic gay artist and i have to add him (1961-present) gay 🙄

ray and dave davies from the kinks (1944+1947-present) ima just say that theyre both bisexual cuz its a bit confusing

art garfunkel (1941-present) bi. i just found this out like last year but ive always known in my soul. simon and garfunkel are like frog and toad or bert and ernie. you just know.

4/5 members of the b-52's are queer

little richard (1932-2020) gay

mick jagger (1943-present) bi? probably? idk but please go watch the mick jagger david bowie dancing in the street music video its the gayest thing ive ever seen

pete townshend (the who) (1945-present) pansexual

chuck panozzo (styx) (1948-present) gay

lou reed (velvet underground) (1942-2013) prooobably bi but google is giving me super confusing answers that are different since the last time i checked

morrissey 🙄 (this smiths) (1959-present) im diagnosing him as pan cuz all google says is "humansexual"

pete burns (dead or alive) (1959-2016) queer

jane wiedlin (the gogos) (1959-present) bi

june millington and alice de buhr of the band fanny are gay and nickey barclay is bi. (alice is one of my biggest drummer inspirations and i totally forgot she was gay)

neil tennant (pet shop boys) gay

marianne faithfull, katharine hepburn, ian mckellen, divine, rupaul, andy warhol, frankie goes to hollywood, soft cell probably, tab hunter, stephen fry, anthony perkins, cristopher walken, sal mineo, sister rosetta tharpe, billie joe armstrong, drew barrymore, jodie foster, fiona shaw, angelina jolie, etc

i have more but im tired

but these are just some people that are confirmed queer. i could go ooon and ooon and ooon about "not gay" people doing gay ass things

if you're going to make silly statements about the past please actually do a bit of research

not to mention the lesbians and the same sex kiss in the 1927 movie wings

[gilverrwrites]

first time requester here uhhh could you pretty please with cherries on top do tfw (and maybe gabe or Lucifer? up to you though!) reacting to reader being like, REALLY quiet in bed? Like they’re not holding back or anything, they just genuinely don’t make much noise?

Rating: 18+

Please remember: As long as you're trying, you're doing better than you think.

Ko-Fi || Masterlist || Request Info

Dean: Unless you specify that making noise is a boundary for you, he will see it as a challenge. He’ll find things, moves you like and hammer them over, and, over again to try and get some noise out of you. Or he’ll ask you lots of dirty questions during the deed. High praise, when you do make noise, like he’s trying to condition more noise. He just needs some kind of queue that he’s doing a good job, encouragement, like a dog being told he’s a good boy.

If you state it’s a limit, he’ll respect that, but he needs some other indicator, like red-light/green-light, or some form of physical touch meant to convey a job well done. 

Sam: Won’t really bat an eyelid at it. He’s a very accepting person, and he likes you for you, noisy or not.

If you express to him that you’d like to be noisier in bed, he will happily assist. Asking how you’re doing; how does that feel? What about this? No, no, not until you show me how much you want it. Repeating things he’s learned will get a reaction out of you.

Otherwise, he’ll keep on ploughing as is.

Castiel: If you’re normally a very vocal/noisy person in day-to-day life, he’d be concerned. He’ll worry that he’s done something wrong. When he confronts you and you tell him you’re good, you’re just quiet, he’ll feel so much relief, you’ll see the weight lift from his shoulders. Bless him, he gets stressed.

If you’re not normally a very vocal/noisy person, then he likely won’t notice. There are many, many humans, and they are all strange and unique, and this is just part of who you are.

He is quite chatty in bed however, he likes to express how he is feeling, how you make him feel, and he likes to check on you, so unless you’re happy to have little check ins/chit chats mid sex, you’ll need to express your boundaries.

Gabriel: Very similar to Dean. Evoking noise from you is a game, and he’s determined to master it. Even if that means underhanded tactics. Laughter is just as good, there will be tickling. He will playfully withhold or deny you touches or kisses to make you beg ask for them. Oh, that one little touch made you moan a teeny tiny bit? WE’RE DOING THAT AGAIN!

If you state that it’s a boundary, that’s cool, cool, cool. He can make enough noise for the both of you, he’s a soft, chatty, moaning, mess of an angel in the throws anyway.

Lucifer: Honestly, he probably won’t even notice at first. Like Gabe, he will make enough noise for the both of you. He loves the sound of his own voice, and he often gets lost in the feelings and his own emotions throughout. When he does eventually notice, he’d tease you about it. The ideal reaction is for you to get all shy and frustrated about it, but any provoked response is likely satisfying, he just likes to know he’s having an effect on you.

Michael: Is also very quiet in bed, in fact, he prefers it. His mind is very busy (especially when Adam is in there) and he enjoys being able to turn it off. He just does what feels good. There is no need to perform, and the fact that you respond the same is very validating for him. He will not question, tease, or try to provoke an inauthentic response from you. He will accept you as you are.

[kaleldobrev]

Please Don't Leave

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dean's lucky to have you in his life and honestly doesn't know what he would ever do without you

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Cursing (3x), Fluff, Vulnerable/Angry Dean

Authors Note: The gif makes me sad | This might seem a little non canon but at the same time I honestly feel like Dean would react this way (fight me if you want, but I said what I said) | I just love this man so fucking much | Dream/Flashbacks are in italics | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡

Dean didn’t have a lot of consistencies in his life, but you were one of them. Out of everyone he had known in his life, you were one of the only people that had remained with him through all the heartbreak, all of the death, all of the blood, sweat, and tears that this life had. You had been through it all with him: Sam going to Stanford and leaving him behind, his fathers death, him selling his soul, the year that Sam went to Hell, the year the two of you were in Purgatory, the few months he was a demon, his bloodlust fueled by the Mark, him being possessed by Michael. He had an endless list of things that the two of you had been through together, things that would cause any normal or rational person to throw in the towel; but not you. “You can’t get rid of me Dean Winchester, not even if you kill me yourself.” You had joked. And that was something that he had almost done – and on several occasions too. And yet, you never left him. “I guess I’m just stupid.” You said. “Or maybe the sex me and you have is just that good.”

The sex he had with you, now that was something. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced; and he has had quite a lot of sex during his lifetime (not that he bragged about it of course). When the two of you initially met, it was only supposed to be a working relationship, a friends with benefits sort of deal. But eventually it turned into more. He wasn’t sure where him or you had gotten your wires crossed but they did; and it turned into you and him always finding each other at the end of the night regardless of the different men and women that had hit on both of you at the bar you two were at.

The sex used to be quick, usually done in either a drunken haze or after a tough hunt. But it eventually turned into something that either one of you would initiate through soft touches: a kiss on the forehead, a simple hand hold, or cuddling into each other. Once, in the middle of sex, he wasn’t sure why he had said it but he did. He kind of just blurted it out. “I love you.” Now that was something he never thought he’d ever say during sex before. But here you were beneath him, staring up at him with those doe eyes of yours that you frequently had during sex and said, “I love you too.” It was something he didn’t expect.

Dean didn’t know what he could or would possibly do if you weren’t in his life; and that was something he didn’t want to think about. But it was something that has been an unavoidable thought as of late. Waking up to you was one of the worst but best things after a nightmare of losing you. He would wake up in a panic, his heart racing, sweating; afraid that you were gone for good this time. But without fail, every single time you would be right there next to him. Either sound asleep or awake enough to tell him, “It’s okay, I’m right here.” He would always reply the same way. “Just…please don’t leave.” It was a simple yet complicated sentence. “I’m not going to. I’d never leave you.” Those words that you always uttered back should have been comforting to him, but it was just an empty promise – even though he knows that’s how you never intended it to sound. In your heart you loved him deeply, and he knew that. He knew that you’d never leave him; the two of you have been through everything together. But when it came to this life, it was hard to make and keep promises like that.

“Dean, I just can’t do this anymore I’m sorry.” Your words had cut into him like a knife. Like he’d been shot hundreds of times. The torture he received from Hell combined with the loss of his mother was child’s play compared to what he was currently feeling. He just started blankly at the two duffel bags at your feet as you stood in the doorway of the room the two of you shared. Well, formally shared that is. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” You asked, your question snapping him out of whatever trance he was in.

“There’s nothing to say.” Of course there were hundreds, no thousands of things that he had wanted to say to you, but he knew that he couldn’t say any of it. As much as he wanted to beg for you to stay, he wasn’t going to make you stay. Once you made up your mind that was it; there was no convincing you.

You looked at him with a confused expression. “You don’t even want to know why I’m leaving?” You asked, and Dean simply shook his head. “Why not?”

“It doesn’t really matter.” He tried to keep his voice even, to make you believe that he was okay. But he could tell that you knew he wasn’t (you knew him long enough to know when he was or wasn’t okay).

“Dean.” You said, your voice sounding more heartbroken than his.

“It’s alright. You don’t…you don’t have to explain yourself.” He said, taking a seat on the bed you two once shared.

“I feel like you deserve an explanation. We were together for almost twenty years Dean.” You sat down next to him on the bed. He had just wanted to push you away or wrap you in his arms. Two completely differently reactions, but that’s the way he felt. “Dean.” You touched his shoulder and he flinched, you quickly removed your hand. “I love you, and I know you know that but –”

“Please just…stop talking. I really don’t want to hear what you have to say.” His voice was more hurt now, and he could feel himself trying not to say or do anything that he was going to regret. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t want you to have to see that, despite seeing him do it so many times before. “Just, leave if you’re going to leave.” You didn’t move, simply just staring at him. “Go!” He snapped, and that’s when you got up.

You walked over to your bags, slinging one over your shoulder and holding the other one in your hands. “Goodbye Dean.” You said, before walking out of the room. For a while he heard the sound of your boots down the hall, but they suddenly became faint, almost inaudible. The Bunker door opened and closed again. You were gone. Gone for good this time.

“You said you’d never fucking leave.” He whispered to himself. “Said you’d never fucking leave me.” He pounded the bed with his fist. “You fucking lied!” He got up from the bed and he felt himself start to lose control; no longer in control of the emotions that had been building up when he had started watching you pack up your bags.

Dean woke up abruptly, sitting up. He was panicked, his heart racing. His breaths were heavy, his chest moving up and down. He rubbed his face, trying to fully wake himself up. There was no way he would be getting back to sleep for a while; not after that nightmare. “Y/N -” he began to say as he looked over to his right side; your side of the bed. You were gone. “Sweetheart?” He asked, his hand reached out and touched the emptiness next to him: it was cold.

He looked up at the door to the bedroom which was slightly ajar. The only light in the room came seeping in from the hallway. He didn’t remember having the door open, the door was always shut whenever the two of you slept. Despite how safe the Bunker was, sleeping with the door closed added an extra layer of safety, not just for him, but for you as well.

A shadow appeared, blocking some of the light. He reached over and opened the drawer of his nightstand, slightly gripping his gun that he always kept there. Before he could fully wrap his hand around the weapon you squeaked inside the room and shut the door again quietly. A huge amount of relief washed over him in that moment as he let go of the gun and closed the drawer. “Dean?” You questioned, upon hearing the drawer close. “Baby are you okay?” You asked, walking to sit on his side of the bed. He looked at you as you placed a hand on his cheek. Your eyes full of worry.

“You were…” his eyes flickered to your side of the bed that had been empty when he woke up before looking back at you again. “You were gone. When I woke up you…”

“It’s okay. I’m here.” You reassured him, your voice calm.

“Where did you go?” He asked tiredly.

“The bathroom. I really, really needed to pee.” You said, Dean chuckled a little at your comment. “You know I wouldn’t willingly leave you right?” You reassured him again. You felt him nod in your hand.

“I know.” His voice sounding just a hint sad. “I uh, I feel stupid for freaking out.” The sentence was a whisper.

“There’s nothing to feel stupid about Dean.” Another reassurance. Dean had every right to react the way he did; he had lost so much, even before you had met him. You had been with him through everything. Witnessed so much loss and endured just as much. “Was it a nightmare?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It was the…the one where you break up with me.” You hated that one just as much as he did.

“I’m never going to break up with you. I love you too damn much.” You said, giving him a smile. You crawled into bed next to him getting underneath the covers. “Come here.” You held out your arms for him, and without hesitation he went into them. He wrapped his arms around your torso and rested his head on your chest; your arms wrapping around the back of his neck. Your fingers started playing with his hair, gently massaging his head.

The two of you sat there in silence, both of you with your eyes closed. You weren’t sleeping, but you were unsure if he was. Even if he wasn’t, his breathing was starting to get more even, he was starting to calm down. Hearing the sound of your heartbeat always calmed him down. “Y/N?” Dean asked.

“Yes my love?” You asked, opening your eyes.

He looked up at you briefly, tiredly. “I know I don’t tell you enough but…I’m really lucky to have you in my life. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.” He kissed your neck, as that was one of the only spots he could currently reach.

“I’m lucky to have you in my life too.” You responded, giving him a kiss on the top of his head.

“And Sweetheart?” He asked again.

“Yeah?” You asked.

“Thank you…thank you for not leaving me.” His voice sounding a little pained. The sound of this sentence had broken your heart a bit. Leaving Dean was never an option for you, no matter what had happened between the two of you. Being with him wasn’t easy, but you couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. He was your person, the love of your life, your soulmate. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You kissed him on the top of the head again, and you could feel his smile.

That night, Dean didn’t have another nightmare, but he did dream. He had one of his favorite dreams; one that always gave him a sense of calmness and normalcy. The two of you would be just lying in bed together watching some random horror movie on tv. It was something that the two of you have done hundreds, no, thousands of times, so there would be no reason why it would be his so called favorite dream. What made it his favorite though was purely based on one small detail, a detail that made it known to him that it was in fact a dream: wedding rings would be on both of your fingers.

Someday maybe, he thought.

Tag List: @roseblue373 @beansproutmafia @queenie32 @deanwanddamons @missy420-0 @jackles010378 If you'd like to be on a tag list, just message me!

[the-mpreg-guy]

I’m a regular and I wanna crawl into your brain, please rec your TO DIE FOR favorite fics

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to yap about my favorite transformative works. This is gonna be a long rec list, so be prepared. (I also have an ask sitting in my inbox for post-canon fic recs/angel grace smut, so stay tuned for that rec list.) None of this is in any cohesive order regarding genre or length, so lets just get into it.

The Girlfriend Experience is prime early season Destiel studies. Imagine you're Dean Winchester and season five is happening, but you're also giving a half human angel brojobs on the side. And both of you are developing feelings. That's The Girlfriend Experience.

Dean Winchester's Take Two might be my favorite time travel fanfiction EVER and I did at least five years in the Doctor Who fandom which? Their entire premise is time travel. Dean Winchester immediately post confession gets yeeted back to his grave in s4. The Destiel is beyond immaculate. The dynamic between s4 Sam and s15 Dean is literally to die for. I cannot recommend this fic ENOUGH.

The Obeisance of Memory okay so this is a harder sell because it's an ff.net fic. I know, I know the format looks yucky to us now bc we're so used to AO3, but the fic is the reason I'm a Deangirl/have been in and out of the fandom on and off for the past decade. This is not a Destiel fic rec, but somehow the author completely and perfectly captures their friendship. The Dean studies go fucking CRAZY in this fic which is why I'm holding you all at gunpoint forcing you to read it. S4 Dean wakes up in his grave with no memories. That's it, that's the fic. It's s4 with amnesic Dean and it FUCKS.

Tolstoy a devastating oneshot about Dean and Castiel in the bunker kitchen being sad and soft with each other.

anamesis 'verse POST CANON GO BRRR (this is gonna end up on my other rec list btw), but basically it's a "what if the finale was another one of Chuck's games that Dean and Sam are trapped in." Time loop shenagains and Destiel pining for the win. There's also a Saileen onshot in there that makes me ship them almost as hard as I ship Samwena.

Games of Skill and Fortune OH GOD so like what if Dean popped down to the cage and let Michael possess him to get rid of OTHER Michael. Listen, I find Michael to be one of the least interesting angels in spn, but this fic got me on board. Insanely good characterization from literally everyone. Also Michael and Dean have a shared gambling addiction which is funny.

everyone knows the year doesn't start until april INSAAAAANE FANFICTION!!! Late seasons Destiel having been together a week being very soft and loving to each other on a hunt. The Dean studies go crazy. The Castiel studies go crazier. M-rated but for some reason feels sexier than explicit smut.

Put up your Dukes HAVE SOME SMUT. Dean can't sleep and human Castiel is trying to seduce him. For five chapter straight. Takes place in the good version of s8.

by your ancient names Castiel study. Everyone read right the fuck now.

a happy place to dream about you ever wanna read something so fucked up it changes your brain chemistry? Okay so what if Chuck got weirder about Dean. Yeah that's the fic.

AmItheAssholeNatural this is exactly what it sounds like. TFW won't stop taking their problems to reddit.

The First Thing There Is Michael possession arc AU where they wipe Dean's memories and he thinks he and Cas are together. Jesus Christ.

then, to lebanon, oh god do you ever wonder, like me, what would have happened in s4 if Dean had come back a little too late to preserve his humanity? Demon Dean and Ruby have a buddy comedy in this and I can't stop thinking about it.

Gallows Pole post Michael possession trauma series. Some of my favorite Dean studies.

The Grocery Store Conveyor Belt Thing EARLY SEASONS SAM AND DEAN HANGING OUT YEAAAAAH

a steady aiming at a tomb post finale psychological horror. I was on edge this entire fic and it didn't disappoint.

Double Happiness s15 Dean and Sam studies.

Not All Good News another Michael possession fic (starting to realize I have a Thing for that arc). Incredibly LONG fic, but I'm obsessed with Dean and Jack's relationship in this one.

i'll see you on the dark side of the moon Sam, Interrupted AU. Extreme non/con warning.

The Soul Burns Brighter Than The Sun THEEE post canon fanfic (this will end up on the other rec list for sure). It has pretty much everything I want from the pining to the soul sex to tying up loose ends that the show forgot about.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

anathema

part II

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

Summary: After an interaction with Michael left you reeling, you sought distance. You have been avoiding him, staying in Sam's room, or accompanied around the bunker by Castiel. You just wanted a moment to yourself. After showering, you sat in your bunker bedroom, listening to music that you and Dean used to listen to. And now Michael has come to find you.

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: 7,476

A/N: This is my second time writing on tumblr... let me know what you think, and if you read the first part and this part all the way through—thank you, thank you, thank you!!! <3 This is part two, 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.

A week passed.

Seven days spent curled into Sam’s warmth, letting him tuck you into his arms, whisper quiet reassurances you barely registered.

Seven days of moving through the bunker in a fog, eating when Sam placed food in front of you, sleeping when he guided you to bed, existing only because he needed you to.

Seven days of pretending you didn’t feel the weight of another presence lurking beneath the same roof.

You avoided him like a sickness.

If he entered the library, you left. If he walked past the war room, you turned on your heel and found another place to be. You hadn’t stepped foot near Dean’s—Michael’s—room since that night, and you weren’t going to.

It hurt. That last time—it had been too much.

The shame still curled inside you like a wound that wouldn’t scab over, raw and aching. Michael had watched you crumble and let you shatter, and you had let him—worse, you had begged him for it.

You wouldn’t do it again.

So you stayed close to Sam.

You let Cas sit with you at the war room table, a quiet presence, offering nothing but companionship as you stared blankly at whatever book was in front of you.

You wrapped yourself in the things that made sense, the things that weren’t cruel and taunting and wearing your Dean’s face.

But tonight, for whatever reason, you didn’t go back to Sam’s room after your shower.

Maybe it was exhaustion.

Maybe it was a need to exist outside of your grief for just a little while.

So you let the record player spin, letting the familiar crackle of vinyl hum through your room as the opening chords of a song you had played a hundred times before filled the space.

You were warm from the shower, skin still damp in places where the towel had missed. The air smelled like your soap, like something soft and clean, untouched by the last few weeks.

You curled onto the mattress in nothing but a cotton bra and panties, legs bare, hair wet against the pillow, and let the music seep into you, a memory wrapping itself around your skin.

You closed your eyes.

And then—

A shift.

It wasn’t sound.

It wasn’t movement.

It was something else.

Something you felt before you saw him.

Your skin prickled, your breath hitched before the door had even opened, before the air had even changed.

And then, he spoke.

"You have been avoiding me."

Your body locked.

Your eyes opened.

He stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway light, broad, composed, watching.

Dean’s face.

But not him.

Still, your stomach tightened. Your pulse tripped over itself, warmth rising under your skin.

It was Michael.

It should have been different.

It should have felt different.

But it didn’t.

Because your body—traitorous, pathetic, weak—still responded.

Your breath felt heavier in your chest. Your skin felt too hot, too sensitive against the cool sheets. Your thighs pressed together before you even realised you were moving.

Michael stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate ease.

"I must say, I am surprised," he mused, voice smooth, unhurried. "You actually stuck to your word. How unlike you."

You sat up slowly, a tension coiling in your spine, warning, warning, warning.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, I think you know."

He took another step forward, just enough to test the space, to see if you would pull away.

You didn’t.

You hated yourself for it.

Michael’s gaze dragged over you, not with desire, not with hunger, but with cold, clinical interest.

"It’s quite remarkable," he murmured. "The way you react to my presence. Do you feel it?"

Your stomach turned.

"Feel what?"

"The heat."

"Stop."

"Your pulse."

"Michael."

"The way your breath hitches when I step closer."

He did.

Step closer.

The air in the room thickened, pressing heavy against your lungs. Your body betrayed you instantly.

Your chest rose and fell too quickly.

Your hands curled into the sheets.

A shiver slid down your spine.

"Ah," Michael exhaled, something pleased, something slow and knowing.

"Stop," you snapped, pushing yourself upright, shaking your head as if it could clear the haze, as if it could undo the reaction he had already seen. "Stop using his memories against me."

Michael’s head tilted slightly.

"Why?"

Your throat tightened.

"Because they’re not yours."

"And yet, they are."

Rage surged up your chest, a grief-tangled thing with nowhere to go. You stood from the bed with clenched fists, throat still tight as you snarled.

"How dare you—"

"Kneel."

It was sharp. Stern. Unyielding. A command, not a request.

And before you could think—before you could even register the word—you obeyed. Your knees hit the floor with ease. Your breath stuttered. Your thighs spread just slightly, back straight, eyes wide and stinging with unshed tears.

It wasn’t conscious. It wasn’t a decision. It was instinct.

The room went silent.

Michael’s smirk was slow, lazy, utterly pleased.

"Interesting."

Realisation crashed into you like ice water.

Your breath hitched, your hands shaking slightly against your thighs.

"You—" Your voice wasn’t steady anymore. "You used his memories—"

"I was curious," Michael interrupted smoothly, his gaze tracing over the sight of you kneeling at his feet. "I have seen it many times in Dean’s memories, but I did not know how effective it would be."

Your fingers curled into fists.

"You're fucking sick, using his memories against me like this."

Michael hummed.

"And yet, your body does not seem to mind."

The shame was instant.

A rush of heat flooded your body, not from arousal, but from the realisation that he was right. Your body had reacted to his voice, to his presence, to his command, just like it always had before. Your breath shook.

Michael saw it.

"Fascinating," he murmured, eyes hooded, gaze burning through you.

He took one slow step closer.

"Let’s see just how far this submission goes."

Michael stepped back.

Not far.

Just enough to remove himself from your immediate reach, just enough to let your body feel the absence of his presence before he shifted his attention elsewhere.

Your breath caught as he moved toward the corner of the room, toward the old armchair that sat untouched beneath the glow of the lamp. You barely had time to process what he was doing before he dragged it toward the centre of the space—not rushed, not haphazard, just slow, deliberate, placing it exactly where he wanted it.

Then, he sat.

The leather creaked softly under his weight as he settled back into the chair, spine rigid, shoulders squared, legs spreading just slightly—like he was settling into a throne, like he belonged there.

Like he owned this space.

Like he owned you.

And then—his eyes dropped to where you remained kneeling on the floor.

A long moment passed in charged silence.

"I wonder."

His voice was smooth, contemplative, like he was musing aloud to himself rather than speaking to you directly.

"If I were to tell you to crawl—"

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t need to.

Your breath hitched. A sharp inhale. A flash of heat curling in your stomach before you could stop it. Your lips parted slightly, a reflexive response, a reaction you couldn’t fight. You clenched your thighs together.

His smirk deepened.

"Fascinating."

The word was quiet, but weighted.

You glared up at him, hating him, hating the way your body responded to him, hating the way you could feel yourself getting wet just from this—just from the unbearable tension between you, just from the game he was playing with no effort at all.

Michael leaned back slightly, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, exuding a calm that only made the moment feel more suffocating.

"I’ve seen it, you know."

Your stomach twisted.

"Seen what?"

"How many times my vessel has played this game with you."

Ice curled down your spine.

"Michael—"

"How easily you fall into it." His voice never wavered, never faltered. "How happily you accept every command. I must admit, I hadn’t expected that from you."

Your jaw clenched.

"Hadn’t expected what?"

"Submission." He tilted his head slightly. "Only weakness."

Heat burned beneath your skin, a mix of humiliation and fury.

"Go fuck yourself."

Michael’s eyes gleamed.

"Crawl to me."

The words hit you like a commandment carved into stone.

Your breath caught. Your body shuddered. And before you could stop it—before you could even register the shame sinking its teeth into your ribs—you moved.

Your hands pressed into the floor, your knees shifting forward, slow, controlled, a path you had walked too many times before.

Michael didn’t stop you.

Didn’t react.

Just watched.

Watched the way you crawled toward him, the way your breathing grew heavier, the way the flush in your cheeks deepened the closer you got.

And you hated it.

Hated how the heat between your thighs grew unbearable. Hated how each inch forward made you burn hotter, wetter, the anticipation coiling deep in your stomach. Hated how you knew this was wrong, but you wanted—needed—

You stopped a foot away from him, panting softly, fingers curling into the floor as you tried to will your body into stillness.

But Michael wasn’t done.

His legs spread a little wider, his posture unchanged, and he lifted one hand—just enough to gesture to the floor between them.

"Closer."

Your stomach flipped.

He had barely said the word, barely even lifted his hand to indicate where he wanted you, but it was enough.

Enough to send a fresh wave of heat between your legs, enough to make your thighs clench, enough to make your chest rise and fall too quickly.

You swallowed, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Michael just raised an eyebrow.

Waiting. Testing. Daring you to fight it.

You wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

But your body had already made its choice.

Slowly, you crawled forward, closing the last bit of space, sinking into the very spot he had pointed to, kneeling between his open legs.

His smirk returned, slow and pleased.

"Good."

Your stomach twisted. Your breath hitched. Your body clenched so tight, so desperate for something more, something unbearable.

Michael saw it.

Michael felt it.

And Michael was going to ruin you with it.

You were on your knees between his legs, exactly where he'd commanded you.

The realisation burned.

Heat curled in your stomach, shame tangled with it, twisting, a sickening knot of humiliation and desire.

Michael’s hands remained where they were—resting on the arms of the chair, fingers relaxed, posture regal, composed.

He wasn’t touching you.

He didn’t need to.

His control over you wasn’t physical.

It was in the way he watched you, the way his presence swallowed the room whole, the way his voice curled around you like smoke and dragged you deeper into something you should have been fighting.

"Tell me."

Your stomach flipped.

"Tell you what?"

"What would my vessel have you do now?"

The question settled into the space between you, heavy, weighted.

Your breath caught.

"You already know."

Michael hummed.

"I do."

Silence stretched.

You refused to look up at him, refusing to acknowledge the fact that your thighs had pressed together, that your pulse was hammering beneath your skin, that you were already falling deeper, deeper, deeper.

"Then why ask?"

"Because I want you to say it."

Your stomach twisted sharply.

"No."

Michael sighed, like you were being difficult, like he was indulging a child.

"Look at me."

You didn’t.

"Look at me."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to lift your gaze.

His expression was unreadable.

"I know what Dean Winchester would do." His voice was smooth, unhurried. "I want to hear you say it."

Your throat felt tight, your tongue heavy.

"Why?"

Michael leaned forward slightly, just enough to fill your space, just enough to make your breath stutter.

"Because I say so. I want to know if you’ll obey me as easily as you obey him."

Heat surged through you like a pulse, low and thick and unbearable. Your stomach clenched, your breath uneven. Your back had straightened involuntarily, your thighs had shifted further apart, seeking friction, seeking something, seeking—

Michael smirked.

"Interesting."

The shame came crashing in like a wave, hot and suffocating.

You clenched your jaw, hating him, hating yourself, hating the way your body responded before your mind could catch up.

Michael hummed, pleased.

"Now, tell me."

Your fingers curled into fists against your thighs, nails biting into your skin.

"Fuck you."

His expression didn’t shift.

"Tell me."

"You already know."

"Say it."

You swallowed thickly. You could feel the flush creeping down your neck, the heat pooling low in your stomach, the way your body was betraying you, over and over and over again. You squeezed your eyes shut.

"Dean—" you exhaled, voice barely a breath, barely more than a whisper, "—he would tell me to open my mouth."

The moment the words left you, Michael’s smirk deepened.

His fingers flexed against the arms of the chair, his posture unchanged, but you felt something shift in the air.

"Would you do the same for me?"

Your stomach flipped violently. Your breath hitched. You froze.

Michael saw it all. Saw the way your body shuddered, saw the way your thighs clenched, saw the way you couldn’t control your own reactions.

And then—he laughed. Soft. Low. Mocking.

"Fascinating."

Your fists tightened, your nails digging deeper into your palms, trying to ground yourself, trying to fight the way his voice—Dean’s voice—was sending heat straight between your legs.

Michael leaned forward again, his presence a physical weight, pressing against your skin, your bones, your willpower.

"Human biology is truly remarkable."

His voice was almost amused, almost musing, almost like he was speaking to himself.

"Your body reacts before your mind can stop it."

You clenched your jaw.

"Stop."

"Your pulse quickens, your skin flushes, your pupils dilate."

"Michael."

"Even now, you’re getting wet."

Heat flooded your face, your throat, your entire body.

Michael’s smirk never wavered.

"And you hate yourself for it, don’t you?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

"I—"

"It’s alright," Michael murmured. "I understand."

He shifted slightly, just enough to spread his legs a little wider, just enough to claim more space, just enough to make you feel small beneath him.

"After all, this body was made for you."

Your stomach twisted. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily.

Michael hummed in satisfaction.

"Go on, then."

You swallowed.

"Go on?"

Michael tilted his head.

"You already know what to do."

You did know what to do.

The moment Michael said the words, your body moved on instinct.

Your hands pressed against the floor as you leaned forward slowly, carefully, as though moving too quickly would shatter the fragile line between humiliation and submission.

Your cheek came to rest against his thigh, the fabric of his slacks warm beneath your skin, the scent of him thick in your lungs.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that this body—Dean’s body—smelled the same, felt the same, made you weak in all the same ways.

It wasn’t fair that you were trembling, lips parted, breath shallow, pulse hammering, caught in something you couldn’t stop.

You tilted your head just slightly, let your gaze drag up the length of him, slow, reverent, helpless.

Michael was watching you.

Not with hunger.

Not with desire.

With cold fascination.

"Truly fascinating."

Your stomach flipped.

He lifted a hand—slow, deliberate, intentional.

And you gasped.

A sharp, quiet sound as his gloved fingers brushed against your skin.

The leather was soft, warm from his body, firm as it came to rest against your cheek, guiding your face to turn just slightly, tilting you toward him. He studied the way you responded—the way your lips parted further, the way your breathing grew unsteady, the way you shivered beneath nothing more than his touch.

"The memories do not do it justice."

Your breath caught.

"The way you react."

Your thighs pressed together.

"The way your body obeys before your mind can stop it."

Heat coiled in your stomach. Your gaze dropped to his lap, to the subtle shift beneath his slacks. Dean’s body was reacting. You swallowed thickly, the shame curling deep, making you ache.

Michael’s smirk was slow, pleased.

"Remarkable."

He pressed his thumb against your lower lip and your mouth opened wider. Your tongue just barely grazed the pad of his thumb, instinctual, automatic.

Michael inhaled softly, watching.

"So desperate."

Your breath was shaking now.

"So human."

His thumb dragged down, slow, torturous, pressing into the wet heat of your tongue, testing, gauging.

"And my vessel—" His voice remained smooth, even, musing. "He reacts to your submission."

You whimpered softly, a sound so quiet, so broken, so utterly helpless that it made you want to disappear.

Michael’s smirk deepened.

"You’re wet."

Your stomach clenched violently.

"Your nipples have hardened."

Shame burned through you.

"Your pulse is fast."

Your lips closed around his thumb.

His smirk sharpened.

"And you enjoy this."

You whimpered again, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to escape it, but there was no escaping Michael.

He saw everything.

"So fascinating, the humanness of it all."

He shifted slightly, letting his free hand drag down, his knuckles grazing over the subtle twitch beneath his slacks.

"And my vessel—" he mused, watching you tremble beneath him—"is just as affected by you as you are by him."

The vinyl had stopped.

You heard it—the soft, rhythmic ticking of the needle dragging against the record’s edge, waiting, waiting, waiting to be turned over.

The room was too warm. Or maybe it was you. Your skin burned beneath his gloved touch, your breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls, your cheek still flush against the firm muscle of his thigh.

You should have moved.

You should have sat back, should have ripped yourself from this moment, should have reminded yourself that this wasn’t your Dean.

But you didn’t.

Because his voice—God, his voice.

"Humans have always knelt before their gods."

His fingers threaded into your hair, slow, deliberate, his thumb dragging across your cheekbone with the kind of reverence that sent a fresh wave of heat down your spine.

"To beg. To worship. To suffer. It is in your nature to bow."

Your fingers flexed slightly against the floor, your lips parting just a little wider around the thick press of his thumb.

Michael hummed, pleased.

"And yet, it is also in your nature to resist."

His fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to force your gaze up to his.

"A paradox."

You swallowed thickly.

His eyes burned—sharp, calculating, something just beneath amusement, just beyond satisfaction.

"Tell me, little one," he murmured, voice slow, unhurried, like honey dripping from a blade. "Do you know what happened when the first humans discovered desire?"

Your breath hitched as his thumb pressed down just slightly, just enough to make your lips stretch around the weight of it.

"They were cast from paradise."

Heat curled between your thighs.

"To hunger, to yearn, to crave—" his voice dipped lower, "—it is a punishment you have never stopped suffering."

Your nails dug into your own thighs, trying to ground yourself, trying to ignore the way your body clenched and ached with each slow, calculated syllable.

Michael watched.

"The angels were not made to feel it."

His tone was not cruel, not mocking—just factual, an immortal thing speaking of a law written in stone.

"We were not made to hunger. We were not made to need."

He shifted slightly, and you felt it. The hard press of him beneath his slacks, thick and heavy against your cheek where you still rested against his thigh. Your entire body flushed.

Michael smirked.

"And yet, this vessel does."

Your lashes fluttered, your mouth opening just a fraction more, mindless, involuntary, helpless beneath the weight of him.

"Do you know what that means?"

You swallowed thickly, the movement forced around his thumb.

"It means my Father’s greatest creation was flawed."

He leaned in just slightly, his breath warm against your temple.

"And that flaw is you."

The words slammed into you like a brand. Your pulse pounded beneath your skin, heat licking at the edges of your resolve, your body trembling, aching, thrumming in response to his every touch, every word.

Michael inhaled deeply, like he was drinking in the scent of you, the warmth of you, the very essence of your humanity.

"This is why you kneel."

His gloved fingers dragged through your hair, petting you with slow, deliberate reverence.

"Because your bodies have always belonged to something greater than yourselves."

Your breath shuddered.

"You are ruled by your impulses. By your weakness."

His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, dragging along your throat, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath leather and command.

"Even now, you kneel before me, trembling, desperate, wet, because this body—this vessel—was made for you."

You whimpered.

Michael smirked.

"And you hate it, don’t you?"

Your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pulls, shame and pleasure bleeding together, sinking into something inescapable.

His voice lowered, smoothing into something almost gentle.

"It’s alright."

His thumb pressed down against your tongue, teasing, testing, watching.

"It was always going to end this way."

Michael continued to watch.

His thumb was still resting against your tongue, still pressing down slightly, testing, gauging, observing every flicker of reaction. Your cheek was warm against his thigh, breath uneven, pulse fluttering beneath his gloved touch.

"Is this what you wait so patiently for?"

Your stomach clenched.

You nodded, slow, deliberate, sucking just a little harder around the thick press of leather against your tongue.

Michael’s smirk deepened.

"You would beg for it?"

The words sent a sharp, violent heat through your body, curling deep, twisting, clenching. You whimpered softly, nodding again, desperate, helpless, knowing you shouldn’t, knowing you couldn’t stop.

Michael hummed, pleased.

"You do not need to beg."

His voice remained smooth, calm, unhurried—like an angel granting mercy, like something higher, untouchable, bestowing grace.

"I will grant you this."

A shiver ran through you, pleasure curling beneath your skin, thrumming through your veins, unbearable, unbearable, unbearable.

Michael shifted slightly, his free hand moving to undo his belt, freeing Dean’s cock from the pristine fabric of his dress pants.

You sucked in a slow, sharp breath.

Your lashes fluttered, your body aching with the weight of anticipation, heat pooling low, thick and heavy between your legs.

Michael turned his gaze to you again, watching the way your lips were still wrapped around his gloved thumb, the way your breath was coming in short, uneven pulls, your pupils blown wide.

"Show me."

His voice was soft, expectant.

"Show me what my vessel liked."

Your chest rose and fell quickly, every muscle coiled, every inch of you waiting, trembling, desperate to obey. You shifted forward, your lips parting, your breath hot against the head of him. And then you whispered, so quiet, so small, so reverent—

"Thank you."

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t conscious. It was instinct. It was prayer.

And Michael—Michael reacted. Barely. But enough.

His breath hitched—just barely, just for a fraction of a second, a sharp inhale of something foreign, something that did not belong to him.

And you felt it.

You felt it because Michael never faltered.

Michael never wavered.

Michael didn't feel.

And yet—

Yet.

Your stomach tightened, heat flooding through your veins, the air in the room thick and heavy as you closed your lips around him, letting the weight of him settle against your tongue.

It felt like coming home.

The taste of him—warm, heavy against your tongue—was everything you had been craving, everything you had been missing, everything you had been aching for.

This was your Dean.

It had to be.

It was his body, his heat, his scent—everything about him was familiar, perfect, devastating.

You sank into it.

Let your lips stretch around him, let your tongue glide along the underside of his cock, let yourself be consumed by the act itself, by the way your jaw ached and your throat opened for him, by the way his gloved fingers tightened in your hair, not guiding, not controlling—just holding.

Like you were something to be examined, observed, indulged.

You didn’t care.

Not yet.

Because this was what you needed.

This was worship.

Michael inhaled, slow, measured, watching as you hollowed your cheeks, letting him settle deeper, letting the weight of him press against your tongue, against the back of your throat.

"Ah."

Just a sound.

Just an observation.

Like he was noticing a shift in the weather, cataloging a star’s movement across the sky.

"The vessel’s memories of this were fond."

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t falter.

Your lips tightened around him, your tongue traced along the sensitive ridge beneath the head, messy, desperate, eager, just like you knew he liked it.

Michael exhaled sharply.

His fingers flexed in your hair.

"So eager."

The praise sent a violent rush of heat straight between your thighs, made your breath stutter, made you moan softly around the thick press of him in your mouth.

Michael hummed.

"I understand now."

You shivered.

"The vessel loved this so much."

You whimpered.

"I see why."

You clenched your thighs together, breathless, lost in the warmth of him, in the weight, in the impossible intimacy of it all.

And then—

"It is quite fascinating, isn’t it?"

Your stomach flipped.

"The way you tremble."

A hand stroking through your hair, gloved fingertips dragging along your scalp, slow, petting, reverent.

"The way you moan when I pull at the roots, just slightly."

His fingers tightened, just barely, testing the theory, and you moaned again.

Michael smirked.

"Remarkable."

Your nails dug into his thighs.

"Human pleasure is so instinctive. So desperate."

Your pulse stuttered.

"So very dependent on obedience."

You tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend. Tried to sink back into the illusion that this was Dean, that this was love, that this was the touch you had been missing.

But Michael wouldn't let you.

"The mouth is a sacred thing, is it not?"

His voice was soft, thoughtful, studying.

"The first sin was spoken into existence with a whisper."

His thumb dragged along your jaw, his breath slow and measured, feeling the way your muscles flexed, the way your throat swallowed around him.

"And yet, it is also how prayers are given."

Your thighs pressed together, heat pooling low, thick, unbearable.

Michael inhaled.

"You were made for this."

You whimpered.

"To kneel. To serve. To worship."

His fingers tightened in your hair again.

"To beg."

A rush of heat surged through your body, a pulse of something so thick, so raw, so devastatingly overwhelming that you felt yourself clench around nothing.

Michael exhaled sharply—and this time, it wasn't controlled. His entire body tensed. And then, words ripped from him—low, guttural, something unbidden, something involuntary.

Enochian.

Your stomach tightened violently.

Because Michael did not react. Michael did not feel. Michael did not—

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, desperate to pull another sound from him, desperate to feel him tremble the way you had trembled, desperate to break through that perfect, unshaken resolve—

"Enough."

His voice was sharp, firm, absolute. And immediately—you stopped. Your body locked in place, your breath uneven, your mind catching up with what had just happened.

Michael’s hand tightened in your hair, a beat too long, a beat too much, a moment too still. His eyes were hooded, his jaw set, his lips slightly parted.

You had felt him react.

You had heard it.

The Enochian still lingered in the space between you, thick and raw and too much.

Slowly, he exhaled, dragging his thumb across your swollen lips, watching the way you shuddered beneath him. Michael was silent for a long moment. His thumb dragged along your lips, watching, thinking, considering.

The air between you felt heavy, charged, waiting.

And then—

"Tell me."

Your breath hitched.

"Tell you what?"

"What would my vessel do next?"

Your pulse stuttered. Your mind felt hazy, thick with heat and devotion and the lingering echo of his voice in your bones.

"You know."

Michael hummed, his fingers tracing your jaw, tilting your head just slightly, making sure you were looking at him.

"I do."

A slow inhale. A pause.

"But I want to hear you say it."

Your stomach flipped. Your breath felt too shallow, your lips tingling from the weight of his thumb still resting against them, from the phantom stretch of your jaw, from the taste of him lingering on your tongue.

Michael watched you closely.

"Go on."

You swallowed thickly, your body too warm, too desperate, too pliant beneath his touch.

"Dean—" You exhaled shakily. "He would make me go to the bed."

Michael tilted his head slightly, waiting.

"And?"

Heat rushed through you. Your lashes fluttered.

"He would make me come."

"How?"

Your stomach clenched.

You knew he knew. He had seen it, lived it, felt it in Dean’s memories. And yet—he made you say it.

"With his fingers."

Michael smirked.

"And?"

Your breath hitched.

"With his mouth."

"And?"

A shiver crawled down your spine, your thighs pressing together, the ache unbearable, unbearable, unbearable.

"With his cock."

Michael exhaled slowly.

"Interesting."

His head tilted slightly, lips curling in something almost like amusement.

"A trinity."

Your breath caught.

His fingers traced your lower lip again, dragging along the wet, swollen curve, smearing the slick there, spreading the filth of you further.

"Father, Son, Holy Spirit."

Your stomach twisted, the blasphemy thick and unholy and divine all at once.

"The three elements of worship. The three elements of pleasure."

Michael inhaled, slow, considering.

"How poetic."

Your thighs clenched, your body so hot, so weak, so desperate beneath the weight of his words, beneath the inevitability of what came next.

Michael studied you for another long moment.

And then—

"Go to the bed."

The command. The voice. The exact cadence, the exact weight, the exact tone that Dean always used when he expected to be obeyed.

Your stomach dropped. Heat flooded through your veins. Because your body reacted before your mind could stop it. You stood. You turned. You walked to the bed.

Michael smirked.

"Good."

He took his time moving toward you, his steps slow, composed, unhurried—like a predator indulging in the inevitability of the hunt.

By the time you reached the edge of the bed, you were trembling, your breath uneven, your hands shaking slightly at your sides.

Michael stepped behind you.

"You obey so easily."

Your stomach flipped.

"And yet you pretend you have a choice."

His gloved fingers dragged along the waistband of your panties, slow, featherlight, teasing.

"These are ruined."

Your entire body flushed, heat licking down your spine, pooling deep in your stomach.

"So saturated already."

He exhaled softly, almost like he was pleased, slipping the fabric down your legs, peeling them from your body like they were something unworthy of you.

You whimpered.

Michael smirked, placing them beside you on the bed, like they were something to study later. His hands moved to your ankles, dragging up slowly, deliberately.

"Now, let’s see what the vessel can do to you."

His fingers brushed along your calves, up the backs of your knees, slow, testing, feeling the way your muscles twitched, the way your breath caught, the way your body betrayed you over and over again.

You shivered, moaning softly, thighs parting slightly before you could stop yourself.

"Tsk, so weak to touch."

His fingers ghosted along your inner thighs now, just barely pressing, just barely teasing.

"What was it you said?"

You swallowed thickly, your mind hazy, slipping further, deeper.

"That he would make you come with his fingers?"

Heat flooded through you.

"Then I suppose we should begin."

Michael exhaled softly, considering.

Then, without a word—

He removed the gloves.

Your breath hitched.

You watched, entranced, helpless, lost in the slow, deliberate way he peeled them from his fingers, one by one, letting them drop soundlessly to the floor.

He didn’t need to do this.

Didn’t need to strip away the barrier, didn’t need to feel your skin beneath his own, didn’t need to press the warmth of his palm against the inside of your thigh just to feel the way your body shuddered beneath the weight of his touch.

And yet—

"You respond so well."

Your stomach tightened, your breath uneven. His hands were warm. Warmer than they should have been.

"So instinctive."

His fingers traced higher. Your body arched, your thighs parting further without thought, without permission, without restraint.

Michael smirked.

"Your vessel—your body—" he corrected, voice smooth, musing, "was designed to be ruled by pleasure."

Heat flooded through you.

"Designed to submit."

His fingers slid higher, dragging over the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, tracing patterns, testing reactions.

"You shudder when I touch you here."

A sharp exhale.

"Your pulse quickens when I stroke here."

Your thighs trembled.

"And here—" his fingers finally brushed against your slick heat, barely there, just enough to make your hips jerk, just enough to make a soft, broken sound spill from your lips, just enough to pull a sharp, pleased hum from the back of his throat.

"Ah."

Your nails bit into the sheets, your entire body locking up, unraveling, falling apart.

"So sensitive."

You whimpered, hips shifting, seeking more, seeking friction, seeking him. And Michael watched everything.

Every shiver. Every breath. Every helpless little noise.

"Remarkable."

His fingers slid lower, dragging through your slick folds, coating themselves in your arousal, collecting evidence, testing hypotheses.

"You are sodden."

Your stomach clenched.

"So eager. So wet."

His fingers dipped lower, just barely circling your entrance before moving back up, spreading you, teasing, never quite giving you enough.

"Does it frustrate you?"

A whimper. You nodded.

Michael smirked.

"I thought so."

His fingers finally—finally—slipped inside.

You choked on a gasp.

He hummed, pleased.

"So tight."

Heat surged through you, your thighs shaking, your hands grasping at the sheets, breathless and lost and dizzy beneath the unbearable weight of it all as Michael curled his fingers, testing, feeling the way your body clenched, tightened, sucked him deeper.

"You take my fingers so well."

A moan slipped from your lips, soft, breathless, desperate.

Michael’s smirk deepened.

"Amazing."

His thumb dragged against your clit, slow, torturous, teasing, coaxing.

"You are already close, aren’t you?"

You nodded quickly, panting, writhing, sinking, sinking, sinking.

"Of course you are."

His fingers moved faster now, his pace still controlled, still precise, but more insistent, more deliberate.

"You have been denied for too long."

Your stomach tightened, heat twisting deep in your core, your thighs trembling, your nails biting into the sheets.

"Your body is desperate to be touched."

Michael’s voice dipped lower, his lips brushing against your temple, his fingers fucking into you with slow, devastating precision.

"Come for me, little one."

And just like that—

You broke.

Your body shuddered violently, back arching, a soft, breathless moan spilling from your lips as your orgasm crashed through you, raw and devastating, burning through every nerve, leaving you shaking and spent beneath him.

Michael exhaled slowly. His fingers remained inside you, feeling the way you clenched around him, feeling the aftershocks ripple through your body.

"Little one."

His voice was softer now.

"Yes, I think that suits you."

Michael exhaled slowly.

His fingers were still inside you, still feeling the aftershocks, still pressing against the soft, sensitive heat of you, still memorising the way you clenched, the way you trembled, the way your breath hitched in the aftermath of your release.

Then, with no sense of urgency—with only quiet calculation, only the kind of detached curiosity reserved for the divine—he withdrew.

Your body shuddered.

Michael studied his fingers, slick and glistening with your arousal.

"The irony is not lost on me."

Your breath caught.

"Three parts."

His voice remained smooth, musing, completely unshaken by what had just happened, completely unaffected by the way you were still sprawled before him, bare and ruined and pliant beneath his hands.

"Three forms of pleasure."

His head tilted slightly, as if considering something deeper.

"Three forms of worship."

Heat flushed through you, curling low in your stomach, thick and unbearable and overwhelming.

Michael smirked.

And then—

He lifted his fingers to his lips.

Your stomach flipped violently, a sharp jolt of heat rushing straight between your legs.

Michael’s tongue dragged over them, slow, deliberate, collecting the slick there, humming softly as if it were merely an interesting experiment, merely another lesson in the intricacies of human pleasure.

Your pupils blew wide.

Michael noticed.

"Ah."

He inhaled slowly, watching the way your thighs tensed, the way your breath stuttered, the way your lips parted slightly in unbidden reaction.

"You enjoy that."

It wasn't a question.

Your throat was dry, your body too warm, your mind too fogged.

Still, you nodded.

Michael smirked.

"Of course you do."

Your stomach twisted. Your thighs pressed together, desperate, aching, eager for the next touch, the next command, the next inevitable descent.

Michael exhaled, then—slowly, effortlessly—shifted further down the bed, positioning himself between your legs, spreading them with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before.

"I suppose it is time to move on to the next part."

Your stomach flipped.

His fingers dragged along your inner thigh, slow, featherlight, teasing.

"It was effortless to make you come apart before."

A sharp inhale.

"I wonder if this will be just as easy."

You swallowed thickly, your breath uneven, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you. And Michael tilted his head slightly, watching the way your brows furrowed, the way confusion flickered across your expression.

He smirked.

"Sweet."

Your lips parted slightly.

"You are sweet when you look at me like that."

Heat surged through you, your stomach clenching, your heart thudding against your ribs, every nerve on fire, every inch of you strung so tight, so unbearably tight— But before you could respond— Before you could process the words, before you could fully register the moment—

Michael’s mouth was on you.

The shock of it stole the air from your lungs, knocked the wind from your chest, left you gasping, reeling, spiralling. Your hips jerked, your entire body shuddering violently, pleasure crashing through you like lightning, like fire, like something holy and devastating all at once.

Michael’s smirk deepened against you.

"I see."

He was good. Of course he was. He had Dean’s memories, Dean’s experience, Dean’s skill—and now, he was wielding them like a weapon.

Like a lesson. Like a test.

Michael hummed against your clit, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns, slow, unhurried, controlled.

"Your body reacts beautifully."

You moaned, soft, breathless, broken.

"So responsive."

Your thighs trembled, your hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the short strands, pulling, needing, grounding—

Michael laughed against you.

"And you cling so easily."

Your entire body burned, heat pooling deep, unbearable, too much, too much, too much.

Michael licked into you again, his hands gripping your thighs, pinning you open, keeping you still, keeping you trapped beneath his mouth, beneath his command, beneath the suffocating weight of his touch.

"You will come quickly, won’t you?"

Your stomach twisted violently, the pleasure already surging, already coiling, already too much.

Michael exhaled slowly, his lips brushing against your soaked, swollen heat.

"So weak to this."

A sharp inhale.

"So eager."

A soft, desperate whimper slipped from your lips, your hips twitching, your muscles locking up, your body slipping deeper, sinking further, lost in it, lost in him.

Michael smirked.

"Good girl."

You broke. Your body shuddered violently beneath him, the aftershocks still rippling through your muscles, leaving you boneless, trembling, wrecked.

Michael didn't move. He stayed where he was, settled between your thighs, watching. Watching the way your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths. Watching the way your fingers trembled where they still fisted the sheets. Watching the way your thighs remained open for him, slick and soft and shaking.

Then—

Slowly, deliberately—

He licked into you again.

Your stomach clenched, your breath catching on a sharp, broken sound, the sensation too much, too sensitive, too overwhelming.

But Michael wasn't done. His tongue traced along your folds, slow, collecting everything, savouring, memorising. Tasting.

When he finally pulled back, he exhaled, contemplative.

"Mm."

Your breath hitched.

Michael sat back on his heels, his thumb dragging across his lips, smearing the wetness there, spreading it, savouring the way his skin glistened in the dim light.

His eyes flickered back to yours, burning, endless, knowing.

"The first sin."

Your stomach twisted violently.

"The first indulgence."

He exhaled slowly, his gaze trailing back down your body, watching the way you still trembled, the way you still parted your legs just slightly in unbidden invitation.

"The first hunger."

Heat rushed through you, curling, twisting, writhing.

"And the first punishment."

Michael smirked.

"Perhaps Eve was not so wrong to take the fruit."

Your breath shuddered from your lips. Your entire body felt too hot, too raw, too desperate, too broken.

Michael inhaled deeply, like he was drinking in the scent of you, like he was savouring something sacred.

"The vessel has fond memories of this."

Your stomach flipped.

"Very fond memories."

His fingers dragged up your thigh, stroking idly, teasing, tracing.

"I see why."

You whimpered.

Michael’s smirk deepened.

"Are you ready for the last part?"

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your entire body aching, burning, desperate for what came next. You nodded quickly, eyes blown wide, breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

Michael tilted his head.

"Words."

Your stomach clenched, heat surging through your veins at the weight of that command.

Because it was not just a command. It was Dean’s command. Dean’s authoritarian voice. Dean’s tone, firm and absolute and unshaken—because he knew you would obey.

A soft, desperate whimper slipped from your lips.

"Please."

Michael grinned.

"Good girl."

And then—

He moved. He climbed over you, his body solid, immovable, inevitable. And you—weak and ruined and desperate—

Opened yourself to him.

Michael watched you so closely. Your body was bare beneath him, ruined, spent, trembling in anticipation of what came next. He exhaled slowly, savouring the moment, committing it to memory, to scripture, to the endless archive of knowledge that existed within him.

And then—

He pushed in.

Your breath tore from your lips, sharp, raw, broken, the stretch unbearable and perfect all at once.

Michael groaned.

"Oh."

A slow exhale. His fingers tightened on your hips, his gaze hooded, his mouth parting slightly as he pushed deeper, testing, feeling.

"So tight."

Your nails dug into his arms, your entire body arching, writhing beneath the unbearable weight of his presence inside you.

"So warm."

Your breath hitched.

Michael hummed. He withdrew slightly, then rolled his hips forward, watching the way your breath stuttered, caught, failed.

"The vessel’s memories of this are strong."

Your stomach twisted, your pulse hammering, the pleasure already too much, already suffocating.

"I understand why."

Another slow, precise thrust. Your thighs clenched around him, your head falling back, your mouth parting on a helpless moan.

Michael smirked.

And then—

"Pray."

Your eyes snapped open. Your breath hitched.

"What?"

Michael tilted his head slightly, considering, watching the way your expression flickered with confusion, with heat, with something helpless and wrecked.

"The Lord’s Prayer."

Your stomach flipped violently.

"Say it."

You whimpered. His hips rolled forward, slow, measured, making you feel every inch of him, making your breath shudder out in a helpless moan.

"Say it, little one."

Heat flushed through your entire body, burning, devastating, so wrong, so wrong, so wrong— and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from obeying.

Your lips parted, breathless, trembling.

"Our Father… who art in Heaven…"

Michael smirked. He thrust deeper.

Your words faltered, a sharp gasp replacing the next line, your entire body locking up as pleasure surged through your veins.

Michael clicked his tongue.

"Again."

You whimpered.

"Michael—"

He stilled inside you completely. Your stomach clenched, the loss of movement unbearable, excruciating.

"Start again."

Your breath came in short, uneven gasps.

"Our Father…"

Michael moved again, slow, deep, deliberate.

"Who art in Heaven…"

He hummed in approval.

"Hallowed be thy name…"

Your voice shook, cracking on a moan as Michael snapped his hips forward suddenly, tearing a sound from your throat that was anything but holy.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done—"

Your breath hitched, the words faltering, pleasure making them impossible to form. Michael stilled again. Your eyes flew open, your thighs squeezing around his hips, desperate, needy, aching.

"No." Your stomach twisted. "Please—"

"Continue."

You sobbed.

"Michael—"

"Say it."

Tears burned in your eyes, pleasure and desperation and blasphemy tangling into something unholy, something beyond redemption, something that could not be undone.

You gasped, your breath shaking as you tried again.

"On earth as it is in Heaven—"

Michael’s smirk deepened. His fingers brushed over your trembling lips, stroking, soft, cruel, reverent.

"Good girl."

Michael moved with precision, with calculation, with purpose. Each thrust was deliberate, slow, measured—pulling you apart and putting you back together again with every roll of his hips.

And still—

"Say it, little one."

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling into his shoulders, your entire body trembling beneath him.

"Give us this day our daily bread—"

Michael hummed in approval, his lips ghosting over your throat, his teeth grazing over your pulse just enough to feel how fast it was beating, how your body was betraying you with every broken, trembling word.

"And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us—"

Your voice cracked. Pleasure was coiling, building, devastating.

Michael’s fingers dug into your thighs, spreading you wider, dragging you closer, burying himself deeper.

"You are almost there."

Your stomach flipped, your entire body pulsing with heat, with desperation, with ruin.

"And lead us not into temptation—"

Michael laughed. Not softly. Not quietly. It was sharp, knowing, cruel. His hips snapped forward—hard, deep, perfect.

"It is too late for that."

Your breath tore from your lungs in a sob, the sensation unbearable, overwhelming, consuming, destroying.

Michael fucked you harder.

"Finish it."

You could barely breathe, barely think, barely hold on.

"But deliver us from evil—"

Michael groaned, his pace brutal, unrelenting, fucking the final words from your lips.

"For thine is the kingdom—"

You were right there, right on the edge, every nerve on fire, every part of you strung so tight it hurt.

"And the power—"

Your nails scratched down his back, your body tightening, clenching, trembling.

"And the glory—"

Michael’s breath shuddered, his grip tightening, his movements sharp, precise, devastating.

"Forever—"

His fingers pressed against your clit, sending you spiralling, sending you falling, sending you breaking.

"Amen."

You came violently—clenching around him, shuddering, sobbing, lost, wrecked, undone.

Michael groaned. A real sound. A real reaction.

Your body milked him, dragged him down with you, pulled him into the abyss of it, pulled him into something filthy and unholy and irreversible.

And then Michael came. The moment was slow, shuddering, inevitable. His breath caught, his body locking up, his hips stuttering just slightly before he buried himself deep—letting go, surrendering, filling you completely.

Heat flooded through you, thick and devastating, and for the first time, Michael was silent. The only sound was your ragged breathing, your pulse hammering, the distant crackle of the vinyl still spinning on the record player.

Michael exhaled slowly, staring down at you. And then a soft, knowing smirk.

"So human."

The room was silent.

Not truly.

Not fully.

The record still spun, the needle ticking against the empty groove, the soft, distant crackle a ghost of something that once existed—something that had been played, something that had ended, something that had changed.

Your body was trembling. Not from fear. Not from regret. Just from the weight of it. Michael was still inside you. Still buried deep, still watching, still feeling.

You weren’t sure if he had even taken a breath. His hands were still on you, firm, as though grounding himself to something real, something tangible, something human.

And then, finally—

He moved.

A slow exhale. A shift of weight. A quiet, lingering observation.

"Your body still trembles."

His voice was smooth, unshaken, untouched by what had just happened. Your breath stuttered, your fingers twitching slightly where they rested against his back.

"It is remarkable how fragile you are."

Heat flushed through you, deep, unavoidable, lingering in places you had never been able to scrub clean.

Michael exhaled again, pulling back just slightly, just enough to feel the way you clenched, the way your body refused to let him go.

A soft, pleased hum.

"Still weak to me."

You shuddered. Your body ached. Your chest was tight, your mind unfocused, your breath coming in slow, uneven waves.

Michael studied you. Watched you. Learned you.

And then—

"Would you like me to stay inside?"

Your stomach twisted. Your breath caught. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Your body already had.

Michael smirked.

"I see."

The weight of him was solid, real, inescapable. The scent of him was Dean. The body that held you was Dean.

But the eyes—the eyes that watched you, that studied you, that committed your submission to scripture—were not.

You turned your head slightly, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, breathing him in, sinking deeper, falling further.

Michael let you.

His fingers dragged through your damp hair, slow, methodical.

"You pray to him, don’t you?"

Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered open, barely, hazy and distant and lost.

"Dean."

The name was barely a whisper.

Michael smirked.

"Does he answer?"

Your stomach tightened.

"No."

Michael hummed, pleased.

"Then what is left to pray for?"

Your throat was dry. Your voice was broken.

"Nothing."

Michael exhaled softly, his lips brushing against your temple—featherlight, not a kiss, not a claim, just a lingering test of something neither of you could name. His fingers dragged over your bare spine, slow, reverent, something like worship, something like ruin.

"Good girl."

The needle on the record clicked.

And the song started over.

[wendichester]

hi hi :) !!

so i just finished season 6 (for like the 100th time) and listened to “we hug now” by sydney rose (sobs).

i was wondering if maybe you could write an angsty castiel x fem reader fic where it’s first set in the scene when the guys trap cas in the holy oil ring, confronting him about working with crowley.

obviously reader just has to be in love with cas (he loves her too, maybe both have even freshly entered a relationship or maybe have just confessed they’re in love with each other?).

then after the initial scene it goes to when they’re all in that lab after everything goes wrong for cas and he asks for the guys help in returning the souls to purgatory. obviously reader is still mad at cas about the whole “working with the king of hell after he tried to kill us and becoming the new god only for things to go wrong even after everyone told him there was another way. oh and when you broke the wall in sam’s head separating his memories of being tortured in hell by lucifer and michael plus when he was soulless too”, yet she still holds a soft spot for him.

the cherry on top of the anguish filled fic is when the reader immediately runs to cas after he falls when the souls exit his body, she’s freaking out because they all think he’s dead. full on crying and pleading for him to open his eyes, and when he does she kisses him for the first time.

then BOOM, the leviathans take over his body.

just to add salt to the wound, reader could be a winchester!! older sister perchance, making the whole thing hurt more.

whew, i was not expecting for the request to be this long but my brain wouldn’t stop picking at the most angst possible moments. if you don’t wanna write anything like this then it’s okay!! just thought it could be a possible fic! i would write it myself but i absolutely suck at writing :’)

˚｡⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾. no time to die,

summary. castiel's made a series of bad decisions. and it might be impossible to turn back now.

pairing. castiel x winchester!reader genre. angst!

wordcount. 628

notes. thank you so much for requesting bubs! i hope i was able to do your idea justice ehe 🩷

The flames of the holy oil flicker between you and Castiel, their glow reflecting in his deep, unreadable blue eyes. He stands there, trapped, betrayed by his own actions. And yet, he still looks at you like he’s sorry. Like he’s scared.

But that’s not enough.

“How could you?” Your voice shakes, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “Working with Crowley? Lying to us? Lying to me?”

Castiel’s expression wavers, something breaking behind his eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Yeah? Well, you did.”

You barely hear Sam and Dean speaking, the room closing in as your chest tightens. Just days ago, you had whispered to Castiel that you loved him, and he had whispered it back. You had believed in him, trusted him with everything—your heart, your family, your life.

And he chose this.

“You don’t understand,” Castiel pleads, stepping closer to the edge of the flames. “I did this for you. For all of you.”

“No, Cas.” Your voice is quieter now, but no less cutting. “You did this for yourself.”

--

The lab is eerily silent except for the distant sounds of dripping water and flickering electricity. Castiel is dying. His body is coming apart at the seams, the weight of the souls inside him tearing him apart.

You stand back, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Your anger still lingers, simmering beneath your grief.

You should hate him for this.

You should walk away, let him deal with the consequences of his own recklessness.

But you can’t.

You watch him sway, sweat beading at his temple, his breaths uneven. His eyes find yours across the room, and for a second, something raw and desperate flickers in them. Help me, they plead, even if his lips don’t say the words.

Dean’s jaw clenches, but he nods. Sam shifts beside you, hesitant but resigned. And then Castiel speaks. “I—I don’t know if I can fix this.”

“You’re going to try,” you bite out, stepping closer. “You owe us that much.”

His eyes soften as he looks at you, as if he can hear what you’re not saying. You owe me that much.

He swallows hard. “I’m sorry.”

You force yourself to hold onto your anger, to not let his regret sink into your bones. But when Castiel reaches out, fingers trembling, and places his hand over yours, you let him.

--

The explosion of energy is blinding. The souls rush out of Castiel like a tidal wave, screaming as they rip through the air, disappearing into the void. You shield your face, heart slamming against your ribs.

Then—

Silence.

And Castiel falls.

You don’t even think. You run, dropping to your knees beside him, hands grasping at his face, his shoulders, anything. His skin is too pale, his lips slightly parted, his chest unmoving.

“Cas?” Your voice cracks, panic surging. “Hey—hey, wake up, okay? Wake up.”

Nothing.

Tears burn down your cheeks. You shake him, press your forehead to his, whispering pleas against his cooling skin. “Please, Cas. You can’t—You can’t just leave me. I love you. Please.”

A shuddering breath, then—

A gasp.

His eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy, but alive.

A sob escapes you, and before you can think, before you can stop yourself, you press your lips to his.

It’s desperate, broken, but so full of relief it almost hurts. His hands weakly grasp your arms, grounding himself against you as you kiss him like he’s the most precious thing in the world—because to you, he is.

But then—

A sudden, unnatural stillness. A sharp inhale that’s wrong. His hands tighten, nails digging into your skin, and when he pulls back, his eyes are black.

Your breath catches.

“No—”

But it’s too late.

Castiel is gone.

The Leviathans have taken him.

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[shallowseeker]

I'm breaking this one out by itself because it's a little funny.

*Dean's phone rings*

*Dean answers without looking*

*Dean proceeds to yell at Cas*

Ah, right. What could possible be so important?

/////

Sam goes on to tell Dean that *drumroll* Sam is Lucifer's true vessel.

WOW! Scary!

DEAN: *sarcastically* Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh Sammy? SAM: That's it? That's your response?

It's... completely lost of Sam, though, the REASON for Dean's sarcasm.

See. It's this: now that Sam's found out that HE'S a vessel, he's in his car, an absolute FIRE lit under his goddamned tail, EAGER to get back in and fight.

Sam.

SAMMY.

🤦🤦🤦🤦

Dean throws a hint.

DEAN: *sarcastically again* I guess I'm a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point. SAM: Well what are we gonna do about it?

And Sam... still doesn't get it.

Sigh.

Here's the thing. Sam wasn't panicking when they learned that Dean was a vessel. Only Cas and Bobby were panicked and stressed. They were mean, but they were at least aware of the reality of things.

But Sam.

Yes, Sam was going through things, struggling with things, and taking time to go through things is okay. But on the other hand, it definitely still hurts that Sam wasn't insisting on staying in the fight on Dean's behalf, to protect Dean from becoming a vessel.

But now that Sam's learned that he's a vessel?

Boom.

It's not even that, though. It's this whole conversation.

Because what's missing here? Empathy for Dean's plight.

Sam doesn't realize that this is why he's perpetually at... the kids' table. This right here.

In this whole conversation, Sam is eaten up with ranting about his own feelings, about how he's sick of being a puppet, and how he's going to hunt Lucifer down and gain redemption.

Sam's all about "how he can do this," how he's "gonna prove it to you."

It makes him seem a lot younger than he is.

....

There's no acknowledgment of how helpless Dean must have been feeling all this time, knowing that he's been targeted by an archangel, about how scary this whole thing is.

Hell, even Cas acknowledged Dean's fears re: Michael.

I mean: He did it in his Cas way, but it still acknowledged the enormity of the fear.

Cas:

///

Meanwhile, Sam back in 5x01, right after DEAN learned about being Michael's vessel: Geez, why is everyone so cranky and stressed?

🥺Dean, what do you mean that you didn't mean your pep talk to Bobby? Whaaaat? 🥺

///

....

And the thing is. Not "getting it"? That's understandable. But this conversation is just... devoid of support for Dean.

And they're not. Sam's zapping all the strength for himself.

When they've been together lately, Dean is the big brother who lends support, and Sam isn't giving anything back. Sam's out to prove himself, not to support others.

And they tell older siblings and parents to be patient, to let them learn, to step back and forgive, to be "a soft place to land."

That's hard to do. And it's exhausting.

And aside// Sam's apology to (demon) Bobby was SO MUCH NICER. Sam, where is this humility and energy for other people????

SAM: No, actually. Bobby, this is all my fault. I'm sorry. Lilith did not break the final seal. Lilith was the final seal. I killed her, and I set Lucifer free. You guys warned me about Ruby, the demon blood, but I didn't listen. I brought this on. I'm sorry.

[marginofthought]

michael and lucifer hatefucking in the cage. adam kissing sam’s neck to distract him. sam squeezing his eyes shut and pretending it’s dean.

Adam can give in much easier - he doesn't have the same fear of the archangels as Sam does, not just that but his archangel is supposedly the good one

But Adam sees Sam struggeling and even if he doesn't play for the other team and this is technically incest he tries his best to get Sam as comfortable as possible. Kisses and soft touches don't do anything and once he understands what, no who, Sam needs he gets firmer, not cruel but firm. He deepens his voice, grips a bit tighter and hopes that it's enough for Sam to think of their other brother

[loveinhawkins]

The RV careens out of the trailer park and hits the open road with what pretty much amounts to ‘all speed, no grace.’ The turn Steve makes is, quite frankly, abysmal; he’s sure that if his driving instructor could see him now, the poor man would be weeping in distress.

Yet his passengers erupt into cheers as they pass the Leaving Hawkins sign, like he’s pulled some kind of James Bond move.

And, for all his insistence on being the absolute antithesis to so-called ‘jock culture’, Eddie rushes over to the driver’s seat, starts squeezing Steve’s shoulder with decidedly jock-like exuberance.

“Holy shit, holy shit, that was so fucking cool, Harrington.”

Oh, he’s definitely broken through the depression stage of the ‘finding out there’s an alternate dimension in Hawkins’ journey—landing firmly in the fuck it, might as well have some fun stage.

Steve could tell they’d reached that point even before the goddamn ‘big boy’ comment, when Eddie had taken one look at the Michael Myers mask, looked Max dead in the eye and said, “This is gonna be. So fuckin’ stupid. Let’s do it.”

Steve goes through a few seconds more of having his shoulder pummelled before saying, “Dude, you’re doing a shitty job at being undercover, stay down.”

“Like, do you have any idea,” Eddie says breathily, as if Steve hasn’t spoken, “just how perfect that was? That was, God, a childhood dream fully—”

“You dreamed of stealing an RV?” Steve says dubiously.

“Not in such crude literal terms, no. C’mon, Harrington, you must’ve had an imagination once—”

“Hey!”

“—didn’t you ever dream of, like, daring escapes, pulling the sword outta the stone, all that shit?”

Steve thinks about it. “I mean,” he says, “when I was a kid, I just kinda… climbed trees and stuff.”

Eddie sighs as if he can’t decide whether Steve’s done something especially annoying or endearing. “Of course you did.”

They reach a stop sign and Eddie finally flops into the passenger seat, facing Steve like he’s sitting side saddle on a horse.

“So,” Steve says, “I take a right after this, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm, well remembered, Mr Getaway Driver.”

Steve scoffs, glances over—finds Eddie framing him with his index finger and thumb, like a director trying to capture the perfect shot.

“James Dean,” Eddie says authoritatively, dropping his hands.

“What?”

“Was tryin’ to figure it out, your whole look, you know? Very Rebel Without a Cause.”

“Okay,” Steve says, “but I have a cause, we all do.”

Eddie just blinks at him, and Steve chuckles.

“You, idiot.”

“Oh.”

Steve has a moment to appreciate the way Eddie’s eyes go all soft and maybe just a little shiny, before he has to set off again. He takes the right turning.

“We should watch it,” Eddie says eventually. “Hell, I’ll take any movie. Just gimme, like, two hours of not having to think.”

“Tell me about it.”

Steve’s sure he’ll never complain about double VHS tapes ever again. Then a thought occurs to him.

“Shit.” He calls to the back. “Rob?”

“Yeah?”

“Y’know when we left Family Video, did we even lock up?”

“Yes,” Robin says followed immediately by, “No?”

Steve snorts. “God, we’re so fired.”

He hears Robin making her way up to the front, then Eddie saying, “Oof, Buckley, that was right in the ribs.”

“Why the sudden concern about our jobs, dingus?”

“I’m not concerned, I just got reminded of—Eddie was mentioning—”

“—Rebel Without a Cause,” Eddie finishes.

“Oh, Steve, I know you’ve seen it, I put it on last week!”

“Uh, maybe I was preoccupied doing, I dunno, my job.”

“It’s the one with—”

“James Dean,” Eddie cuts in.

“Yeah, I gathered, thanks,” Steve says sarcastically, but he can’t help smiling as he does so.

“—and it’s, you know,” Robin goes on, “troubled kid moves to a new town, and—”

“Aw,” Steve says, “you think I’m troubled, Munson?”

“It’s all in the eyes, Harrington. Such depths.”

“Right?” Robin says, and she’s laughing, tongue-in-cheek, “I’ve always said so.”

“You ever considered wearing a leather jacket?”

Steve laughs, too. “Tell ya what, Eddie, why don’t I just wear all your clothes?”

“Well, we know denim suits you.”

“If only you saw his last car-stealing outfit, Eddie.”

Steve sighs. “Robin, shut it.”

“Excuse me,” Eddie says, “d’you have form, Harrington? Grand theft auto form?”

“Literally once. Crazy circumstances.” Rest in peace, Todfather. “It was a Cadillac.”

“A Cadillac.” Eddie sighs dreamily. “Do you have any photos?”

“Uh, no, I was kinda busy.”

“I shall mourn the loss.”

“Take the next left here,” Nancy calls, which Steve is grateful for—the directions had gone completely out of his head.

“Wheeler, come up to the front,” Eddie says, “it’s a party.”

She must do, because her voice sounds much closer when she says, “Shit, I think I forgot to lock up, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, “no-one’s gonna ransack The Weekly Streak.”

Another stop sign—Steve looks over, smirks at how Eddie has ended up squished between Nancy and Robin, all of them sharing the one seat.

“They better not.” To Eddie, Nancy adds, “I think I gave your uncle the impression that I’m doing a big piece on you. Like, testimonials for an innocent man, stuff like that.”

For a flicker of a second, Eddie looks nauseated at the thought—Steve spots the shift, the decision to make a joke about it.

“Well, Wheeler, you better make me sound good.”

“Oh, I was going more for journalistic integrity.”

“Hey.”

Steve hears a couple of thumps behind him; without even glancing in the mirror, he says, “Sit your asses down, shitheads, don’t make me turn this thing around.”

“Don’t make me turn this thing around!” Lucas parrots.

Max scoffs playfully: “Nineteen going on forty.”

“Eddie was standing before!” Erica points out.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, Eddie’s a law unto himself. Look, just sit down and, like, make a list or something, I’ll stop off for food after we’ve—”

Dustin laughs. “You really are forty.”

“Uh-huh, one more wisecrack and you’re not getting any chocolate pudding.”

Steve’s hamming it up, he knows he is—smiles to himself as he hears a quartet of giggles.

“Can you believe they used to think I was cool?” he says.

“I dunno, Harrington,” Eddie says warmly, “at least one of them doth protest too much.”

Nancy stands in search of a pen, Robin following, insisting to Dustin that, “We’re getting one of those camp stoves, if I don’t eat something hot soon, I’m gonna die.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Maybe it’s because they’ll soon be arriving at The War Zone; his levity slips just a little when he says, “It’s probably, like, a proximity thing. Henderson’ll have a scientific term for it.”

Eddie chuckles. “What, the Steve Harrington effect?”

Steve shrugs. “You get too close, the shine wears off eventually.”

He doesn’t realise until he’s said it that the joking, perhaps, has stopped somewhere along the way.

“Huh,” Eddie says. “I’m no scientist, but that doesn’t sound like the Steve Harrington effect to me.”

“No?” Steve says.

He can see the parking lot in the distance, and he gestures for Eddie to duck.

“Nope,” Eddie says. Steve can hear him moving, crouching to hide behind the driver’s seat.

He parks and everyone’s abruptly all business, deciding who’s staying in the RV, who’s going into The War Zone.

Steve hates it, has a sudden intense longing to keep talking about movies, to just be stupid.

And maybe Eddie can tell, because just before Steve heads out, he catches his eye, smiles.

“Hey, don’t worry, Harrington,” he says with a tiny, fleeting wink. “You’re still my leading man.”

[thatbloodjunkie]

No, but seriously, how does it feel to be Dean Winchester's (that merciless hunter, who was praised by Cane and a whole lot of people, Michael's vessel, etc.) one and only soft spot? Helen of Troy could never imagine, huh Sammy?