I AM SO WATCHING THAT MOVIE. NOTHING AND NOBODY CAN STOP ME NOW. TRY IT. I WILL WATCH THAT MOVIE NO MATTER THE COSTS OR IMPEDIMENTS NOT EVEN IF I HAVE TO HACK THE WHITE HOUSE TO REACH THE FILES
would yall dig me starting to write these "how would different Jensen Ackles' characters...." type of stuff? like as of the moment i'd only have Dean Winchester, Soldier Boy, Boaz Priestly and Tom Hanniger, but.. would yall want that?
━╋ guess who is going to watch 2 new Jensen media tonite.... yes... me.... give it up for Tom Hanniger from My Bloody Valentine and Boaz Priestly from Ten Inch Hero !!
requests open for these two cuties (i'll see them in the morning so spoilers allowed) !!
~♡ꜝꜞ ❝ 𝓒OO's pet ❞
────── · · Tech Worker! Sam Winchester x fem ! boss ! reader
a / n : OMFG I AM FERAL FOR THIS SAM AHSAJFDASDJGA
character/s featured. sam wessner (winchester) .ᐟ dean smith (winchester) .ᐟ
rating: smut .ᐟ
summary : floor 7's Tech Worker Samuel Wessner is constantly being seen on the elevator riding up to the top notch floors, what reason could there be behind it?
The fluorescent lights of Sandover Bridge & Iron's twenty-second floor hummed with that particular frequency that usually made Sam's teeth ache, but today he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the blinking red light on his desk phone: the one that meant an internal call from one of the upper floors was coming through.
His heart stuttered.
The cubicles around him buzzed with the usual afternoon activity: keyboards clacking, phones ringing, Ian cracking jokes two desks over about the new intern's disastrous attempt at making coffee in the break room. Sam heard none of it. All he could focus on was that insistent little red light.
It's probably nothing, he told himself, even as his hand trembled slightly reaching for the receiver. Could be any department. Could be someone from Accounting with a printer issue. Could be-
"Samuel," your voice purred through the line, and Sam's breath caught in his throat. "I need you in my office. Right now."
His mouth went dry. "O-okay," he managed, his voice cracking embarrassingly. "I'll be right up."
"Good boy." The line went dead.
Sam sat there for a moment, the receiver still pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone. His khaki-clad thighs pressed together beneath his desk, trying to will away the sudden and very inconvenient tightness in his pants. Good boy. Those two words, spoken in that particular tone you used when you were in the mood, had his entire body responding like a Pavlovian dog.
"Whoa there, buddy." Ian appeared at the edge of his cubicle, coffee mug in hand, his perpetually scruffy face split in a knowing grin. "You look like you just saw a ghost. Who was that?"
Sam hastily hung up the phone, his cheeks flushing. "No one. Just—it was nothing."
"Nothing, huh?" Ian leaned in, squinting at the caller ID display on Sam's phone. His eyebrows shot up. "Wait, isn't that the twenty-second floor? That's the COO's floor, man. What does the COO want with you?"
"I don't know." Sam lied, and it came out so unconvincingly that even he winced.
Ian's grin widened impossibly. "Uh-huh. Sure you don't. You know, this is, like, the fourth time this week you've been called up to the top floors. And you always come back looking like you've been put through a spin cycle. Hair all messed up, shirt untucked..." He gave a low whistle. "What exactly are you getting yourself into, Winchester?"
Sam's flush deepened to a shade that rivaled the red mug on his desk. "I genuinely don't know." he said, which was at least partially true. He never knew what to expect when he went up to your office. Sometimes you just wanted to talk, to ask him about his day, to lean against your desk and smile at him in that way that made his knees weak. Other times—well. Other times he ended up with his face buried between your thighs and your fingers tangled in his hair, begging you to let him come.
"Ian, I really have to go," Sam said, already scrambling to his feet. "She- the COO- she's waiting."
"I bet she is." Ian clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, buddy. She's got you wrapped around her finger so tight you probably can't feel your own dick anymore."
"Oh, shut up." Sam hissed. "I hate you."
"No, you don't. You love me. I'm the only one who knows how to fix the printer when it jams, and you're too tall to fit under the desk to reach the power cord."
But he was already walking toward the elevators, his long legs eating up the distance. He could feel Ian's eyes on his back, could imagine the smug grin on his friend's face, but he couldn't bring himself to care. All that mattered was getting to you.
The elevator doors slid open, and Sam stepped inside, jabbing the button for the twenty-second floor. The doors were just beginning to close when a hand shot through the gap, forcing them open again.
"Hold the elevator, would ya?"
Sam's heart plummeted into his stomach.
Dean Smith strode into the elevator, all easy confidence and swaggering charm, his suit perfectly tailored, blue tie clean and spotless. He was in his late twenties, with the kind of boyish handsomeness that drove women crazy. In this world, he was just another person over him on the food chain. In another life—one that Sam only lived in his dreams—he was something else entirely.
But Sam knew those were just dreams. And that Dean had a way of looking at him that made him feel like he was being x-rayed.
"Hey there, tech boy." Dean said, leaning against the elevator wall. "Going up?"
"Um. Yes." Sam cleared his throat. "Yes, I am."
Dean's eyes flicked to the lit button on the panel—twenty-two. His eyebrows rose. "That's the COO's floor, you know."
"I know."
"Funny." Dean crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "You seem to be going up there an awful lot these days. What's the deal?"
"My job requires-"
"Your job requires you to be in the IT department on floor 7." Dean cut him off, that smirk widening. "That's where you're supposed to be. That's where your desk is. That's where I always see you, hunched over your computer looking like you're doing something important."
Sam's jaw tightened. "I've been called up. There's an issue with the COO's computer."
"Is there now."
"Yes. There is. And I need to go fix it."
Dean studied him for a long moment, his eyes traveling from Sam's flushed face down to his hands—which were currently clenched into fists. The elevator rose slowly, floor by floor, and with each passing number Sam's anxiety ratcheted up another notch. Did Dean know? Had someone seen you two? Was there some kind of company rumor floating around?
"You know," Dean said finally, and his voice had taken on a strangely amused quality, "I've worked here for a while. Long enough to know that the COO, oh, she's got a type."
Sam's head snapped toward him. "What?"
Dean just grinned, wide and knowing. "Relax, tech boy. Ain’t gonna say nothing. Just..." He gave Sam a long, appraising look. "I kinda see why she likes you. You've got that whole 'eager puppy dog' thing going on. Real sweet. Kinda pathetic, but sweet."
The elevator chimed, announcing their arrival at the nineteenth floor. Dean pushed off from the wall, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he passed.
"Have fun up there," he said, and there was something almost fond in his voice. "And try not to look quite so desperate when you come back down. It's a dead giveaway."
The doors slid shut behind him, leaving Sam alone with his racing heart and burning cheeks.
The twenty-second floor was quiet, as it always was. Plush carpet muted the sound of Sam's footsteps as he walked down the corridor toward your office. The walls were lined with tasteful art, landscapes and abstract pieces that probably cost more than what he made in a year, and the air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and new carpet.
Your office door was closed, but Sam could see your silhouette through the frosted glass. You were moving around inside, probably clearing your desk or preparing for his arrival. His mouth went dry again.
He knocked twice.
"Come in."
Your voice was all business, smooth and professional. But Sam had been sleeping with you for three months now. He knew the subtle changes in your tone, the way your voice dropped just slightly when you were in one of those moods. And right now, your voice had that particular quality that made his knees feel weak.
He pushed the door open.
You were standing behind your desk, your blazer already hanging on the coat rack by the door, leaving you in a silk blouse that clung to your curves. Your hair was perfectly styled, your makeup flawless, and you were looking at him with that smile: that secret, knowing smile that promised everything.
"Close the door," you said, not looking up. "And lock it."
Sam obeyed, his fingers fumbling with the lock. He heard the click, and then-
"Now get over here."
He was on you in less than a second.
His hands found your hips first, fingers digging into the fabric of your pencil skirt as he pulled you against him. His mouth crashed against yours, desperate and hungry, drinking in the taste of your lip gloss and the faint hint of coffee on your breath. You made a small sound of surprise against his lips, but you were already kissing him back, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair.
God, your hands in his hair. That was always what did him in. The way you'd grip the auburn strands and pull just enough to make his scalp tingle, directing his head exactly where you wanted it. You tugged now, pulling his head back just far enough to break the kiss.
"Eager today, aren't we?" you murmured, and your voice was lower now, huskier.
"Please." Sam gasped, because that was all he could say. Please. Please touch him. Please let him touch you. Please, please, please.
You laughed softly, and the sound went straight to his cock. "Please what, sweetheart? Use your words."
But Sam couldn't use his words. He couldn't think. All he knew was that you were here, and you were touching him, and he needed more. He surged forward again, capturing your mouth in another desperate kiss, his hands sliding up your back to clutch at your shoulder blades. You let him, kissing him back with equal fervor, and then you were pushing him backward, wriggling your body between his long legs, and-
His back hit the wall with a soft thud.
You were between his thighs now, your body pressed against his, and you were kissing him like you wanted to devour him whole. Your hips moved in a slow, rolling rhythm against his, and even through the layers of fabric he could feel the heat of you. His breath hitched, a pathetic little sound escaping his throat.
"Look at you," you murmured against his lips. "So desperate for me already. You're shaking, Samuel."
He was shaking. He couldn't help it. Every time you touched him, every time you looked at him with those dark, hungry eyes, he fell apart. It was like you had some kind of power over him, some kind of hold that made him forget everything except how much he needed you.
"I need- please, I need-"
"Awh, so cute." You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then the sensitive spot just below his ear.
Sam whined. Actually whined, a high-pitched sound that should have been embarrassing but only made you chuckle against his throat.
"Shh," you soothed, even as your hands traveled down his chest, fingers playing with the buttons of his polo shirt. "No need to whine like a kicked puppy. I always take care of you, don't I?"
"Yes," Sam breathed. "Yes, you do. You take such good care of me."
"I do." You popped open the first button of his shirt. "Because you're such a good boy for me, aren't you? Such a sweet, desperate thing."
Sam nodded frantically, his hips bucking involuntarily against yours. You rewarded him with a kiss, deep and possessive, and then you were pulling away, tugging him by the front of his shirt toward your desk.
The surface was covered in papers, folders, and an array of pens and pencils arranged in a neat holder. You swept the whole mess aside with a single, decisive motion, sending everything scattering to the floor.
"You know how much I love this." you said, and your voice was almost fond.
"I know." Sam said, and his voice cracked on the last word.
"Good boy." You pushed him down onto the desk, and he went willingly, his back hitting the cool wood surface. "Now let me take care of you."
You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, and the weight of you was the most incredible feeling in the world. Sam's hands found your thighs, gripping the soft flesh through your skirt as you leaned down to kiss him again. Your tongue traced the seam of his lips, demanding entry, and he gave it willingly, moaning into your mouth as you deepened the kiss.
Your hips began to move, a slow, torturous grind that had him seeing stars. His hands flew to your waist, gripping tight, trying to pull you closer even when you were already pressed against him.
"Please," he gasped against your mouth. "Please, please, please—"
"Please what?" you asked, but your voice was breathless too, and Sam could feel the damp heat of you through both your clothes. "What do you want, sweetheart?"
"You," he said desperately. "Just you. Always you."
You laughed again, that soft, throaty sound that made his head spin. "You're so cute when you're needy." You kissed his neck, soft and teasing, then harder, your teeth grazing his skin. "I love it."
Sam's hands were in your hair now, mussing the perfect style, and he didn't care. He needed you closer, needed more, needed everything. You were the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him, and the fact that you were his boss, that you were so far above him in every way, only made it more intoxicating.
"Pleasenghh" he begged. "I need- please let me-"
"Let you what?" you asked, and you were grinning now, a wicked smile that promised everything. "Let you what, Samuel? Tell me."
"Need to be inside you," he gasped. "Please. Need to feel you. Need to be good for you."
"Oh, you're so good for me." You kissed him again, soft and sweet, and then you were pulling away, climbing off of him and stepping back. "But first-"
You unbuttoned your blouse with maddening slowness, letting it fall open to reveal the lacy black bra beneath. Sam's hands twitched at his sides, desperate to touch, but he knew better than to reach for you without permission. You were in charge, and he loved it. He loved the power you held over him, the way you could reduce him to this trembling, desperate mess with just a look.
"Like what you see?" you asked, and there was a note of teasing in your voice.
"I always like what I see." Sam breathed.
You smiled, and it was softer now, almost fond. Then you were reaching for his belt, undoing it with practiced ease, and Sam's breath caught in his throat.
"Lift your hips," you instructed, and he obeyed immediately, lifting just enough for you to tug his khakis and boxers down to his knees. His cock sprang free, already hard and leaking, and you made a soft sound of approval.
"Look at you," you murmured, wrapping your fingers around him. "So hard for me already. So eager."
"Always," Sam gasped. "Always for you."
You stroked him slowly, deliberately, and Sam's head fell back against the desk. He could feel your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head, could feel the slickness of his own precum, and it took everything he had not to come right then and there.
"Please," he begged. "Please, I need-"
"I know what you need." You released him, and he almost sobbed at the loss. "But I am in control, Samuel. You know that."
"Yes," he agreed immediately. "Yes, you're in control. You're always in control."
"And you're going to do exactly what I say?"
"Anything. Ah-nything y'want."
You smiled, slow and satisfied. Then you reached down, taking off your panties, but not throwing them away like you had with the rest of your clothes. Sam blinked, confused, until you brought them to his lips.
"Open." you said softly.
He opened his mouth without hesitation. You pushed the fabric inside, and the taste of you—clean and slightly sweet, with a hint of salt—flooded his senses. He moaned around the gag, his hips bucking involuntarily.
"That's better," you said, and there was something almost tender in your voice. "Now you can be as noisy as you want. No one will hear you."
Sam whined, a high-pitched sound that was muffled by the fabric in his mouth. You just smiled, climbing back onto the desk to straddle him once more.
"Ready?" you asked.
He nodded frantically.
You positioned yourself over him, and then you were sinking down onto his cock, and Sam's world went white.
The feeling of you enveloping him was almost too much, the heat, the tightness, the way you seemed to grip him like you never wanted to let go. His hands found your hips, clinging desperately, and you started to move.
Up and down, slow and deep, taking him all the way to the hilt before rising again. Sam's eyes rolled back in his head. He could hear himself making sounds, desperate little whimpers and moans that were muffled by your panties, but he couldn't stop them. You felt so good. You always felt so good.
"Look at you," you breathed, and your voice was strained now, the first crack in your perfect composure. "So beautiful like this. So desperate for me."
Sam nodded, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. You were watching him with that hungry, possessive gaze, the one that made him feel like the most wanted person in the world.
"Good boy," you whispered. "My good boy."
The words sent a shiver of pleasure down Sam's spine. His hips bucked up instinctively, driving himself deeper inside you, and you made a sound of approval.
"That's it," you encouraged. "Fuck me, Samuel. Fuck me like you mean it."
He did. He fucked you like his life depended on it, his hips slamming up into yours with every thrust. Your hands were on his chest, nails digging into his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Close-" you gasped, and that was the only warning he got before you were coming, your body clenching around him in waves that sent him over the edge with a muffled moan.
Stars exploded behind his eyes. His hips kept moving, chasing the feeling, pumping into you through your orgasm and his. It felt like it lasted forever, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him until he was limp and trembling on the desk, you collapsed on top of him.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was your ragged breathing, and the distant hum of the building's heating system. Sam's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
Finally, you stirred, lifting your head to look down at him with a soft, satisfied smile. You reached into his mouth, gently pulling the wadded panties free, and Sam took a deep, grateful breath.
"Good boy," you repeated, and you leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. "You did so well for me."
Sam smiled, feeling a warm glow spread through his chest. "I always want to be good for you."
"I know." You kissed the tip of his nose. "That's why I keep you around."
Twenty minutes later, Sam was back in the elevator, his hair still slightly mussed and his shirt only halfway tucked in. His legs felt like jelly and he was fairly certain his face was still flushed, but at least he didn't look like a complete disaster.
The doors opened on the nineteenth floor, and Dean stepped in.
"Well, well, well," Dean said, his eyes sweeping over Sam with obvious amusement. "Look who finally made it back. You look like you've been through the wringer, tech boy."
Sam opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
Dean just laughed, shaking his head. "You know, I've been working here for a long time. Seen a lot of things. But I gotta say, the COO's taste in men is... interesting."
"Dean, I don't know what you're implying, but-"
"Relax." Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying, she's got a type. Big, tall, kinda pathetic, eager to please." He grinned. "You fit the bill pretty well."
Sam's face went red. "I don't- we're not-"
"Hey, I don't care what you're not doing." Dean held up his hands. "Far be it from me to judge. If I had a boss like that, I'd probably be right there with you. I'm just saying, you might want to be a little more discreet." He gestured vaguely at Sam's face. "You walk out of her office looking like that and people are gonna start talking."
Sam swallowed hard. "Right. Of course. I'll be more careful."
"See that you are." Dean's eyes glinted with something that might have been genuine amusement. "And for what it's worth? Good for you. She seems like a fun one."
The motel room was bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp, its light fighting against the encroaching darkness of the evening. Dean stood with his arms crossed, his jaw set in that particular way that meant he was about to argue a point he knew he'd lose. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, a thick lore book balanced on his knees, his brow furrowed in concentration. And you were sprawled out beside your brother, your own book resting on your stomach, your eyes growing heavier with each passing minute.
Castiel stood near the window, his presence a quiet anomaly in the cramped space. His head was tilted slightly, that perpetual expression of divine confusion painted across his features as he listened to Dean's latest protests.
"The seal is in St. Louis," Dean was saying, pacing now. "We've got maybe three days before Lilith tries something. We need to mov-—"
"Move where?" Sam interrupted, not looking up from his book. "We don't even know what the seal is yet, Dean. You want to just wander around Missouri until something happens?"
"Better than sitting here reading-"
"I'm hungry." you announced suddenly, your voice cutting through the tension like a warm knife through butter. You stretched, your spine cracking pleasantly as you set your book aside.
Dean's entire demeanor shifted. The argument drained from his shoulders as he turned toward you, and Castiel watched the transformation with muted fascination. It was remarkable, really, how quickly Dean's focus could pivot from divine missions to his little sister's stomach.
"Your sandwich is in my bag," Dean said, jerking his thumb toward his duffel bag near the door. "From lunch. Should still be good."
Sam's head snapped up, his expression shifting from focused hunter to concerned older brother in the span of a heartbeat. "Wait, you didn't eat lunch?"
"She said she wasn't hungry," Dean defended, already moving toward his duffel bag. "What was I supposed to do, force-feed her?"
"Yes!" Sam's voice rose just as he did from the bed, frustration bleeding through. "Yes, Dean, that's exactly what you're supposed to do! How many times do I have to tell you? She needs to eat three meals a day. Three. Not two, not one and a half—three!" He counted, holding out a finger for each number.
"Hey, I offered it! She refused!"
"She needs to eat! She's a growing girl, Dean! Do you have any idea-"
"She's sixteen, Sam, I think she's grown enough to know when she's-"
"Her body is still developing! And with her condition-"
"I know about the condition! I was there-"
"It doesn't seem like you were there if you're letting her skip-"
"You're blaming me for this? She's the one who-"
Castiel's head swiveled between them, like a viewer on a tennis match watching the ball go from player a to player b, his vessel's brow creasing deeper with each exchange. This was… strange. He understood conflict, of course. He had witnessed millennia of wars, battles, arguments between celestial beings that had shaken the very foundations of Heaven. But this was different. This was born not of anger or pride or any of the other sins that typically fueled discord among humans. This seemed to spring from something else entirely. Something soft and warm that had twisted itself into sharp edges.
Care. They were fighting because they cared.
It was one of those human paradoxes that continued to baffle him.
You, meanwhile, had reached Dean's duffel bag and were rummaging through it with the single-minded determination of a very hungry teenager. You found the sandwich—wrapped in slightly squashed foil—and straightened up with a triumphant noise.
"See? Found it. Crisis solv-... ed.."
You froze.
The words died in your throat. The sandwich slipped from your fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Your eyes went wide, unfocused, and your hand reached out blindly as if searching for something solid to anchor yourself.
Castiel saw it happen in fragments. The way your body suddenly went still. The way your weight shifted unevenly on your feet. The way your expression crumpled into confusion, like you weren't quite sure where you were anymore.
And then Dean was moving.
Castiel barely registered the motion. One moment Dean was halfway across the room, and the next he was right beside you, his hands closing around your arms with practiced efficiency.
"Sam," Dean said, his voice a low command. "It's happening again."
Sam was already there, his book abandoned, his earlier frustration transformed into something sharp and focused. "I see her. Dean, get her down."
"Right, I know how to do this, I've done it before-"
"Then stop talking and do it!"
Dean's hands tightened on your arms. "Hey, sweetheart, he, I've got you. We're just going to go down nice and slow, okay? Just like we practiced."
Your knees buckled.
Dean caught you fully, now your whole weight resting on his arms, easing you down to the floor with an expertise born of experience. But by the time your back touched the ratty motel carpet, your eyes were closed, your body limp in his arms.
"Damnit, Dean! I told you-"
"I know what you told me! She wasn't hungry!"
"She's never hungry!"
"Forgive me for not wanting to shove a sandwich down her throath!"
Castiel had not moved.
He stood frozen by the window, his blue eyes wide and fixed on the scene before him. The angel, who had faced demons and monsters and the very wrath of Heaven itself, was utterly paralyzed. His vessel's heart—a human heart that had been beating steadily for decades—now hammered against his ribs with alarming speed.
Because from his perspective, from the divine lens through which he viewed the world, something had just gone horribly wrong.
One of his charges. One of the fragile humans he had been tasked with watching over. The youngest one. The one who was smaller than her brothers, softer, more in need of protection.
She had simply… stopped.
She had been standing, speaking, living, and then she had stopped.
Her vessel had collapsed, her consciousness had flickered, and Castiel had felt something that he had not experienced in the long eons of his existence. Something that was not quite fear and not quite terror and not quite grief but hovered somewhere in the space between all three.
"The child," he said, and his voice came out strange. Thicker than usual. Rougher. "She is—"
"She's fine, Cas." Dean was already shifting, trying to make you more comfortable on the floor. "She's just passed out. It happens."
"It happens?" Castiel's head snapped toward Dean, and the hunter actually recoiled slightly at the intensity of the angel's gaze. "You mean this is a common occurence?"
"Uh… yeah?" Dean looked at Sam, who nodded grimly. "I mean, not all the time. But every now and then-"
"And you did not think to inform me of this vulnerability?"
"Man, it's not a vulnerability, it's just—it's a medical thing." Dean waved a hand vaguely. "It's not like she's dying or anything."
Castiel didn't wait for further explanation. He was already moving, crossing the room and dropping to his knees beside you with none of the grace that usually accompanied angelic movements. His hands hovered over your prone form, and a low sound of distress escaped his lips.
"Something is wrong with her body." Castiel's eyes were darting over your form, cataloging, analyzing. "Her vessel is not functioning properly. I can sense a deficiency. A lack. But I cannot identify-"
"Cas, calm down—"
"DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!" Castiel's voice boomed through the motel room, and for just a moment, the lights flickered, just shy of exploding into a cascade of sparks. Dean and Sam both flinched back, their hands raised in instinctive surrender.
Castiel's chest was heaving. His hands were trembling. He looked down at them, those hands that had smote demons and healed wounds and once held the very fabric of time, and found them shaking.
This was wrong. This was all wrong.
"Her vessel is flawed.." he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more horrified. "There is something.. wrong.. with her blood. I can sense it. Her blood is… thin. Inadequate. It lacks something essential."
"Alright, that's actually pretty accurate." Sam said cautiously. "She has iron deficiency anemia. Her body doesn't store enough iron. It makes her-"
"Iron deficiency?" Castiel repeated the words like they were foreign.
"Uh…" Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged helplessly. "Yeah, um, Iron. It's a mineral? It's in food. You need it to make hemoglobin, which carries oxygen in your blood."
"Oxygen," Castiel repeated. His eyes had gone very wide again. "Her blood lacks oxygen?"
"Not exactly—"
"You mean to tell me." Castiel's voice had become dangerously quiet. "That this human has been walking through this world with blood that is starved of oxygen?"
"Technically, yeah, but-"
"And you have allowed this?" Castiel rounded on Dean, his eyes blazing with a fury that made both hunters flinch. "You allowed your charge to develop such a deficiency? You did not feed her sufficient iron?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa-" Dean held up both hands. "First of all, I didn't allow anything. She's had this since she was a kid. Since before I even knew-"
"Since childhood? This affliction has persisted since childhood?"
Dean realized he was lowkey making everything worse the more he opened his mouth.
"Yeah, but we've got her on supplements now. She takes them every day. Sam makes sure of it."
"Clearly not effectively enough!" Castiel gestured toward your limp form. "She passed out. Her vessel shut down. Because she did not consume this- this iron you speak of."
"Man, it's not like I forgot to give her food. She just wasn't hungry. And if she doesn't want to eat, I can't force her-"
"Forgive me for my bluntness, Dean Winchester, but you clearly can." Castiel's voice had an edge of something that might have been panic. "If the alternative is her vessel shutting down, then yes, you must force her. You ensure she consumes whatever her body requires to remain functional. This is not a difficult concept."
Castiel lifted his eyes from your body and realized Sam looked like he was trying very hard not to smile and Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
He looked between them with growing frustration.
"Something about this situation is humorous to you?"
"No, no, man, it's just-" Dean's composure cracked, and he let out a short bark of laughter. "You're really freaked out about this, aren't you?"
"Of course I'm freaked out!" Castiel's voice had risen again. "One of my charges just lost consciousness in the middle of a completely non-dangerous activity! She was standing. She was speaking. And then she was not. And you are not concerned?"
"We are concerned." Sam said, his voice gentle. "But we've been dealing with this for a while now. We know what to do. She'll wake up in a few minutes, and then we'll make her eat her sandwich, and she'll be fine."
"Make her eat her sandwich." Castiel repeated slowly. "You are certain this will restore her?"
"As long as she keeps up with her supplements, yeah. It's a manageable condition, Cas. It's not going to kill her."
Castiel stared at Sam for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, very slowly, he turned back to look at you.
You were still unconscious, your face peaceful in a way that was somehow more alarming than if you had been grimacing in pain. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Your skin, Castiel noticed, was pale. Paler than it should be. Paler than it had been just moments ago, before—
Before you had dropped like a stone.
"You must teach me." Castiel said suddenly.
Sam blinked. "Teach you what?"
"How to ensure she consumes enough sustainance. I will… I will make certain she eats. Every day. Multiple times per day. She will not skip meals. She will not- she will not collapse again."
It was such a practical, logical solution that Castiel could not understand why Sam was looking at him with that strange expression. And Dean—Dean was definitely laughing now, though he was at least trying to hide it behind his hand.
"Cas," Sam said, and there was a warmth in his voice that Castiel did not quite understand. "You want me to teach you how to make sandwiches?"
"I want you to teach me how to make anything that prevents this situation." Castiel's brow furrowed. "If the deficiency is caused by a lack of this mineral in her diet, then the solution is simple. I will ensure she consumes it in adequate quantities. I will monitor her intake. I will-"
"Cas." Sam's voice was soft. "You know you don't have to do that, right? We've got it handled."
"You clearly do not." Castiel's voice was flat, deadpan as can be. "She collapsed. Under your watch. She collapsed because you did not feed her appropriately."
"Ouch," Dean muttered. "Right in the ego, man."
"You are not listening to me." Castiel was growing more agitated, his vessel's heart still racing, his grace pulsing with anxiety. "I have a duty. I have a purpose. Which is keeping the Winchester Sibiligns alive, Heaven's orders. And if that purpose involves standing guard over a fragile human child to ensure she consumes the necessary nutrients to maintain her vessel, then that is what I will do."
He turned back to you, and something in his expression softened.
"She is so small," he said, almost to himself. "So fragile. You twoy are also fragile, but she is… she is younger. Younger and smaller and more vulnerable. And she has been walking through this world with oxygen-starved blood for years. How is that possible? How has she survived?"
"Adaptation," Sam said. "Kids are resilient. Her body just kind of… adjusted to it."
"It should not have had to adjust." Castiel's voice was fierce. "She should have been cared for. Protected. FED."
"Yeah, well, our dad was kind of—" Dean made a vague gesture that conveyed about a thousand words of frustration. "..He wasn't exactly the nurturing type."
"Then it falls to you." Castiel's eyes met Dean's. "And it falls to me."
Dean's expression had shifted. The amusement had faded, replaced by something more serious. More appraising.
"You really care about her, don't you?" he said quietly.
Castiel hesitated.
The question was not one he had expected. Care was a human concept, a human emotion. Angels did not feel things the way humans did. They existed in a state of divine purpose, of celestial duty, of-
And yet.
And yet, when he looked at you.. he felt something that was not quite duty. Not quite purpose. Something that made his vessel's heart beat faster and his grace thrum with a need to protect.
"Yes," he said finally. "I suppose I do."
Sam was smiling now, a soft, almost fond expression that Castiel did not quite know what to do with.
"Alright," Sam said. "I'll teach you how to make her favourite sandwiches. And I'll show you the supplements she needs to take. And you can help make sure she doesn't skip meals."
"I would appreciate that," Castiel said, and his voice was steadier now. "I would appreciate that very much."
Dean was grinning now, slapping Castiel on the shoulder with a force that would have staggered a normal man. "Look at you, Cas. A regular mother hen."
"I do not appreciate that comparison." Castiel said flatly.
mama's boy! dallas winston and motherly! older! reader
The garden door banged shut behind you, the familiar creak of the Curtis porch steps greeting you like an old friend. The summer heat had finally broken, leaving behind that thick, sticky Oklahoma humidity that made everything feel heavier than it should be. You shifted the grocery bag in your arms, the glass bottles of beer clinking together softly.
Through the kitchen window, you could see Darry hunched over the counter, his broad shoulders tense with the weight of the day. Soda was sprawled across the couch, his feet dangling over the armrest, laughing at something Two-Bit was saying. Ponyboy sat cross-legged on the floor, a book balanced on his knee, though you could tell by the way his eyes kept drifting toward the window that he wasn't really reading.
And there, slouched in the corner of the room with his back against the wall, was Dallas Winston.
He looked like he'd been dragged through hell backwards. His hair was a mess, some strands of it plastered to his forehead with sweat and grease. His knuckles were raw, split in three places, and there was a purple bruise blooming along his jaw that hadn't been there yesterday. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the smoke curling lazily upward in a thin, grey ribbon.
You pushed open the door and the whole room seemed to shift. Soda's feet hit the floor. Two-Bit's laugh toned down just a notch. Ponyboy actually looked up from his book. And Dallas just watched you through half-lidded eyes, that same expression of bored defiance he always wore, like he was daring you to say something.
You didn't say anything. Not yet.
"Evening, sweetheart." Two-Bit called out, already reaching for the bag. "You bring us anything good?"
"beer and some of that cheap bread from the market," you said, handing him the bag. "Soda, I got you those butter cookies you like."
""You got Soda more cookies?"
"You liked them too, Pone."
"I didn't say I didn't like 'em."
You laughed, the sound easy and familiar, and something in the room seemed to settle. This was how it worked. You'd bring groceries, make sure everyone had something to eat, remind them to wash their faces and comb their hair before they went out into the world. You'd been doing it for years now, ever since you were old enough to understand that Darry couldn't do it all alone, that the gang needed someone to keep them from falling apart.
And God, did they need it.
Your eyes drifted back to Dallas. He hadn't moved from his spot against the wall, hadn't said a word since you walked in. He just watched you with that flat, unreadable look of his, smoke still trailing from his lips. There was a tension in his shoulders that most people wouldn't notice, a coiled tightness that said he was waiting for something.
You walked past him without a word, heading straight for the kitchen. The cigarette smoke clung to his clothes, strong and acrid, and you felt that familiar prickle of irritation at the back of your neck. But you bit your tongue. You'd learned a long time ago that Dallas Winston didn't respond to softness. He didn't know what to do with it. It made him nervous, made him snappish and mean, like a dog backed into a corner.
So you didn't give him softness. You gave him something else entirely.
"Ponyboy," you called over your shoulder, "how many times do I have to tell you to rinse the plates before you leave them in the sink? The spaghetti from last night is practically fossilized."
"Sorry.." Pony mumbled, and you could hear him scrambling to his feet.
"I'll get it." Darry said, but you waved him off.
"Finish your beer. I got it."
You filled the sink with hot water, letting the steam rise around you, and scrubbed at the caked-on pasta with the kind of focused irritation that only housework could bring. The kitchen was small and cramped, with chipped linoleum countertops and a refrigerator that hummed like a dying animal, but it was warm. It was home.
From the living room, you could hear Two-Bit telling some story about a police chase, his voice rising with exaggerated excitement. Soda's laugh cut through the noise, bright and infectious.
You finished the dishes, wiped your hands on your jeans, and walked back into the living room. Dallas was still in the corner, still smoking, still watching.
"Dallas."
Nothing.
You walked straight up to him, snatched the cigarette from his lips, and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the coffee table.
"Hey—" he started, his voice low and dangerous.
"Don't 'hey' me, Dallas Winston," you said, your tone sharp as broken glass.
"was smokin' that."
"Was." you agreed. "Past tense."
His eyes narrowed, that familiar flash of anger sparking in their depths. For a second, you thought he might actually snap at you, might say something cruel and cutting just to prove he was still the same cold, untouchable bastard everyone thought he was.
But then something shifted. The fight bled out of his shoulders, just a fraction, just enough for you to notice.
"Bossy bitch." he muttered, but there was no heat in it.
"But a boss nonetheless."
He didn't argue.
"Where'd you get the bruise?" you asked, your voice still businesslike. No pity. No softness. Just the same no-nonsense tone you used with everyone.
"Pool hall. Some guy got mouthy."
"And the knuckles?"
"Bob."
You nodded, filing the information away. He was a regular at the pool hall, one of the best players in the county, but it wasn't the game that brought him there. It was the fights. The adrenaline. The excuse to let out all that pent-up rage that bubbled under his skin like a live wire.
You hated it. Hated seeing him come back bruised and bleeding, knowing there was nothing you could do to stop him. But you never said that. Never showed it. Because that's not what he needed from you.
"Let me see your hands." you said.
He held them out, palms up, and you took them in yours. His skin was rough and calloused, the knuckles raw and swollen. You turned them over, examining the damage with practiced efficiency. The cuts weren't deep, but they'd need cleaning.
You walked to the bathroom and came back with a bottle of iodine and a roll of gauze. He watched you the whole time, his expression unreadable, as you knelt down infront of him.
"Stay still." you said.
He stayed still.
You took his right hand first, dabbing the iodine onto a cotton ball. He didn't flinch when it touched the open cuts, didn't make a sound. He was used to pain, you knew. Had been dealing with it his whole life.
"You need to be more careful," you said, not looking at him. "You keep getting into fights like this, you're going to end up in the cooler for something serious."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"No, it wouldn't." you agreed. "But there's going to be a last time, and it's not gonna be 'cause you decided to behave."
He fell silent at that.
You wrapped the gauze around his hand, tight but not too tight, and secured it with a piece of tape. Then you moved to his left hand, repeating the process. The whole time, he was silent. Not uncomfortable silent, though. Just… quiet. Letting the noise of the house, of the conversations going around you, be the background to the actions you were performing.
"Happy now?" he asked, his voice rough, just shy of sarcastic.
"Thrilled." you replied dryly, standing to your full height again.
He didn't say anything to that. He just watched you with those sharp, unreadable eyes of his, and something passed between you. Something that didn't need words.
Because here's the thing about Dallas Winston: he didn't let people in. He kept everyone at arm's length, even the gang, even the people he'd die for. But you'd figured out a long time ago that the way to reach him wasn't through softness or affection. It was through hard facts and clear expectations. It was through telling him to stop smoking, to clean his plate, to stay out of trouble. It was through giving him a place to crash without making a big deal out of it, a place where he could just be, without having to perform the role of Dallas Winston.
And he let you. He let you in ways he never let anyone else.
"Damn," Two-Bit said, grinning at you. "You got the mutt to sit. That's a first."
"Shut up, Two." Dallas snapped, but there was no venom in it.
"Language." you said, without thinking. "Everyone planning on eating go wash your hands and sit down at the table."
Everyone darted off to do as you said, except Dallas, who took his seat directly: clearly taking you desinfecting his wounds as enough cleansing. Which made you sigh exhasperatedly.
But you still placed a bowl of the chili that Darry had been cooking in front of him, steam curling up from the surface, and reached for the plate of cornbread you'd made that morning. "Eat it all," you said, already turning away. "I'm not saving any for later."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Dallas muttered, but he picked up the spoon without argument, which was about as close to "thank you" as you were ever going to get from him.
The Danger Room hummed with low energy, its metallic walls gleaming under the dim emergency lighting that Logan preferred for these sessions. He'd long since learned that the harsh fluorescents gave you headaches, and while he'd grumble and mutter about "kids these days" if anyone asked, he always made sure the room was set to your comfort before you arrived.
"You're telegraphing your punches again, sweetheart." Logan said, his voice a low rumble that carried easily across the training floor. He stood with his arms crossed, watching you face off against a holographic opponent—a simple training dummy that wouldn't move or fight back. Just practice. Nothing that could actually hurt you.
"I am not." you protested, throwing another punch that landed square in the hologram's chest. The simulation registered the hit with a soft beep. "That was perfect."
"That was slow." he countered, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "You're pulling your shoulders back before you throw. Gives it away every time."
You huffed, turning to face him with your hands on your hips. "Okay, old man, how about you show me how it's done then?"
Logan's eyebrows shot up. "Old man? I'll show you old man, kid"
"Sure you will." you teased, grinning at him.
He was already moving toward you, his massive frame somehow graceful as he positioned himself beside the holographic dummy. "Watch. It's all in the hips."
He demonstrated a quick combination: two jabs, a hook, and a roundhouse kick that would have knocked most people into next week. The hologram registered each hit with increasingly frantic beeps before dissolving into pixels.
"Show-off.." you grumbled, but you were smiling.
"Pay attention and you might learn something," he said, stepping back to let you try again. "Now show me what you've got, cub."
The nickname made your heart warm, even though you tried not to let it show. Logan had been at the school for about a year now, same as you, and somewhere along the way he'd become… well, him. Not just the gruff, intimidating X-Man who smelled like cigars and leather, but the father.
He was the closest thing to a father you'd ever had.
You reset your stance, taking a breath and trying to mimic his movements. The first few combinations went well, your form was improving, and Logan's grunts of approval were better than any gold star. But you were getting tired, the familiar heaviness creeping into your limbs, and your reaction time was slowing.
Still, you pushed through it. You always did. It wasn't like you could tell Logan you needed a break, he'd shut the whole session down and carry you to the infirmary, and you hated being fussed over. Even if, secretly, a small part of you loved when he got all protective.
"You're slowing down," Logan observed, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "Take a breather."
"I'm fine," you insisted, throwing another punch. "Just one more round."
"Cub-"
"One more round." You turned back to the hologram, resetting your stance. "I can do this."
Logan's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He'd learned early on that pushing you too hard would only make you more stubborn. So he watched, ready to step in the moment something went wrong.
You threw a combination—jab, hook, uppercut—and it was actually good. The hologram registered solid hits, and you felt a surge of pride. You were getting better. Maybe someday you'd be good enough to-
Your foot caught on the mat. Or maybe your knees just decided they'd had enough. You went down, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs with an "oof!" that made you chuckle even as you landed on your butt.
"Nice form," Logan deadpanned, already walking toward you with an outstretched hand. "Real graceful."
"Oh, shut up." you chuckled, accepting his hand and letting him pull you to your feet. "It was your mat's fault. It's uneven."
"My mat," he repeated flatly. "The Danger Room floor is-"
But the chuckle died in your throat as you straightened up. Those familiar brown spots starting to dance at the edges of your vision, those familiar warning signs you'd learned to recognize over the years of. First the spots, then the full black-out, then the rush of dizziness, then-
Logan saw it happen in real time. The subtle furrow of your brow. The way your eyes went distant, the faltering of your posture as if suddenly unsure on where you stood, hands coming up with the fingers splayed as if you were trying to make sure you didn't bump into anything in a dark room.
well, shit. here we go again.
"Easy there, easy," Logan's gruff voice was suddenly right in front of you, his big hands finding your shoulders as your outstretched palms met the solid wall of his chest. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just breathe."
The brown spots were spreading, swallowing up the edges of your vision until all you could see was the vague outline of Logan's form in front of you. You blinked rapidly, trying to force the world back into focus, but it was no use. Everything was going dark.
"'M okay," you mumbled, even as your knees started to wobble. "'S just the-"
"I know what it is." Logan's voice was steady, his hands warm and grounding as they rubbed up and down your arms. "Just stand still. Let it pass."
He knew now, had seen it happen enough times to know exactly what to do. But the first time, months ago, when he did not know and you'd dropped cold on the training room floor without warning, he'd damn near had a heart attack.
You leaned into him, not even thinking about it, just following the instinct that told you he was something solid that would keep you from falling. Your forehead pressed against his chest, and you could hear the steady thump of his heart beneath the thick fabric of his shirt.
"Deep breaths," he murmured, and you realized distantly that he'd shut down the simulation. The hum of the Danger Room was gone, replaced by that familiar quiet that made the space feel so much more intimate. "That's it, kid. I've got you."
The darkness slowly began to recede, the brown spots retreating like the tide going out, leaving the world slowly swimming back into focus. But the dizziness lingered, and your head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
"You stood up too fast, didn't you?" he rumbled, though you felt the word more than you heard it. "Should've known better, kid. You know the rules. Slow and steady."
"mnhm"
Twenty seconds passed. Your hands were still pressed against his chest, and you'd leaned into him enough that your head was tucked beneath his chin. He could feel your breath—soft, warm puffs against the sensitive skin of his neck—and he made a mental note to get you some orange juice from the kitchen later. Something with sugar. Something to help.
The stupid paternal instincts never shut up, did they? They'd been quiet for so long, buried under decades of pain and isolation. Then he'd come to this school and you and the girls had found him.
Rogue, with her sadness and her careful way of moving through the world like she was terrified of touching anyone. Kitty, with her quick grin and her sunshine-bright energy. And you, with your bubbly laugh and your habit of taking naps anywhere you could and your stupid iron deficiency.
Jean had caught on quick, not even two weeks after he'd started really watching out for you three. He'd been in the kitchen, making himself some toast, and she'd just… appeared. Silent as a ghost.
"Your daughter's asking for you, Logan."
And he'd answered, completely on instinct, completely mindlessly: "Which one?"
Jean's smile had been the most infuriating thing he'd ever seen. It was soft, and warm, and absolutely dripping with affection. Storm had joined in, adding fuel to the fire with a gentle laugh and a comment about how it was nice to see him settling into fatherhood so naturally.
Logan had grumbled and walked away, but they weren't wrong. He knew they weren't wrong. Every time one of you called for him, every time you wandered into his orbit seeking safety or comfort or just the warmth of his presence, he felt that protective surge rush through him.
"Better?" Logan asked, and when you looked up, you found him watching you with that particular expression he got when he was worried but trying not to show it. The one that made him look like a grumpy bear who'd just found his favorite honey pot had been moved.
"Yeah," you breathed, though you still felt wobbly. "Think so. I can see your flannel again. It's very red. Hard to miss."
"Hey, that flannel's a classic. Don't disrespect it."
A beat of silence.
"Y'still look pale to me, though."
"'M always pale."
"That's not the flex you think it is." He was already moving, one arm sliding behind your back while the other hooked under your knees. "And up we go."
"Logan! I can walk!" you squeaked, even as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. "I'm fine—"
"You'll be fine when I've got you sitting in the sun with some water in you." He was already carrying you toward the exit, your head naturally finding the crook of his neck as he walked. "Until then, you're staying put."
You wanted to argue, but you were tired, and he was warm, and the scent of him, leather and cigars and that particular Logan smell, was so familiar and comforting that you couldn't quite make yourself care about the indignity of being carried out of the Danger Room.
"Stubborn old man." you mumbled against his neck.
"Stubborn kid." he shot back, but there was no heat in it. If anything, his arms tightened around you just slightly, pulling you closer.
The walk through the mansion was blessedly short. Logan moved quickly and efficiently, his boots barely making a sound on the polished floors. You caught glimpses of the hallways through half-lidded eyes, the familiar portraits and furniture blurring past.
"You're still breathing," Logan commented after a moment, and you could feel the rumble of his voice through his chest. "Good."
"Were you checking?"
"I always check."
Something warm bloomed in your chest that had nothing to do with the post-dizziness recovery. You pressed your face further into his neck, your breath puffing warm against his skin, and for just a moment, you felt his pace slow. Like he was savouring the sensation.
Logan would never admit it, but moments like this were what he lived for. The feeling of one of his cubs safe in his arms, trusting him enough to let their guard down completely. The little puffs of your breath against his skin left behind the faintest scent of you and it made him feel so fiercely protective that it almost hurt.
Animals always smelled like their cubs, it was how they knew their own, how they tracked them through the wilderness. And you (you, Kitty, Rogue) you all had your own scents, and he could pick them out of a crowd without even thinking. You smelled like home.
Not that he'd ever admit that out loud.
"I can hear you thinking, yknow.." you said, your voice muffled against his neck.
"Highly unlikely," he rumbled. "I'm not thinking anything."
"You're thinking about how much you love me."
"I'm thinking about how you're gonna be the death of me."
"Same thing."
He huffed, but his lips twitched. "Cheeky little-"
"Logan!" A warm voice cut through their banter, and Logan looked up to find Storm approaching them from the garden path, her short white hair catching the afternoon sun. "What happened? Is she all right?"
"Anemia," Logan said shortly, adjusting you in his arms. "Just a dizzy spell. She stood up too fast."
Storm's expression softened into something almost unbearably fond. "And you carried her all the way from the Danger Room?"
"She's light," he muttered defensively. "Wasn't that far."
"You're so adorable when you're a worrywart." Storm stepped closer, pressing a gentle hand to your forehead. "How are you feeling, little one?"
"Wish I wasn't in the middle of this conversation," you mumbled, but you were smiling. "'M fine. Logan's just being dramatic."
"He's being exactly the right amount of dramatic," Storm corrected, winking at the man in question. "He's a father through and through."
Logan made a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a huff. "m'not-"
"Oh, hush." Storm's eyes sparkled with mirth. "You know it's true. Jean and I have been saying it for months. You're a girl dad, Logan. Accept it."
"I'm not doing this with you."
"I'll get her some water," Storm offered, her smile still lingering. "You get her settled. She's in the clear for the next few hours, but if she wants to skip dinner-"
"Absolutely not." Logan was already moving toward the garden bench, his voice firm. "She needs to eat. And take her supplements."
"That's not a bad idea," Storm agreed. "Though I have to say, Logan, the way you take care of her is quite-"
"Enough." He gently deposited you on the bench, making sure you were steady before pulling away. "Water. Sun. Food. That's the plan."
"I love when you mother hen me n'the girls," you teased, reaching up to pat his cheek. "It's very cute."
"It's not."
"It is." you insisted. "Wanna know how I know?"
"I really, really don't-"
"Because when Jean and Storm tease you about your 'daughters,' you always ask which one." Your grin was wobbly but bright. "That's pretty dad-like, if you ask me."
Logan's face did something complicated. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again-
"I'm going to get y'something to eat." he finally said, turning on his heel and marching toward the mansion.
"Love you too, Dad!" you called after him.
He didn't turn around, but you could have sworn his steps faltered just slightly. And if there was a slight quickening in his pace, well, you were too busy basking in the warm afternoon sun to notice.
Storm returned with a glass of water not a minute later, settling beside you on the bench. "He's going to be insufferable now, you know that."
"He's always insufferable," you said cheerfully, accepting the water. "That's what makes him so great."
"He's also going to be hovering for the rest of the day."
"That's okay." You took a sip of water, watching the garden path for any sign of his return. "I don't mind, actually."
Storm smiled knowingly. "You really don't, do you?"
You thought about Logan's gruff voice and gentle hands, about how he always made sure you had what you needed even when you were too stubborn to ask. About how he carried you out of the Danger Room like you weighed nothing.
