Summary: Sitting at a bar one night, long after you'd abandoned your friends and even Bucky at the tower, you'd finally gained the courage to explain to him why you'd left months ago. The results weren't at all what you were expecting. The reunion had all but been a terrible feat....until.
Warnings: fluff <3
[Series Masterlist] [Previous Chapter] [Ao3 Link]
Morning routines had settled into a rhythm after the talk you had with Bucky. Kobalt had grown bold, toddling confidently around the apartment with her rhino. Bucky had become part of the background, quietly present, careful, never overstepping.
You watched from the edge of the kitchen as he knelt on the floor, gently guiding Kobalt’s little hands as she tried to feed the rhino her pancakes. His voice was soft, patient, coaxing her through her babbles and giggles.
“You’re learning fast, little one,” he said, crouching down so she could see his face. “See that? That’s a squirrel. It’s fast, but not as fast as you.”
She squealed, clapping her hands. You swallowed hard, chest tightening as you watched the effortless way she gravitated toward him, the trust she instinctively placed in his arms.
Later that evening, Bucky took over bath duty. Kobalt splashed wildly, water dripping from the tub. “Whoa, hey! Careful, kiddo!” he laughed, ducking to avoid a spray. “We don’t want to flood the apartment.”
You perched on the edge, watching, mesmerized. His hands were gentle but confident as he washed her hair, talking her through each step. When she reached up to touch his face, he didn’t flinch—he smiled. “That’s right, you can touch me. I’m right here.”
The ache in your chest was unavoidable. You had forgotten how tenderness could coexist with strength, how he could be so dangerous and yet so undeniably soft when it mattered.
You’d forgotten what it felt like to love another human being just as much as you loved your daughter.
****
Kobalt slept, and you both sat on the couch, the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the city. Bucky’s hand rested lightly near yours, tentative.
“You’ve done an amazing job,” he murmured. “With her, with… everything.”
You laughed softly. “Amazing? I barely survive each day without screaming.”
He gave a small grin, eyes softening. “She doesn’t see it that way. And… neither do I. You’re amazing. She’s lucky. And I…” His voice faltered. “…I’m to be part of that. Part of her life, if you’ll let me forever.”
“I… I don’t know yet,” you admitted. “It’s so much. I’ve been used to doing this alone. But… I want to trust you. Slowly. With her, with me.”
“Slow is fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
You let yourself lean back, feeling the warmth of the moment, the quiet intimacy of a shared trust. For now, there were no ultimatums, no demands. Just Bucky, just you, just Kobalt asleep between you—a fragile bubble of peace and tentative love.
----
Small routines became your anchors. Breakfasts where he fed Kobalt bite by bite, her babbling endless and delighted. Walks where he pointed out trees, dogs, cars, teaching her the world gently. Bedtime, where he rocked her in his arms, humming low, soft tunes that made her sigh in contentment.
One morning, she waved her tiny arms at him, demanding he hold her while she ate her pancake. He smiled down at her, then glanced at you with a shy, almost sheepish look.
“She wants you,” you whispered.
“Yes,” he replied softly. “She always has.”
And in that moment, watching him cradle her with such careful devotion, something inside your walls cracked—not enough to fall completely, but enough to let warmth, hope, and maybe love start creeping back in.
It was moments like this picture i nfrotn of you that made you wish the big fight between you had never happened. That you and him had been together throguh all of it; the pregnancy, the ultraasounds, the doctors visits where you were informed she was a risk risk pregnancy.
But you couldn’t keep dwelling on the past. You had to focus o nthe fact that bcuky was trying now. He was sorry for the way he acted. Yeah, you still held resent and you still felt guarded. But you knew you could trust hi with your daughter. After all, you allowed hi mto walk to the park with her almost every morning -- a thought you never once questioned.
You allowed hi mto bathe her at night time before he would leave to retun back to the tower again for the night, just to arrive at your house at the ass crack of dawn with coffee and breakfast for the three of you. He almost neer failed, unless he was away on missions -- which weren’t too often, thankfully. You didn’t want to think about losing him again but permanently if he died on a mission. You’d even allwoed the thought to mingle in your head, how devastated you would feel if he died on a mission somewhere that you couldn’t be there for him in his final moments.
It was nearly nighttime before you had noticed you’d fallen asleep in his lap that night. You don’t even remember doing it. All you remembered was him putting on a movie for the pair of you after he had put Kobalt to sleep.
Scratching your eyes, you noticed the movie was long over and he was watching some random show on silence. Alerted by your movement, he looked down at you, a nervus smile on his face.
“I would have left for the night, but you looked entirely too comfortable; I hope you don’t mind that I overstayed my welcome.”
Groaning as you sat up from his lap, you almost missed the pitiful sigh from his mouth as you stretched your limbs.
“Come on,” you stood up and fully stretched out, not waiting for him to follow. But you didn’t lead him to the front door like usual. Instead, you led him throguh the short hallway that led to your bedroom and promptly laid down, before getting comfortable.
When he didn’t move from the threshold, you looked over at him. “Well? Are you going to sleep or are you going to be a creep and stare at me all night?”
Snapping out of his reverie, he nodded, pulling off his jeans and folding them gently before placing them beside the empty side of the bed and yanking his henley from his body before laying down stiffly under the duvet beside you.
Letting out a chuckle, you turned to face him. “Bucky, for crying out loud, we’ve fucked too many times for you to be acting like a virgin. Now get over here and cuddle me before I kick you out of my bed.”
Finally relaxing next to you, he put his arm out so you could cuddle into his warmth, which you happily did. It was silent only for a few minutes.
“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” he whispered as he started tracing around patterns with his fingertips across your bicep. “Never in a million years did I ever expect to be here liek this with you again.”
“Fortunately, Buck, it’s real.” you smiled up at him and searched his face. “I know the last time we actually talked, the day everything blew up, was really rough for the both of us.”
He grimaced at the statement. “Can we not think about that right now?”
“No, let me talk,” you took a deep breath. “I want you to know, my intentions in telling you that I was pregnant wasn’t meant to bring you down at all. I don’t know why you thought I was cheating on you. And it’s okay. I’ve forgiven you for that. And I’m still trying to be okay with you being in her life full time.”
“I can’t thank you enough for that,” he whispered.
“I was going to bring you to custody court,” you admitted, licking your lips. “It was all I thought about while I was pregnant. I was dead set on getting a paternity test from you to prove she was yours and then I was going to take you to court.”
“Wasn’t the court thing my idea?” he chuckled bitterly. “God, I was so stupid back then.”
I thought so too, at the tiem,” you admitted. “But liek I said, I’m starting to forgive you. And maybe a small part of me still wants to be in love with you.”
He started at you, his big blue eyes shining with more emotion than you ever expected. “Can I kiss you?”
You didn’t hesitate to nod your head before he leaned down and kissed you hard on the mouth.
The kiss started soft, hesitant, but it quickly deepened, a mix of longing and caution as if both of you were testing the waters of a river you’d been afraid to approach for years. His hand slid from your bicep down to your waist, pressing you closer, while your fingers threaded through the dark strands of his hair, holding him like you never wanted to let go.
When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. “I’ve wanted this… for so long,” he murmured, voice rough and low. “Every time I saw her laugh, every time she looked at me like I was magic… I wanted this. You. Us.”
You swallowed hard, chest tightening, heart pounding like it might burst. “I’ve wanted it too,” you admitted softly. “I’ve been scared, Bucky. Scared that you’d come back and she’d want you more than me. That… I’d feel like I’d lost both of you all over again.”
He kissed your temple gently, a soft, grounding touch. “You won’t lose us. Not her, not me. I promise. I’ll earn her trust. I’ll earn yours. And I’ll wait for however long it takes.”
Your lips curved in a small smile. “Then I guess we should start… somewhere.”
He chuckled softly, brushing his nose against yours before kissing you again, this time slower, more deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every curve, every taste. Your hands traced over his shoulders, down his back, pulling him closer, until the world outside your bedroom—the noise, the city, the past—didn’t exist.
Finally, you broke apart just enough to breathe, your foreheads resting together. “I don’t want to rush anything,” you whispered. “But… I want to try. With you. With us.”
Bucky’s fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. “I’ve waited for this moment for so long… Y/N. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. With you, with her… with us.”
You let yourself melt against him, heart full and fragile, as if every wall you’d built had softened under the warmth of his presence. For the first time in years, the past’s shadows didn’t feel like chains—they felt like lessons that had brought you here, to this moment, in his arms, finally letting yourself hope.
“Then…” you murmured, tilting your head up to meet his eyes, “maybe we can start with tonight.”
His lips found yours again, soft, insistent, and in that kiss there was both forgiveness and promise, a fragile, trembling hope that maybe, just maybe, you could all find a new kind of family—together.
The night deepened around you, quiet but full of possibility, and somewhere in the background, the city hummed a lullaby that seemed just for the three of you.
****
The morning light spilled through the thin curtains, warming the small apartment in a soft, golden glow. You stirred, blinking against the sun, and realized with a jolt that you weren’t alone—Bucky was still next to you, sprawled on his side, one arm draped protectively across your waist in your bed. His breathing was steady, calm, and for a moment you just watched him, taking in the rise and fall of his chest, the softness in his usually intense features.
A tiny squeal drew your attention, and you noticed Kobalt had wriggled out of her crib somehow, standing on the floor with her little rhino in hand. She toddled toward the living room with determination, babbling excitedly.
“Morning, Daddy!” she chirped, throwing her arms toward Bucky as she ran.
He lifted his head just in time, catching her in his lap with ease. “Morning, kiddo,” he said softly, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Sleep well?”
She nodded enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on his knees. “Rhino!” she declared, holding up the toy.
Bucky chuckled, ruffling her hair. “I see that. Did you bring him to breakfast too?”
You watched from your side of the bed, groggy, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. Something about seeing them together—the ease, the laughter, the soft way Bucky’s arms fit around her—made your chest ache in a familiar, dangerous way. You realized just how much you’d missed this, missed him.
He glanced at you briefly, a shy, almost nervous smile appearing. “Want to help us with pancakes?” he asked, tilting his head toward the hallway.
You raised an eyebrow, setting your mug down. “I thought you were the pancake king this morning.”
He shrugged, still holding Kobalt. “I can share the title. You’re welcome to assist.”
Grinning, you joined them in the kitchen. Kobalt babbled at both of you the entire time, insisting on handing Bucky the ingredients, watching with wide eyes as he flipped a perfectly golden pancake in the pan. You leaned against the counter, heart full as you watched him patiently explain, coax, and encourage your daughter with every step.
At one point, Kobalt pressed her little hands to his cheeks, giggling uncontrollably. “Daddy!” she squealed.
Bucky laughed, eyes softening as he looked at you over her head. “She’s definitely got your stubborn streak,” he whispered, and you felt your pulse spike, a warmth spreading through you.
After breakfast, Kobalt insisted on being carried around, “showing him her grand castle” to her dad, though really she just wanted him to carry her. You followed quietly, watching Bucky expertly balance her in his arms, making silly faces, answering her babbles as if each one were a perfectly coherent question.
“You’re really good at this,” you said softly when he handed her to you for a moment so he could refill his coffee.
He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck, blue eyes earnest. “I’ve had some practice… mostly with missions. But with her… it feels right, you know? Like it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Your throat tightened, and you looked away, busy adjusting Kobalt’s tiny socks. “Yeah… I see that. And… I don’t know how to say this, but… I’ve missed it. Missed you. Missed… this.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Then maybe… we keep doing it. Every day. Slowly. Carefully. But together.”
You met his gaze, and for the first time in weeks, the walls around your heart felt thinner, fragile but willing to bend. “Yeah,” you whispered, a small smile forming. “We can try. Together. One Day at a time.”
Kobalt squealed again, throwing her tiny arms around his neck. He laughed, holding her close, and you felt a quiet swell of something you hadn’t dared feel in years: hope, love, and the possibility of a family—not perfect, maybe, but real.
And in that golden morning light, you realized you were already madly in love with him once again.
Summary: Only in Death can you meet your soulmate.
Warnings: Soulmate AU, brief mention of death
Word Count: 334
a while back i reblogged this post asking y'all for fake titles. @seraphinaivv sent me the title "'til death do we meet"... hope you enjoy!
Read on ao3! Tag List
You never believed in soulmates. Not really.
The gods spoke of eternal bonds, of love that transcended realms and time, but to you, such things always sounded like stories told to make fate bearable. After all, in the end, every soul is destined to face the halls of Valhalla or the abyss of Helheim.
Who truly wants to live forever chained to another—whether in bliss or torment?
What if the one you believed was yours was not as perfect as the tales claimed? Or worse, what if you hid your own truths so well that even you didn’t recognize them?
The day you died was quiet, almost too quiet. You found yourself standing before the All-Father himself—Odin, robed in starfire and shadow, eyes like the endless cosmos.
Beside you stood him. Thor Odinson. Your soulmate, the thunder in your veins, the storm you thought you could tame.
Yet, looking at him now, his fierce gaze softened but shadowed with something unknown, you felt the weight of silence between you.
The All-Father’s voice echoed, deep and solemn: “You have come to answer for your bond.”
Your heart clenched. Because in this hallowed hall, the secrets you’d buried both came to light—like lightning tearing through a calm sky.
Thor’s eyes met yours, wide and raw with confession.
“I have carried a secret,” he murmured. “A shadow from my past realms. A truth I feared would tear us apart.”
You searched his face—was it betrayal or pain? Or a love desperate to survive beyond death?
The All-Father’s gaze pierced through you both. “The bond you forged is severed, broken by truths unspoken.”
You stumbled, breath caught in your throat.
Were you ever truly his? Could love endure when souls were torn asunder?
But then the impossible happened. A shimmer in the celestial halls. A chance. A choice. To defy destiny itself. Death was never meant to be the end. It was the beginning of a battle—not just for love, but for your very souls.
Summary: You're with Dean at his garage while Sam's out getting supplies. You almost get caught with seconds to spare. [WC 578] [Ao3]
Warnings: betrayal, cheating, angst
Inspired by “Unholy” by Sam Smith
The garage always smells like oil and metal and something faintly sweet that might just be him.
Dean never looks cleaner than when he’s filthy. Sleeves shoved up. Grease on his forearms. White tank clinging to sweat. The old radio crackling something distorted in the background while he leans under the hood of a battered Chevy.
You shouldn’t be here this late. But you always are.
The shop is technically closed — lights off in the front, only the back bay lit in golden haze. The sign outside flickers. The whole place feels like a secret.
“You keep starin’ at me like that,” Dean mutters without looking up, wrench twisting in his grip, “I’m gonna start chargin’ admission.”
You step closer anyway. “Maybe I like watching you work.”
He snorts, but there’s heat in it. The metal clangs when he shuts the hood. He turns slowly — and there’s that look. The one that feels like sin wrapped in green eyes. “You know this is a bad idea, right?”
“Then stop me.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he closes the distance, hands bracing on either side of you against the workbench. You can feel the grease smear onto your shirt. You can feel his breath. “Sam’s gonna be back any minute,” he murmurs.
“And?”
His jaw tightens. That’s the thing about Dean. He pretends he’s the good brother. Pretends he’s responsible. Pretends he doesn’t want what he absolutely does. “You’re trouble,” he says softly.
“Yeah.”
His thumb hooks into the waistband of your jeans. Testing. Not moving further. It’s electric — the secrecy. The risk. The fact that during the day Sam thinks you’re just his friend. Research buddy. Innocent.
Dean’s hand slides to your waist instead, gripping hard.
Footsteps crunch outside. Dean freezes. The garage door rattles open. “Dean?” Sam’s voice echoes through the bay.
You barely have time to step back before Sam rounds the corner — tall, tired, jacket slung over his shoulder.
His eyes take in everything in one sweep. Dean is too close. You flushed. The grease smudge on your hip shaped suspiciously like fingers. Sam goes very still. “What’s going on?”
Dean clears his throat, stepping away but not quite far enough. “Fixing a carburetor.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “At midnight?”
Your pulse is in your throat.
The silence stretches.
Sam’s gaze shifts to you — searching. Not angry. Not yet. Something sharper. “You okay?”
You nod too fast.
Dean bristles. “She’s fine.”
Sam exhales slowly, jaw flexing. He knows Dean. He knows that look. “Right,” Sam says, but there’s tension in it. “I’ll, uh… be in the office.”
He turns, but not before muttering— “Try to keep it professional.” The door shuts behind him. The air crackles. Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “Damn it.”
You swallow. “He knows.”
“He suspects.”
Dean looks at you again — and this time it’s not playful. It’s conflicted. “Sam doesn’t need this,” he says quietly. “He’s got enough goin’ on.”
“And what about what you need?”
That hits. He steps closer again — slower this time. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he murmurs.
“Already did.”
He lets out a rough laugh — low and almost helpless. Then he kisses you. Not rushed. Not desperate. Claiming. Like he knows it’s wrong. Like that makes it worse. From the office, a chair scrapes against the floor. Dean pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
Summary: You take a pregnancy test after a wild night with your boys. Results were way better than you expected. [WC 789] [AO3!]
Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, fluff
Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female Reader x Dean Winchester
Request: @twobrothersandablackcar sam x reader x dean, reader finds out she's pregnant (could be either of the boys) but fluffy, no angst because they're all in on it?
A/N: i didn't name who the actual father of the baby was <3 couldn't decide tbh. Also, sorry for the wait <3
You’re staring at the stick in your hand like it personally offended you.
Two pink lines. Very clear. Very present. Very real.
You blink. Then blink again. Still there. “Well,” you whisper to the empty bunker bathroom, “that’s new.”
Dean is in the kitchen when you walk in, sleeves pushed up, aggressively flipping bacon like it owes him money.
Sam is at the table with a lore book open, glasses perched low on his nose, highlighter in hand.
It’s normal. Domestic. Comfortable.
Your heart does a weird little flip.
“Hey,” Dean says without looking up. “If you’re hungry, you better grab some before Sasquatch over there inhales it all.”
Sam doesn’t look up. “I can hear you.”
“That’s because your ears are closer to heaven,” Dean mutters.
You stand there. Holding the test behind your back.
They both eventually notice you’re not responding.
Sam looks up first. His expression softens immediately. “You okay?”
Dean turns and the joking fades. Because you’re smiling. But your eyes are shiny. “…Why do you look like that?” Dean asks carefully.
You inhale. Exhale. “Well,” you say, voice wobbling in the happiest way possible, “either I’m hallucinating… or we’re about to need a crib in the bunker.”
Silence. Utter, complete silence.
Sam blinks.
Dean frowns. “…What?”
You hold the test out.
Dean stares at it like it’s written in Enochian.
Sam stands slowly. “Is that…?” he starts.
“Two lines,” you confirm softly.
Dean looks between you and Sam like this is some elaborate prank. Then realization hits. His mouth falls open. “Wait. Wait. Are you saying—”
“Yeah.”
Sam’s hand flies to his mouth. He lets out a breath that sounds half-laugh, half-disbelief.
Dean just stares at you. Then at Sam. Then back at you. “…We’re having a baby?” The way he says it — awe-struck, stunned — makes your chest ache.
“Well,” you tease gently, “one of you definitely helped.”
Sam makes a strangled noise.
Dean points at him. “See? I told you my swimmers were Olympic level.”
“Oh my god,” Sam groans, red.
You burst out laughing. And then, suddenly, they’re both moving. Sam reaches you first. His hands land carefully on your waist like you’re made of glass.
“Are you okay?” he asks immediately. “How do you feel? Are you dizzy? Do you need—”
“I’m fine,” you laugh. “It’s been like… twenty minutes.”
Dean steps closer, slower. Like he’s approaching something sacred. He looks at your stomach. Then at you. “Seriously?” he asks softly.
You nod.
Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. And then he smiles. Not cocky. Not sarcastic. Just… bright. Happy. “Holy crap.”
Sam lets out a breathy laugh and pulls you into a hug, careful but tight. You feel him trembling a little. Dean wraps his arms around both of you. It’s a messy, half-crushed group hug.
“We’re gonna need baby-proofing,” Sam murmurs faintly.
“We fight monsters,” Dean scoffs. “We can handle outlets.”
“Dean,” you say gently.
He hums in response.
“You realize there’s a chance it’s yours.” You say with a raise of a brow.
He looks at you, then at Sam. Then he shrugs. “Or it’s Moose’s.” Sam nudges him. Dean’s expression softens. “Doesn’t matter,” he says simply.
And that’s it. No tension. No competition. Just truth.
Sam nods immediately. “We’re both in.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Kid’s ours. Period.”
Your throat tightens.
Dean crouches slowly in front of you, eyes wide with something dangerously close to tears. He hesitates — then rests his palm lightly on your stomach. “Uh,” he says awkwardly. “Hey there, tiny Winchester.”
Sam kneels beside him, his hand overlapping Dean’s. “Or future genius,” he murmurs softly.
Dean snorts. “Or future rock legend.”
“Or both,” you smile.
Dean looks up at you. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, quieter now.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am.”
Sam leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. Dean follows with one to your cheek. “We’re gonna be awesome at this,” Sam says, trying to sound confident.
Dean smirks. “Speak for yourself. I’m teaching ‘em classic rock before they can walk.”
“You’re not blasting AC/DC at 3 a.m.” you roll your eyes.
“Don’t limit my parenting style, Samuel.”
You laugh again, tears finally slipping free.
Dean notices immediately and stands, cupping your face. “Hey,” he murmurs. “No crying unless it’s happy.”
“It is happy,” you promise.
Sam pulls both of you back into his arms. “We’ve got you,” he says quietly. “Both of you.”
Dean squeezes tighter. “Yeah,” he adds. “Team Free Will just leveled up.”
You rest your hands over theirs on your stomach.
The bunker suddenly doesn’t feel lonely or underground or haunted. It feels like home. And for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel uncertain. It feels full.
updated May 3 2026. I'm separating the dialogue prompts into their respective sections. Went through Anger & Angst Lists the last few days & separated them into smaller lists. Will be working on the horror/Apocalyptic list next!
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
rant/vent/complain about something that bothers you
have you ever..?
confess something/tell me a secret
would you rather..?
unpopular opinions
ask for advice (and i’ll do my best to be helpful lol)
tell me about your crush or best friend (or both)
ask me personal questions
tell me what you like most about yourself
make me choose between..
tell me about your dreams
send me headcanons
my top 5 of whatever
send me puns, jokes, and memes
your favourite fictional character and why you love them
send me recs (movies, books, anime, fics, music etc.)
ask me for recs (…)
fuck, marry, kill
tell me about your pet (or post pics of them and tag me :D)
……
these are just some suggestions that came to my mind right now, so feel free to send me whatever! and feel free to reblog if you want to have a sleepover too ☆
updated May 3 2026. I'm separating the dialogue prompts into their respective sections. Went through Anger & Angst Lists the last few days & separated them into smaller lists. Will be working on the horror/Apocalyptic list next!
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
Summary: A classroom discussion almost outs Sam's problematic relationship with his family. [WC 1.3K] [Ao3]
Warnings: wincest, angst, hurt!sam, Stanford Era Sam
based on this post by @angeloftuesdayy
Stanford is supposed to be clean. That’s what Sam tells himself. Clean air. Clean sidewalks. Clean futures. No Dean. No John. No sulfur. No motel wallpaper peeling at the corners. No blood that won’t come out of your cuticles no matter how hard you scrub. Just books. Classrooms. People who have never fired a gun.
The literature building smells like dust and highlighter ink. Sam sits in the third row — close enough to look engaged, far enough not to be called on first.
On the board, in neat chalk letters:
Flowers in the Attic – Confinement, Corruption, Moral Transgression
He knew the book had controversial themes. He didn’t expect the slow, crawling dread that started in his stomach around chapter twelve.
He read it in his dorm room with the window open. He had to keep pausing. Because some of the lines — not the plot, not the specifics — but the loneliness felt too familiar. The feeling of being cut off from the world. Of having only one person who really knew you. Only one person who ever did.
The professor, Callahan — wire-rim glasses, calm voice, gentle authority — starts by talking about Gothic tropes. “The attic functions both as a literal and symbolic prison,” he says. “Now — how does trauma distort the children’s understanding of morality?”
Hands go up. Sam doesn’t raise his. A girl near the front — cardigan, tidy ponytail — speaks first. “Isolation warps their sense of normal boundaries.”
Boundaries. The word lands too close to bone.
Another student adds, “They don’t have a healthy social framework, so what happens between Cathy and Chris becomes inevitable.”
Inevitable. Sam’s thumb digs into the edge of his notebook. A nerve in his jaw twitches.
Callahan nods. “Do we read that inevitability as tragic? Or as moral failure?”
A guy in a baseball cap leans back in his chair. “Both. It’s tragic, but it’s still wrong. I mean — incest isn’t suddenly okay because you’re lonely.”
There it is. The room shifts. What had been literary analysis sharpens into something harsher.
Someone behind Sam says, almost laughing, “Yeah. It’s gross. Like, there’s no context where that’s not gross.”
Gross.
He feels heat crawl up his neck. His body remembers before his brain can stop it. The way motel beds were too small. The way winter nights were too cold and Dean would curl around him because their heater didn’t work. The way Dean’s fingers would linger in his hair after nightmares — longer than necessary. The way Sam never moved away. Never wanted to.
The class keeps talking.
“It’s abuse,” someone says firmly. “Even if they think it’s consensual. There’s no way it’s healthy.”
“It’s pathological,” another adds. “It comes from dysfunction. It’s not real love.”
Sam’s breathing goes shallow. He stares at the word moral on the chalkboard until it blurs. They don’t know. They don’t know about empty highways at 3 a.m. About salt lines on motel floors. About being eleven years old and realizing your brother is the only constant in a universe that wants you dead. They don’t know what survival does to a person. They talk about it like it’s theoretical. Like it’s a psychology case study.
“If two siblings think they’re in love,” the girl in the cardigan says carefully, “that just proves how damaged they are.”
Damaged. Sam feels it like a brand. He presses his pen harder against the page. Crack. Plastic splits in his hand. The sound is sharp in the quiet room.
A few heads turn.
Callahan glances at him. “Everything alright, Mr. Winchester?”
He nods too fast. “Fine.” His voice sounds distant to his own ears.
The discussion keeps rolling.
“It’s society’s job to draw hard lines,” baseball cap says. “Some things are just wrong. Full stop.”
“Exactly,” someone agrees. “We don’t make excuses for that stuff.”
That stuff. Sam swallows against the tightness in his throat. He thinks of Dean laughing in a diner booth, sunlight in his hair. He thinks of the way Dean looks at him like he’s something worth saving. He thinks of the nights where it stopped being accidental. Where Sam chose it. Chose him.
Is that what they’d call it? That stuff?
Callahan sets his chalk down. “Let’s complicate this,” he says. “Does Andrews invite empathy? Or condemnation?”
Silence stretches. And then —
“Mr. Winchester?”
Sam’s head jerks up. Every face in the room turns toward him. He feels pinned under their attention.
You can still walk this back. Say something neutral. Keep it academic. His mouth opens. “It’s…” His throat tightens. “It’s not that simple.” The baseball cap guy snorts quietly. Sam ignores it. “When you’re isolated like that,” he continues, words coming too fast now, “when you don’t have anyone else — your sense of right and wrong isn’t theoretical. It’s… it’s survival.”
A girl frowns. “That doesn’t make it less wrong.”
Something hot and protective surges in his chest.
“You don’t know that.”
The room stills. The defensiveness in his tone is unmistakable.
Callahan’s expression shifts — not judgmental, but attentive. Curious. “Expand on that, Sam.”
His pulse roars in his ears. He can feel the moment slipping out of his control. “If you’ve never been in a situation like that,” he says, quieter now, “you don’t get to sit outside it and say what you would’ve done.”
The cardigan girl tilts her head. “But some lines are universal.”
Universal. Sam thinks about demons. About angels. About a childhood that wasn’t childhood at all. Universal for who?
His jaw tightens. “That’s easy to say when you had options.”
The baseball cap guy leans forward. “Dude. It’s incest.”
The word hits like a slap. A couple people shift uncomfortably. One girl whispers something to her friend.
Sam’s vision tunnels. He can practically see the thought forming in their heads. Why is he taking this so personally?
Callahan steps in gently. “We’re discussing themes, not attacking one another.”
But it’s already happened. The air has changed. Sam is too visible. He can’t undo what he’s revealed. “I just think,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady, “that calling something ‘sick’ without understanding the context is… lazy.”
There’s an edge there. Anger. And underneath it — hurt.
A long pause.
Then someone near the back says softly, “If someone defends it that hard, it makes you wonder.”
It’s barely audible. But Sam hears it. Oh God. Heat floods his face. He pushes his chair back. It scrapes loudly against the floor.
“I have to go.”
“Sam—” Callahan starts.
But he’s already grabbing his bag. Already halfway to the door. Thirty pairs of eyes follow him. Curious. Confused. Speculative.
The hallway feels too bright when he steps out. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s outside the building entirely. Cold air slaps his face. His hands are shaking. He presses them against his ribs like he can hold something inside.
I’m not sick. I’m not.
But their voices replay anyway.
Gross. Damaged. Pathological.
He thinks about Dean’s hands on his face. Dean’s voice, low and steady, “You and me, Sammy. That’s all that matters.” Would they look at Dean the same way? Would they call him a predator? Would they say Sam was abused?
The thought makes him nauseous. They don’t know him. They don’t know Dean. They don’t know what it’s like to choose the only person who’s ever chosen you back.
Inside the classroom, the whispers are already starting.
“He flipped out.”
“That was intense.”
“Why did he care so much?”
“Do you think he—?”
Stanford is small. Questions grow fast in places like this. By the time Sam makes it back to his dorm, two people have already glanced at him strangely in the quad. Or maybe he imagined it.
He sinks down on the edge of his bed. Stares at his phone. He should call Dean. He should hear his voice. But what would he say?
Hey, Dean? My class thinks we’re disgusting. Hey, Dean? Am I?
His thumb hovers over the call button. He lowers the phone instead. Sits there in the quiet, feeling split in half. Normal on the outside. Something rotten on the inside.
And for the first time since he stepped onto Stanford’s campus, Sam feels the distance between who he’s pretending to be…and who he actually is.
updated May 3 2026. I'm separating the dialogue prompts into their respective sections. Went through Anger & Angst Lists the last few days & separated them into smaller lists. Will be working on the horror/Apocalyptic list next!
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
rant/vent/complain about something that bothers you
have you ever..?
confess something/tell me a secret
would you rather..?
unpopular opinions
ask for advice (and i’ll do my best to be helpful lol)
tell me about your crush or best friend (or both)
ask me personal questions
tell me what you like most about yourself
make me choose between..
tell me about your dreams
send me headcanons
my top 5 of whatever
send me puns, jokes, and memes
your favourite fictional character and why you love them
send me recs (movies, books, anime, fics, music etc.)
ask me for recs (…)
fuck, marry, kill
tell me about your pet (or post pics of them and tag me :D)
……
these are just some suggestions that came to my mind right now, so feel free to send me whatever! and feel free to reblog if you want to have a sleepover too ☆
