"why would I be dead? what do men know! because they have not seen me for a while does not mean that I have vanished. concepts do not vanish, we live forever!"
" the world of ideas "
The world of ideas, known as the Theory of Forms or Theory of Ideas by the ancient Greek philosopher Plato, is a real, unseen realm of absolute, perfect, and unchanging templates that exist beyond our physical universe. The World of Forms is an intelligible realm, an eternal, non-physical dimension containing the pure blueprints or "Ideas" of everything—such as justice and beauty. It is known as where all the concepts are one, where nothing is something and everything is anything.
presenting my supernatural self-insert, who is the younger half-sister of Sam and Dean Winchester (born from a brief relationship of J*hn with a woman). and whose soul, upon dying to a cursed weapon wielded by a demon during the events of season 4, passed through the thin veil that separated the Sensible Realm from the Intelligible realm. Hence entering some sort of limbo instead of going to Heaven or Hell.
Only to pass through said veil again when, 9 years later (as of season 12-13), the temple upon the curse that tainted the murder weapon and many others was unknowingly destroyed by the Winchester Brothers, hence lifting the curse that stopped Castiel's grace from healing the injuries and throwing her back into the world of the living as a physical being instead of a concept. Getting reunited with her, now older, brothers and Castiel once again and trying to navigate having a body rather than being just a soul.
Summary: Based on this post by @jamesdeanbby. When Dean and Cass call an angel to help detox Sam. She gives him her blood and might have caused him another addiction....
Relationship: Sam Winchester x f!reader. No use of y/n
Warnings/tags: Suggestive, supernatural stuff, blood, drinking blood, addiction, mention of kinda abusive childhood, religious themes, a bit of size kink because self-indulging, might be more but i'm horrible at tagging
Wc: 2,2k
Author's note: Thank you for letting me inspire this fic on your idea @jamesdeanbby, I tried to respect it as much as I could but I also wanted it to have my personal touch. Might make it a series and give it a part that adds more depht to the characters and maybe resolves the tension.... If you like it be sure to comment. If you have any idea for a fic, feel free to request. English isn't my first language sp if I make any mistakes please correct me. x
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You used to think humans were strange creatures. Back when your father assigned your garrison as a protector of humanity you were proud of yourself. After all, humans were very valuable creations to Him, leaving you in charge of them was a great honor.
So, you devoted your existence to the wellbeing of the species. At first, because of father’s orders, but you quickly realized that spending time with humans could really change one’s perception. As time went by you witnessed the worst and best of humanity. From Adam and Eve to the Tower of Babel, Moses, David, the Roman Empire, Jesus and so on until the XXth century with its World Wars and Vietnam; you had seen humanity be born and you had seen it try to destroy itself. Curious creatures, humans, they were passionate and full of love, yet those precious attributes often led them to perdition. That you found fascinating. Love, curiosity, creativity, empathy and the need to belong; father hadn’t given you nor your brothers those attributes but as time went by, as you started living among them, you started to feel.
You obviously kept it a secret. Curiosity, in most angel’s eyes, was close to doubt and they were right. As time went by, you started doubting, you started becoming more and more human.
There were few angels that would understand, one of them was your dearest brother: Castiel. He didn’t doubt yet, he still feared, but you saw in his eyes a spark of curiosity from the moment he first saved that Winchester boy, and that made him your favorite. So today, as his call came, you answered.
You appeared in some sort of basement in the middle of South Dakota. In front of you were two men and one angel.
“Hello sister.”
“Good morning, Cass. Do you need something?” He looked at the men beside him.
“Dean, Bobby, this is my sister” he said your name.
“Dean Winchester and Robert Singer, it is a pleasure to meet you.” You extended your hand and shook theirs with polite confidence.
“So, you do know social cues.” Dean said.
You laughed. “Yes, well, I have been in Earth a bit longer than my dear brother. I descended from heaven in 1968.”
“Rough time.” Bobby muttered.
“Indeed. That is exactly why I came. I am a protector of mankind and it hurt to watch everything from heaven without at least trying to help a bit.” You paused after the sincere moment. “So, gentleman, what do you need from me?”
Dean breathed deep. You could smell the nerves coming out of his body. “You see, my brother Sam…he has a problem.”
“Yes, I have heard.”
“So, you know about the demon blood.”
“I am aware your brother has been taking demon blood to enhance the psychic powers the demon Azazel gave him, am I wrong?
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, well, news travel fast and I tend to keep an eye on Castiel and, therefore, you troublemakers.”
“Cass said you might know how to help. That true?” His voice broke a bit. “It’s just…please, please the withdrawal is making him sick and I can’t help him, it’s-it’s killing me not being able to cure him. Please, please help him.” You placed a hand on his arm to ground him.
“It’s okay, calm down. There is a solution. It would make him stop craving demon blood forever, but it would require a lifelong treatment.”
Hope filled his eyes. “Well, what is it?”
“You see, where demon blood is like venom, angel blood is more like… medicine, it is one of the purest things in the universe and it can cure one’s body. It won’t make him powerful like a demons’, but it would protect him from ever wanting to consume it. That’s what I clearly know, but I don’t know about any other effects it could have. This, however, is not a detox, it could still cause an addiction. Addictions are behavioral, they are one’s choice. I can’t change that.”
“So, you want to, what? Change his drug basically?”
“It wouldn’t be the same. This “drug” he’s taking is destroying him. Look, I will give him mine personally, think of it like taking medication for a chronic disease. You must take it every day, but it cures you.” Despite the justification, both Dean and Bobby still seemed skeptical. “Look, Dean, I know it’s scary, and I know it hurts to see your brother be like this, Father knows if I had to watch Cassie in this situation it would pain me greatly. However, this is the best solution I am aware of. It’s all I can give.” They seemed to relax with that. “Look, I love humans. You are my father’s creation, hurting you would be blasphemy. I just want to help. But I respect your wishes and Sam’s and I won’t do anything you don’t want.” Your voice was kind and soft, Dean couldn’t help but melt. He was stressed and angry with his brother and himself for not protecting him, hearing that comforting tone made him trust her. He had hope.
“Okay.” He finally said. “I am going to ask Sam.”
He opened a door in the back of the wall. You could see a tall figure inside a hidden room, you assumed it was Sam. You turned to Cass.
“I missed you, Cassie.” You hugged him. That always seemed to surprise him. As you had mentioned, he had lived among humans for much less time and wasn’t as used to these displays of affection.
“I missed you too, dear sister.”
“I see taking care of the Winchesters Is proving to be difficult.” You looked at both Cass and Bobby. The last one chuckled.
“Tell me about it. Those idjits have been trouble since they were born.” The fatherly tone those words carried made you smile. You wished you could hear Father speak in that tone. A hidden part of yourself wished he spoke about you. Wished he spoke to you. How could He let humans suffer like you had seen Dean suffer for his brother? How could He leave his children alone? You decided not to think about it, those thoughts only made you sad and confused. Your attention rapidly changed when the door to the little room opened.
“You can come in.” Dean offered.
As you entered you discovered a circular chamber filled with protective sigils. There were books in the walls, a little table, and a bed where the tall man was seated.
“Sam?” You presented yourself with your name. “I have come here to help you. I understand Dean told you how.”
“He did.” He looked pale, tired and had a look in his eyes you couldn’t quite describe as something else than light madness. It saddened you to see him like this. Humans were beautiful creatures, full of life and joy. Human smiles were fascinating. You wondered how such a simple movement could change so many things. It could make one laugh, cry or fall in love. Sam looked anything but happy and you, as a protector of humanity (and therefore of their happiness) took it as your mission to cure him so you could see him smile. “Thank you.”
“What for? It is my duty to help you.” His eyes somehow lost a bit of that sadness as he gained a similar reaction to Dean’s. It seemed these boys hadn’t had a lot of gentleness in their lives, but you had plenty to spare. “Dean,” you turned and looked at him “could you leave us alone for a moment?”
“Sure. Thank you” he said your name and left closing the door.
“Well, I have obviously never done this before, so I don’t really know how it’s going to feel. So, I want you to be as comfortable as possible in case it kind of feels bad or something- “you saw fear in his eyes “which I sincerely doubt it will.”
“Okay.” His voice was soft, but unlike yours, it was born of exhaustion and pain. He sat further on the bed and looked at his side as if he was inviting you to take the place. You did.
“I think it would be best if you laid down.” He did. You approached his frame and sat beside his hips. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.” You took off your coat and your angel blade. You placed the garment at the foot of the bed and the knife on your thighs. Sam was enchanted by your movements, they seemed slow and careful. You handled everything with a sweetness and attention that, in his state, made him almost jealous of the blade.
You took the sleave of your shirt and folded it. Then you placed the knife against your wrist. Finally, you made an incision and watched as bright red blood started to make its way out. With the same meticulous care with which you handled everything you put your wrist against his lips. He looked at you, his eyes filled with shyness at the strangely intimate atmosphere as if asking for permission. You nodded. He dove right in.
At first the taste surprised him. It was very different from a demon’s blood’s. Where it had been more flavored, almost salty, this one was like sweet water. It tasted pure and clean; it filled his mouth so gently like those candies that melted in your tongue. It made tingles travel from his nose to his neck and down his spine leaving a trace of goosebumps. It was a hundred times better than demon’s blood. It was a million times better than anything he had ever tasted. His heart started beating faster, his senses regained their precision. He now could smell her: vanilla, clean; he could hear her breathing: low and deep; and he could feel her smooth skin under the tips of the fingers that had engulfed her little -by comparison- forearm so naturally. He opened his eyes, and he was met with an extraordinary view.
You stood with your eyes closed and brows furrowed, your chest raised slowly, and he could see the outlines of your breasts trembling as it did. You seemed as lost in the feeling as he was. Finally, he felt satisfied and let go of your wrist.
You gradually opened your eyelids as he stood and returned to the seated position. His face was now so close to yours you could smell your blood in his mouth. He now could almost taste that vanilla his nose had noticed. He then started to focus on the features he hadn’t cared to note in his previous state. He observed your eyelashes and their gentle curve, your neat eyebrows, the bridge of your nose, your cheeks and their gentle blush, your chin and its perfect curvature and finally, your lips. They looked so singular to him, he thought he had never seen lips with such a soft texture and beautiful color. They looked as if you had bitten them. He didn’t know why, maybe it was because of the intimate act you just had shared, maybe it was because of those attributes he had just noticed, but he felt something push him to place his lips against hers and their perfect shape.
While he was busy looking at you, you were frozen on the spot. Your wrist had already healed, and you were a bit lightheaded. You looked at his face and saw a mole on the side of his nose. You don’t know why but it was the first thing that caught your attention. You loved that about humans: moles. They were so unique, it reminded you of how diverse and special each person could be. Unlike angels, humans were more peculiar. They had desires and feelings, different thoughts, distinctive features. You don’t know why, but you suddenly had the urge to kiss it. And you did.
You closed the space between you two and kissed his mole. Sam closed his eyes, he felt you everywhere. In his hand that now rested in your shoulder gently as if he was touching something precious, in his mind that now held all the data his senses were receiving, inside his veins pumping and fighting the pain and suffering. You were everywhere like a bubble of intimacy and sweet care.
You finally parted and looked at him with a shy smile. God, he was fucked. “You should go upstairs and get some rest.” You tried to avoid acknowledging the sudden act of boldness. He nodded; he didn’t think he could speak right now.
The next day you returned to Bobby’s house and repeated the action and, after a week, it became a routine. You also started to get to know the boys. The need to be close to Sam grew uncontrollably. Day after day, you spent your time trying to fight the urge to bury your lips in his skin, to feel its warmth, to sense its smell.
Sam, however, was fighting even more. Not only the force that wanted to make you his, but also the urge for your blood. For the feeling it gave him; it felt like home, it felt so comfortable like a precious dream he didn’t want to wake up from. Day after day, his need for you, for your blood, grew. He wanted to possess you, to make you his forever. He was addicted again, but this time his hunger not only grew, it owned him.
how i feel creating a self-insert for supernatural that mixes the christianity of the show and that i believe in, with the philosophy and the 'world of ideas' that old philosophers spoke about, heaven, hell, a cult, cursed artifacts that are lowkey horocruxes like in harry potter but with a hive mind, and the limbo and all of it for the need to potray how i feel disconnected from reality and how i view myself as a concept rather than a person my suicidal tendencies/urges my 27 second clinical death and my utter and complete attachement to my body but in the sense of a kid's "this is my favourite toy" instead of "i love my body and how beautiful it is":
━╋ mr marathon yumeship drawing !!
25.07.26 ,, by paola.
this me n @v3nd3ttal3on 's yumeship!!!! yes we both yumeship with mr marathon, i am extremely hypersharing with him because WHY DOES NOBODY LOVE HIM. so any other mr marathon yumeshippers pls do reach out to me tehee, also malchemical yumeshippers too!
The Vought Tower gala was, as always, a spectacular display of corporate excess dressed in designer gowns and thousand-dollar suits. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across the marble floors, where the elite of the supe world mingled with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of performing for cameras that were no longer pointed in their direction. The champagne flowed freely, as did the cocaine in the bathrooms, and somewhere in the corner, a former member of Payback was trying to convince a young influencer that he'd totally been the one to take down that terrorist cell in Mogadishu.
You sipped your champagne and watched the theater of it all with the bored amusement of someone who had seen it all before. Twice. Maybe three times if you counted the late 70s, when the parties had been actually wild and there hadn't been a single PR consultant in sight to tell you that doing lines off a table was "problematic for the brand."
At sixty-three, you looked thirty-five. That was the gift of Compound V, along with the enhanced strength, the healing factor, and the slight shimmer that seemed to follow you like a personal lighting crew. You'd been one of the first, one of the beautiful ones, selected not for any useful power but because you were the kind of gorgeous that sold magazines. And God, had you sold them. Your face had been on more covers than you could count, your body had graced the pages of Playboy three times in the 80s alone, and your reputation had been the stuff of legend.
But that was then. Now, you were more than a pretty face. You were a survivor, and that was something that couldn't be bought or sold.
The snap of fingers cut through the ambient noise of the gala, and you watched with a curl of satisfaction as Mr. Marathon's head whipped around so fast you heard his neck crack.
"Ma'am?" He was already moving toward you, his long legs eating up the distance between you in three quick strides. His eyes were wide, eager, practically begging for you to give him something to do. "Yes, ma'am? What'd you need? What'd you want? Anything, I can get you anything—"
You let him ramble for a moment, watching the way his chest rose and fell with quickened breath, the way his hands twitched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from touching you. He was so pretty like this, all desperate attention and puppy-dog eyes, his boyish charm still intact despite the fact that he was pushing fifty and had been washed up for the better part of a decade.
"Collar's crooked," you said, reaching out to straighten it. Your fingers brushed against his throat, and you felt him shiver. "Can't have you looking sloppy, baby boy. What would people think?"
"Right, yes, ma'am—I mean, yes, ma'am, thank you, I'm sorry, I should have checked before we left, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you-"
"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips, and he fell silent immediately, his breath warm against your skin. His eyes had gone glassy, that familiar glaze settling over them. "You're not embarrassing me, pretty boy. You're perfect. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am." The words came out muffled against your finger, and you could feel the slight tremble in his lower lip. "Always perfect for you. I try to be. I try so hard, you know I do-"
"I know, baby." You removed your finger and cupped his cheek instead, feeling the slight stubble that had grown in over the course of two days. "I know you do. That's why I keep you around."
The way his face lit up at that was almost pathetic. Almost. There was something endearing about it, too, the way he practically glowed under your praise, his entire body relaxing as if you'd just told him he'd won the lottery. He leaned into your touch like a cat seeking affection, his eyes fluttering half-closed as his hands reached out for your waist, landing waaaayy too low.
"Marathon." You called him out gently, and his gaze snapped up to yours. "Behave. There are cameras."
His eyes widened in panic, and you watched him struggle to pull himself together. It was cute, the way he tried to compose himself, straightening his jacket and running a hand through his hair in a gesture that was supposed to be casual but came off as frantic.
"Right, yes, of course, cameras, I know, I'm sorry, I'll—I'll be good, I promise, I can be good-"
"I know you can, honey." You patted his cheek and turned back to your champagne, leaving him to hover at your side like the devoted accessory he was. "Now stand there and look pretty. I have to talk to some people."
"Yes, ma'am."
An hour later, you were deep in conversation with a producer from Vought's entertainment division when you felt familiar arms wrap around your waist from behind. Mr. Marathon pressed himself against your back, his body a warm line of heat against your spine, and you could feel exactly how excited he was to be touching you.
"Hi," he murmured against your ear, his breath ghosting over your neck. "Missed you. You were gone for so long. I thought you forgot about me."
You made a mental note that he'd lasted nearly forty-five minutes before the need for contact had become unbearable. That was a new record. Usually he was crawling back within twenty.
"I was talking to Mr. Harrison," you said, keeping your voice even despite the way his hands were fisting the fabric of your dress at your hips. "About a potential project. Very important."
"Oh." He sounded petulant, almost childish. "Well, I'm more important. I'm your boyfriend. That means I should be the most important thing. Right? Right?"
You turned slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face. He was pouting, his lower lip jutting out in a way that made you want to kiss him until he couldn't breathe. Or maybe spank him until he couldn't sit. Both options had their appeal.
"My project could make us a lot of money," you said mildly. "Money that pays for the penthouse. The car. The designer clothes you like to rip off me."
His eyes darkened at that, and you felt his hips press forward, grinding his obvious erection against your back. "I can make you money. I can do things. I'm not useless, you know."
"Of course you are not, baby." You reached back and patted his thigh, and he immediately fell silent. "You're very useful. You keep my bed warm, you fetch things when I need them, and you look good on my arm."
He preened at that, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest slightly. "I do look good, don't I? I mean, people are always looking at us, and I know they're looking at you, but they're looking at me too. They're wondering what I did to deserve you."
"Nothing," you said bluntly. "You did nothing. I just happened to like the way you begged."
His cheeks flushed, and he dropped his forehead against your shoulder with a soft groan. "That's so mean. You're so mean to me. I love it."
"Of course you do."
You turned back to Mr. Harrison, who was watching the exchange with thinly veiled fascination. He was a balding man in his late fifties, the kind who had seen enough of the supe world to not be surprised by anything, but even he seemed taken aback by the dynamic unfolding before him.
"Your... companion is very dedicated," he said diplomatically.
"He's house-trained," you replied, and felt Mr. Marathon's teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder in a small, possessive bite. "Mostly.” You upon feeling the slight attack. “He still has accidents when he gets too excited."
"That's not-" Mr. Marathon started to protest, then seemed to think better of it and letting out a huff, turning his head away.
"Marathon." You snapped your fingers, and his head whipped around to look at you, his eyes wide and glassy. "Control yourself."
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. Won't say another word. Not a single one. You won't even hear a peep from me. I'll be so quiet, you'll forget I'm even here."
"You're too anything to forget," you said, patting his cheek. "But I appreciate the effort."
Mr. Harrison coughed delicately. "Perhaps we can continue this discussion another time. It seems you have your hands full."
"Always," you agreed, smiling. "Good night, Mr. Harrison."
"Good night, Miss..." He trailed off, clearly unsure of your actual name. Most people were these days. You'd gone through so many stage names, so many personas, that even you lost track sometimes.
"Just the Missus will do," you said, and watched his eyes widen. "Or ma'am, if you prefer."
"Ma'am." Mr. Harrison repeated, and you heard Mr. Marathon whimper softly behind you. "Of course. Good night."
He scurried away, and you were left alone with your needy boyfriend, who was practically vibrating against your back.
"Did you see that?" Mr. Marathon asked, his voice high and excited. "He called you ma'am. He saw me do it and now he's doing it too. You're so powerful. Everyone wants to do what you say. But no one does it like me, right? I do it best? I'm the best at being yours, right?"
"You're the best at being mine," you agreed, because it was true. No one could match his level of desperation, his complete and total devotion to the cause of pleasing you. "Now come on. I'm bored. Let's go home."
"Home?" His voice cracked slightly. "Really? We're going home? Together? Just us?"
"Unless you'd rather stay here."
"No, no, no, I want to go home, I want to go home with you, I want to—" He took a breath, visibly trying to calm himself. "I mean, yes, ma'am. Whatever you want. Let's go home."
The car ride was a study in restraint. Mr. Marathon had never been good at keeping his hands to himself, and the privacy of the backseat was far too tempting for him. Within minutes of pulling away from the gala, his hands were roaming, fingers tracing patterns on your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, always moving, always seeking more contact.
"Stop fidgeting, honey." you said, without even meeting his eyes.
"Can't help it." His voice was strained, desperate. "You're so close.”
He made a small, frustrated sound.
"Marathon."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Behave."
The whimper he let out was almost comical. "But I can't. I can't behave around you, you know this—"
"One more word and I'm moving you to the guest room tonight."
He went silent immediately, his hands freezing in place. The threat of being separated from you was the only thing that could truly make him behave, and you used it ruthlessly when necessary.
For the rest of the drive, he was a perfect statue, barely breathing, barely moving, his eyes fixed on you like you were the only source of light in the world. It was almost sweet, in a deeply pathetic way.
The penthouse was dark when you arrived, but you didn't bother with the lights. The city glow filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in shades of blue and gold. Mr. Marathon followed you like a shadow, his footsteps silent on the marble floors.
"Bedroom," you said, and he was there instantly, making a beeline for the master suite without needing further instruction.
You took your time, removing your jewelry piece by piece, setting each item carefully on the vanity. You could hear him moving around in the bedroom, probably pacing, probably trying to contain his excitement. He was never good at waiting, but he was learning.
When you finally entered the bedroom, you found him standing at the foot of the bed, naked and already hard, his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier awaiting inspection. The sight of him like this never failed to send a thrill through you.
"Look at you," you said, circling him slowly. "So eager. So ready. You couldn't even wait for me to tell you to undress."
"Wanted to be ready for you," he said, his voice husky. "Wanted to show you that I'm good. That I listen. That I—"
"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips again, and he fell silent. "I know what you want. But first, I want to look at you. Stand still."
He stood still. He was very good at standing still when you told him to.
You took your time, trailing your fingers over his chest, his stomach, his hips. He was built like a runner, lean and muscular, with long legs and a narrow waist. The years had been kind to him, leaving him with silver at his temples and laugh lines around his eyes that made him look distinguished rather than old. He'd been a hero once, a real one, with actual powers that made him more than just a pretty face.
"Turn around," you said, and he obeyed immediately, his back to you now. You ran your hand down his spine, feeling the slight tremor that ran through him. "You're shaking."
"Can't help it." His voice was strained. "You just—you make me feel so much. All the time. It's like I'm going to explode from it."
"Don't explode yet," you said, stepping closer so your front was pressed against his back. "I haven't gotten to play with you."
He made a sound that was almost a sob, and you knew he was close to breaking. Good. You wanted him broken. That was when he was most beautiful.
"On the bed," you said, and he scrambled to obey, crawling onto the massive bed and settling in the center with his arms spread wide. Presenting himself to you. Offering himself up.
"Please," he said, and the word was almost a prayer. "Please, ma'am, please, I need you, I need—"
"Shh." You climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips without letting any part of you touch him. He whimpered at the nearness, his hips bucking up instinctively before he caught himself.
You leaned down, letting your lips brush against his, feather-light, barely a whisper of contact. He moaned, his hands coming up to grab you before stopping themselves mid-air.
"Can I touch you?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Please, ma'am, can I please touch you?"
"Not yet," you said, pulling back. "I want to look at you first."
He was beautiful like this, laid out beneath you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with need. The city light played across his skin, highlighting the definition of his muscles, the trail of hair that led down his stomach. His cock was hard and leaking, pressed against his stomach, and you watched a bead of pre-cum slide down to pool in his navel.
"So desperate," you murmured, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip. "So needy. You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"
"Anything," he agreed immediately. "Anything you want. Anything at all. I'd—I'd do it. I'd do everything. I'd—"
"You'd kill for me?"
"Yes."
"You'd die for me?"
"Without hesitation."
He meant it. That was the most beautiful part. He meant every word.
"Good boy," you said, and watched his eyes flutter closed at the praise. "My good, pretty boy. My perfect boy."
"I'm yours," he breathed. "All yours. Everything I am, everything I have, it's all yours."
"I know it is." You leaned down and kissed him, properly this time, and he groaned into your mouth like he was dying. His hands came up to cup your face, trembling, reverent, and you let him have this small contact. He'd earned it.
"Please," he said against your lips. "Please, ma'am, I can't—I can't wait anymore, I need you, I need—"
"Need what, baby boy?"
"Everything." The word was broken, desperate. "I need everything you'll give me. I need to feel you. I need to be inside you. I need to—"
"Not tonight," you said, and watched his face crumble. "Tonight, you're going to use your mouth. You're going to show me how much you love me with that talented tongue of yours."
"Yes." The word was immediate, eager. "Yes, yes, yes, I can do that, I can show you, I'll show you how much I love you, how much I worship you, I'll—"
"Then get to it, pretty boy."
He didn't need to be told twice. He moved with a speed that was almost superhuman, positioning himself between your legs and pushing up your skirt with frantic hands. When he saw what you were wearing, or rather, what you weren't wearing, he let out a sound that was almost a sob.
"No underwear," he breathed. "You—you knew. You knew this was going to happen."
"I always know," you said, settling back against the pillows. "Now are you going to use that mouth, or are you going to stare all night?"
He dove in like a man drowning, his mouth finding you with desperate accuracy. The first stroke of his tongue against your clit made you gasp, and he moaned against you like the sound was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.
You carded your fingers through his hair, and he whimpered, pressing closer, his hands gripping your thighs like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"That's it," you said, your voice breathy. "That's my good boy. My pretty, perfect boy."
He hummed against you, sending vibrations through your entire body, and you felt yourself getting closer. He was good at this, so good at this, like everything else he did for you. He was desperate to please, and that desperation made him talented.
"Fingers," you said, and he immediately brought his hand up, pressing two fingers inside you without hesitation. "Good boy. So good for me. So eager to make me feel good."
He worked you with his mouth and fingers, building you up with practiced ease. He knew your body like he knew his own, maybe better, and he used that knowledge ruthlessly.
"Please," he said, pulling back just long enough to speak. "Please come for me, please, I need it, I need to taste you, I need—"
"Shh." You tugged his hair, and he moaned. "Keep going. Don't stop until I tell you to."
He dove back in, his tongue working circles around your clit while his fingers curled inside you. You were close, so close, and he knew it, could probably taste it on you.
"That's it," you said, your voice strained. "Right there, don't stop, don't you fucking stop—"
You came with a cry, your hips bucking against his face, and he drank it down like a man dying of thirst. He didn't stop, even as you shuddered through the aftershocks, lapping at you until you were oversensitive and pushing his head away.
"Good boy," you breathed, and he looked up at you with glazed eyes, his chin wet with your arousal. "So good for me. My perfect, beautiful boy."
He crawled up your body, positioning himself above you, his cock pressing against your thigh. "Please," he said, and his voice was wrecked. "Please, ma'am, please let me- I need-"
"You need to come?"
"Yes, yes, yes, please, I need it so bad, I've been so good, I've been so patient, please-"
You considered him for a moment, watching him tremble with need. He was so beautiful like this, so broken open, so desperate for the smallest scrap of your attention.
"Touch yourself," you said. "Show me how much you need it."
He didn't hesitate, his hand wrapping around his cock and pumping frantically. His eyes were fixed on you, watching you watch him, and you could see the way your attention pushed him closer to the edge.
"That's it," you said, reaching out to cup his face. "My pretty boy. My desperate, needy, perfect boy. So good for me. So beautiful when you're like this."
"Ma'am-" The word was broken, almost a sob. "Please, I'm going to-I need—"
"Come for me, then." you said. "Come for me, baby boy."
He did, with a cry that was almost a scream, his body arching as he spilled over his hand and onto your stomach. He collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you-"
You shushed him gently, running your fingers through his hair. "Shh. You did so well. I'm so proud of you."
"I love you," he said, and you could feel the tears on his cheeks. "I love you so much, I can't help it, I love you."
"I know you do, baby." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I love you too."
He stiffened slightly, then pulled back to look at you. "You do?"
"Of course I do." You cupped his face, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. "Who else would put up with your nonsense? Who else would keep you around?"
"Only you," he said, and there was awe in his voice. "Only ever you."
"That's right." You kissed him softly. "Now clean me up. There's a mess on my stomach."
He scrambled to obey, grabbing a cloth from the nightstand and carefully, reverently, wiping the evidence of his release from your skin. When he was done, he pressed a kiss to your stomach, then your chest, then your lips.
You pulled him close, wrapping your arms around him. "Sleep, baby boy. We have another event tomorrow, and you need to look pretty."
"Yes, ma'am." He nestled against you, his head on your chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. "I'll be so pretty. The prettiest. Just for you."
"I know you will."
( BONUS W MALCHEMICAL !!!!! )
The next day's afternoon, you had lunch with Malchemical, one of the few friends you'd maintained from the old days. He was a shapeshifter, currently in the form of a nondescript businessman, and he watched with barely concealed amusement as Mr. Marathon hovered at your side, fetching your water, adjusting your chair, offering you bites of his own food.
"He's like a puppy," Malchemical observed. "A very needy, very obsessed puppy."
"He's house-trained," you said, patting Mr. Marathon's hand as he set down a fresh glass of water. "Mostly."
"You're just jealous because you don't have anyone who looks at you like that," Mr. Marathon said, and there was a bit of a snap in his voice. "No one's ever looked at you the way I look at her. No one's ever loved anyone the way I love her."
"Marathon." You snapped your fingers, and his head whipped around, his expression instantly softening. "Be nice."
"Yes, ma'am." He ducked his head, chastened. "Sorry, ma'am. I'll be good."
Malchemical's eyebrows had nearly reached his hairline. "He just... that's all it takes? A snap of your fingers and he's putty?"
"He's conditioned," you said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "It's all about positive reinforcement. He gets rewards for good behavior."
"And punishments for bad?"
You smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. "He loves those too."
~♡ꜝꜞ ❝ 𝓕rights on flights ❞
────── · · Dean Winchester & fem ! sister ! reader & Sam Winchester & Castiel Novak
a / n : SELF INDULGENT FIC CUZ I HAD A FRIGHT ON MY FLIGHT TODAY💔
character/s featured. sam winchester .ᐟ dean winchester .ᐟ castiel novak .ᐟ
rating: fluff + crack/funny .ᐟ
🏷 ,, ( @reginaphalangelobster , @r4wrr3-xpp )
requesting rules. masterlist.
The airport terminal buzzed with the chaotic energy of a thousand travelers, each one rushing to their respective gates with varying degrees of urgency and anxiety. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting that particular shade of sterile white that made everyone look slightly ill. The smell of overpriced fast food and stale coffee hung in the air like an unwelcome guest.
And there, in the middle of it all, stood the three Winchester siblings—well, two Winchester brothers and their half-sister who had been thrust into their lives like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
Sam was doing what Sam always did: carrying the bulk of the luggage, checking the flight information on his phone, and generally being the responsible one. His flannel was neatly buttoned, his hair was its usual mane of glorious chestnut waves, and he had that particular look of resigned patience that only came from years of dealing with Dean's nonsense and your particular brand of teenage chaos.
Dean, meanwhile, was doing his level best to look like he wasn't about to jump out of his skin. He was wearing his usual leather jacket, jeans, and that cocky smirk that he thought made him look unbothered. But you knew better. You could always tell when Dean was trying to hide something because he got loud. Not loud like yelling, but loud in the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he practically vibrated with nervous energy.
"Alright, kiddo." Sam said, glancing down at you with that soft expression he reserved specifically for you. "We're all checked in. Gate 27. We should probably head over there now."
You nodded, clutching your carry-on bag a little tighter. It was a cute little thing: pastel pink with little embroidered flowers on it that Dean had complained about for the entire drive to the airport. ("Sweetheart, we're going on a hunt, not a picnic in a field of daisies.") But you'd refused to swap it for something more practical, because honestly, if you were going to die on a plane, you were going to die looking cute.
"Yo, earth to baby girl." Dean's voice cut through your thoughts, and you looked up to find him grinning down at you with that particular expression that meant he was about to say something that would get him smacked. "You look like you're about to hurl. You get motion sickness or something?"
You rolled your eyes. "No, Dean. I'm fine."
"You sure? 'Cause you're looking a little green around the gills."
"Dean," Sam said warningly, because apparently he'd picked up on the exact same thing you had—Dean was deflecting. He was nervous, and when Dean got nervous, he got mouthy. It was a well-documented phenomenon.
"What? I'm just looking out for her!" Dean protested, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "She's my baby sister. I'm allowed to be concerned."
You snorted. "You're only concerned because you're scared."
The words hung in the air for a moment, and you watched Dean's face cycle through about fifteen different expressions before settling on indignant outrage.
"Yeah, but have you faced turbulence?" you shot back, unable to help the grin spreading across your face. "Have you faced takeoff? Landing?"
"First of all, landing is the best part because it means I'm not in the air anymore-"
"Dean, you literally white-knuckled the armrest the entire flight from Kansas to California three months ago."
"That was because I was making sure you were okay!" He pointed at you accusingly. "You looked like you were about to pass out!"
"You looked like you were about to cry!"
"I do NOT cry!"
"Alright, alright," Sam interjected, stepping between you two with the practiced ease of someone who'd been breaking up Winchester arguments for decades. "Both of you are scared of flying. It's fine. There's nothing wrong with that."
"I'm not scared!" you and Dean said simultaneously, then glared at each other.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, and you could have sworn you heard him mutter something about "dealing with two children" under his breath. But then he sighed, reached out, and gently tugged at a strand of your hair that had come loose from its bow.
"Come on, honey." he said, his voice softening. "Let's get to the gate. We can get some snacks before we board."
You perked up at that. "Can I get a pretzel?"
"Sure, kiddo."
"Can I get a beer?" Dean asked hopefully.
"No."
"Sam, come on—"
"You can get a soda. That's it. If you have any beer you are definetely getting motion sickness up there."
Dean grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "party pooper," but he followed along anyway, falling into step beside you as you made your way through the terminal.
The thing about airports was that they were always so busy. People rushed past in every direction, dragging suitcases and shouting into phones and generally creating the kind of chaos that made your skin crawl. You stuck close to Sam, letting his presence anchor you as you navigated the crowds.
It wasn't that you were afraid of flying. You weren't. You were a Winchester, and Winchesters didn't get scared of things like planes.
...
Okay, maybe you were a little scared of planes.
But it wasn't your fault! Planes were unnatural! They were giant metal tubes that defied gravity through the power of science and engineering, and while you intellectually understood that they were perfectly safe, your lizard brain was absolutely convinced that the moment you stepped onto one, you would plummet to your fiery death.
And Dean felt the exact same way, even if he'd never admit it.
"Hey, sweetheart." he said suddenly, and you looked up to find him watching you with an expression that was surprisingly soft. "You okay?"
"just peachy, De."
"You're doing that thing with your hands."
You looked down and realized that you were twisting the strap of your bag into knots. "Oh. Sorry."
"Don't apologize." He reached over and gently pried your fingers away from the strap, then laced his fingers through yours. "Come on. Let's get this over with."
You blinked down at your joined hands, then up at his face. He wasn't looking at you: he was staring straight ahead, his jaw set in that stubborn line that meant he was pretending he wasn't completely terrified.
"Dean." you said softly.
"What?"
"Your hand is shaking."
"It's not shaking."
"It's definitely shaking."
"It's not-" He glanced down at his hand, then back at you, then sighed heavily. "Alright, fine. Maybe it's shaking a little. But that's only because I'm cold."
"It's like seventy degrees in here."
"I'm cold."
You squeezed his hand, and after a moment, he squeezed back.
Sam watched the exchange with a small smile, shaking his head slightly. "You two are impossible." he muttered.
"Says the guy who's practically vibrating with excitement," you shot back. "Admit it, Sam. You love when we fly because it means you get to be all superior and calm while we lose our minds."
"I wouldn't use the word love, per se.." Sam said, but he was grinning now. "I just find it… entertaining."
"Entertaining." Dean repeated flatly. "You find your brother and sister's intense fear of flying entertaining."
"Extremely."
"Sam!"
"Dean."
"I can't believe this. I can't believe you're enjoying this."
"Would you rather I be scared too? Because I can pretend, if that would make you feel better."
"Oh, that's it—"
"Okay, okay," you interrupted, tugging on Dean's hand to get his attention. "Let's just get to the gate, okay? The sooner we board, the sooner we get there."
Dean grumbled something under his breath, but he let you pull him along, still holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
The boarding process was, in a word, excruciating.
First, there was the wait at the gate, which was somehow both too long and not long enough. Dean had bought a bag of pretzels and was eating them with the manic intensity of someone trying to distract themselves from the impending doom of air travel. You had gotten a bottle of water and were drinking it in small sips, trying to calm your racing heart.
Sam, meanwhile, was texting someone in his phone, probably Bobby so as to keep him updated, occasionally looking up to check the flight status and generally looking like he didn't have a care in the world.
"You sure you don't want to trade seats?" you asked him for the fifth time. "You could have the window seat. I'll take the aisle."
"Kid, we've been over this. You wanted the window seat. You specifically requested the window seat."
"Yeah, but that was before I remembered that looking out the window means I can see how high up we are."
Sam sighed, but there was no real exasperation in it. He reached over and gently adjusted the bow in your hair, making sure it was sitting straight. "You're going to be fine. Dean's going to be fine. I'm right here. Nothing's going to happen to y- either of you."
You wanted to believe him. You really did. But the moment the gate agent announced that boarding would begin in five minutes, you felt your stomach drop through the floor.
Dean must have felt the same way, because his grip on your hand tightened to the point of pain.
"Ow, Dean-"
"Sorry, sweetheart." He loosened his grip slightly, but didn't let go. "Just… you know. Pre-boarding jitters."
"You mean pre-boarding terrors."
"Same thing."
When they finally called your row, you practically had to be dragged onto the plane. Dean was right behind you, his hand now gripping your shoulder like you were the only thing keeping him from bolting.
"You two are going to be the death of me," Sam muttered as he guided you both down the aisle. "Now sit down before you cause a scene."
You slid into the window seat, pressing yourself against the wall as if you could somehow phase through it and escape. Dean dropped into the middle seat beside you, and Sam took the aisle seat, immediately stretching his long legs out in front of him.
"You okay, kiddo?" Sam asked, leaning forward to catch your eye.
You nodded shakily. "Fine. m'fine."
"You look a little pale."
"not true."
"Your hands are shaking."
"cold."
"It's like sixty degrees in here."
"cold."
Sam opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the flight attendant's voice came over the intercom, welcoming everyone aboard and going through the safety demonstration. You tried to pay attention—you really did—but the words seemed to wash over you like white noise.
All you could think about was how high up you were going to be. How small the ground would look. How fragile the metal tube that was supposed to keep you alive really was.
Beside you, Dean was muttering under his breath. You couldn't quite make out the words, but from the tone, you were pretty sure he was praying to every deity he could think of.
"Dean."
"What?"
"Are you praying?"
"I'm not praying."
"Yes you are. I can hear you."
"I'm just… I'm just having a conversation with God. Man to man."
"You said 'please don't let this be the end.'"
"That's a perfectly normal thing to say on an airplane."
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the plane began to taxi. The engines roared to life, and you felt your heart rate spike to dangerous levels.
"Oh God." you breathed.
"Same." Dean agreed.
Sam watched the two of you with barely concealed amusement, his lips twitching. "You two are like a pair of frightened kittens." he observed.
"Shut up, Sam." you and Dean said simultaneously.
The plane picked up speed, and you grabbed Dean's arm without thinking. He grabbed yours right back, his fingers digging into your sleeve like you were his only lifeline.
"Okay," Dean said, his voice strained. "Okay. We're fine. We're fine. This is fine. Everything is fine."
"We're fine," you echoed, your voice trembling. "Everything is fine."
The plane lifted off the ground, and you both screamed.
It wasn't a loud scream, it was more of a strangled yelp that you tried to pass off as a cough. But Sam heard it, and his shoulders started shaking with barely suppressed laughter.
"You two-" He had to stop to catch his breath. "You two are-"
"Don't you dare laugh, Sam." you warned, your voice coming out as a squeak. "I'm serious. Don't you dare."
"I'm not laughing. I'm just… I'm having a moment."
"Having a moment? You're practically crying from laughter."
"I'm just really happy to be flying with my favorite siblings."
Dean snorted. "We're your only siblings."
"Doesn't make it any less true."
The plane continued to climb, and you and Dean clung to each other like you were about to be separated for all eternity. Your hands were clasped together, his arm around your shoulders, your face half-buried in his leather jacket.
"Hey," Dean said suddenly, his voice softer than you'd expected. "Hey, sweetheart. Look at me."
You reluctantly pulled back to look at him. His face was pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but he was trying so hard to look calm that it almost made you laugh.
"We're going to be fine," he said firmly. "I've got you. Sam's got you. And if anything goes wrong, I'll… I'll punch the plane."
"Dean, you can't punch the plane."
"Watch me."
Sam was full-on laughing now, his head thrown back, one hand pressed to his chest. "You can't punch a plane, Dean."
"I can try!"
"That's not how it works!"
"Since when do I care about how things work, huh?"
You couldn't help it. Despite the terror still churning in your stomach, a giggle escaped your lips. It was a little unsteady, a little high-pitched, but it was a laugh.
"There she is," Dean said, grinning now. "There's my baby girl."
"Dean, I'm a teenager now."
"You'll always be my baby girl. It's a thing. I don't make the rules."
The flight attendants began moving through the cabin, offering drinks and snacks. Sam ordered a coffee, Dean asked for a whiskey (which the flight attendant politely declined to give him when catching Sam's desperate gesturing), and you asked for a ginger ale.
"You sure about that, kiddo?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. "It might make you nauseous."
"It's ginger ale. It's supposed to help with nausea."
"Fair point."
The plane leveled off, and for a moment, just a moment, you started to relax. The fear was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it had dulled to something manageable.
And then the pilot's voice came over the intercom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be experiencing some light turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts."
You and Dean locked eyes.
"Light turbulence." Dean repeated, his voice an octave higher than usual. "That's not bad. Not that bad, 'nyways. That's… light turbulence. That's fine."
"Maybe we won't even feel it." you said, your voice trembling.
"Maybe it'll be so light that we-"
The plane dropped.
"fuck no-"
It wasn't a big drop, just a little jolt, the kind that made your stomach lurch and your heart skip a beat. But to you and Dean, it might as well have been the plane falling out of the sky.
"OH MY GOD!" you screeched, lunging across Dean to grab Sam's arm.
"HOLY SHIT!" Dean screamed right back, grabbing you so tightly that you were sure you'd have bruises.
"WE'RE GOING TO DIE!"
"WE'RE DEFINITELY GOING TO DIE!"
"EVERYONE PANIC!"
"EXACTLY! PANIC!"
Sam, meanwhile, was absolutely losing it. He was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. "Oh my-" he wheezed, "how- why- this is so funny-"
"THIS IS NOT FUNNY, SAM!" you hissed, still clutching his arm. "WE ARE IN A METAL TUBE IN THE SKY AND IT JUST DROPPED!"
"It was like two feet, honey." Sam managed to gasp out. "t'was barely a drop!"
"IT FELT LIKE A THOUSAND FEET!"
The plane dropped again, and this time you actually shrieked, throwing yourself across Dean and practically climbing into his lap. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you so tightly that you could barely breathe, and you could feel his heart hammering against his chest.
"Okay, okay, okay," Dean muttered, more to himself than to you. "We're fine. We're fine. Just breathe. Just-"
The plane hit another pocket of turbulence, and you both screamed again.
Sam was crying with laughter now, clutching his stomach and gasping for air. "Oh my God," he wheezed. "I can't- I can't breathe—"
"THIS ISN'T FUNNY!" you yelled, your voice cracking. "WE COULD DIE!"
"We're not going to die." Sam managed to choke out. "It's just turbulence! It's completely normal!"
"I DON'T CARE IF IT'S NORMAL! I HATE IT!"
"I HATE IT TOO!" Dean agreed. "I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS!"
"OKAY, OKAY, WE'RE GOING TO DIE!"
Sam was literally doubled over now, his face red, tears streaming down his cheeks. "You two are the most dramatic people I have ever met—"
"Dramatic?!" you screeched. "We're not dramatic! We're justified in our fear!"
"EXTREMELY JUSTIFIED!" Dean added up.
The turbulence finally subsided, and you and Dean slowly unclenched from each other, both of you breathing heavily. Your hair was a mess—the bow Sam had carefully put in your hair was now crooked and half-falling out—and Dean's leather jacket was twisted at an odd angle.
"Are you two okay?" Sam asked, finally getting his laughter under control. "Kid? Dean?"
"m'fine," you said, your voice still a little shaky. "just fine."
"You're crying."
You reached up and touched your face, surprised to find that there were indeed tears on your cheeks. "Oh. Yeah. I guess I-" A hiccup escaped you. "I guess I am."
"Here." Sam reached across Dean and gently dabbed at your cheeks with the sleeve of his flannel. "There. All better."
"Thanks, Sam."
"Anytime, honey."
You leaned back in your seat, taking a deep breath. Your heart was still racing, but the terror had faded to a dull anxiety. Beside you, Dean was doing the same, running a hand through his hair and muttering under his breath.
"You good, Dean?" you asked softly.
"I'm fine, sweetheart. Just… give me a minute."
"We still have like two hours left."
"Then I'll need more than a minute."
You couldn't help it. A laugh bubbled up out of you, high and bright and a little hysterical. Dean looked at you, and after a moment, he started laughing too.
Sam watched the two of you, shaking his head with a fond smile. "I don't know whether to hug you both or smack you both."
"Both," you and Dean said simultaneously. "Definitely both."
The rest of the flight was relatively uneventful. There were a few more pockets of turbulence, each one sending you and Dean into a fresh spiral of panic, but for the most part, you managed to keep it together.
By the time the plane began its descent, you were exhausted. Your eyes were heavy, your body ached from the tension, and you were pretty sure you had a headache forming behind your eyes.
But you were alive. You had survived.
"Okay," Dean said as the plane touched down on the runway. "Okay. We did it. We made it. We're alive."
"We're alive." you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.
"We made it."
"We made it."
"Alright, you two," Sam said, standing up and grabbing his bag from the overhead compartment. "Let's get off this plane before you both have nervous breakdowns."
"I'm already having a nervous breakdown," you admitted.
"Same." Dean agreed.
They made their way through the terminal, Dean gripping your hand like he was afraid you'd float away if he let go. His grip was still tight, bordering on painful, but you didn't complain. You needed the grounding as much as he did.
And then, just as you reached the baggage claim, you saw him.
Castiel.
He was standing near the escalator, trenchcoat flapping around his ankles, looking exactly as out of place as he always did. His head was tilted slightly to the side, his expression one of mild confusion as he watched the masses of people streaming past him.
"Cas!" Sam called out, waving. "Over here!"
Castiel's eyes found you, and he immediately started walking over. His face was still its usual mask of stoicism, but there was something softer in his eyes as he took in the sight of you.
"Did you teleport here?" Sam asked, and Castiel nodded.
"It is more efficient than the current human methods of transportation, though I do not recommend it for extended periods. The molecular displacement can be... disorienting."
"You have no idea.." you muttered, and Castiel's eyes immediately zeroed in on you.
His head tilted, and his gaze swept over you with increasing concern. Your hair was a disaster, your shirt was rumpled from being used as Dean's personal stress ball. Your face was pale, your eyes were red-rimmed, and you were sporting a little tremor.
"You appear distressed."
"Yeah, no shit sherlock." Was Dean's snorted out reply.
"Dean, you look similarly distressed." Castiel observed, turning to look at the elder Winchester. "Your coloring is off, and you appear to be experiencing some form of muscle tension. Are you injured?"
"I'm fine," Dean said automatically. "We're fine. Everything's fine."
"You are clearly not fine," Castiel said, and there was that particular tone in his voice—the one that suggested he was about to do something unexpectedly thoughtful and caring in the most awkward way possible. "You have been subjected to some form of trauma. I can sense it. Your heart rates are elevated, your endocrine systems are in a state of distress, and you-" He stopped, his eyes widening slightly. "You have been in fear. Both of you. There is still residual fear in your vessels."
"Wow, Cas," Dean said flatly. "Way to call us out."
"I am not calling you out. I am expressing concern." Castiel stepped closer to you, his expression shifting into something that could only be described as deeply, profoundly, almost comically paternal. "You are distressed, young one. I can see it in your posture, your countenance, your hair is disheveled, your clothes are askew, your eyes are red and puffy. You appear to have been crying."
"Uh…" You exchanged a glance with Dean, who shrugged helplessly. "It was a rough flight?"
"Rough flight?" Castiel repeated, his head tilting further. "The plane appeared to land without incident. I observed the entire descent. It was, by all accounts, a smooth landing."
"It's not the landing that was the problem," Sam said, barely suppressing a grin. "It was the flight itself."
"Ah." Castiel nodded sagely, as if this explanation made perfect sense. "They are afraid of flying."
"Terrified," Dean confirmed. "Absolutely terrified."
Castiel turned back to you, and his expression softened even further. It was remarkable, really, how much emotion he could convey with just a slight shift in his features.
He reached out and placed a hand on your head, patting it with a careful, deliberate gentleness that was somehow both ridiculous and deeply touching. "There, there, dear child. The flight is over. You are safe now. Be at ease."
And the thing was: he said it so seriously. So earnestly. So completely, utterly, sincerely committed to the act of comforting you that the sheer absurdity of it, this angel of the Lord, this being of celestial power and might, patting your head and telling you to "be at ease" like you were a frightened puppy, finally broke through all the fear and tension and stress that had been building since they'd first set foot in the airport.
"Cas," you said, your voice wavering. "Cas, what are you doing?"
"I am comforting you," he said, his tone completely earnest. "Is this not how humans comfort one another?"
"I mean, kind of? But-" You tried to hold back the laughter, you really did. But it bubbled up anyway, spilling out of you in helpless giggles. "You're just—you're patting my head like I'm a puppy."
"Is that not what you would like?
"No! I mean-" You laughed again, the sound bright and happy, chasing away the last of your fear. "I appreciate the thought, Cas. Really. But you're being so serious about it!"
"Comfort is a serious matter," Castiel said, still patting your head. "I take my duties as your guardian angel very seriously."
"Of course you do." You laughed again, and this time it was more tears than laughter, streaming down your cheeks in a mix of exhaustion and joy. "Of course you do."
You started laughing. It was a wet, hiccupy sound, half-laugh and half-sob, and you were crying even as you laughed, tears streaming down your cheeks as you threw your arms around Castiel and hugged him tightly.
"Missed you."
"I missed you too," Castiel said, and there was something that sounded almost like surprise in his voice, as if he hadn't expected to be hugged. But his arms came up to return the embrace, patting your back with that same careful, deliberate gentleness. "I am glad to see you as well, young one."
"No! I mean—" You laughed again, the sound bright and happy, chasing away the last of your fear. "I appreciate the thought, Cas. Really. But you're being so serious about it!"
"Comfort is a serious matter," Castiel said, still patting your head. "I take my duties as your guardian angel very seriously."
"Of course you do." You laughed again, and this time it was more tears than laughter, streaming down your cheeks in a mix of exhaustion and joy. "Of course you do."
"It is good to see you laugh," Castiel observed. "Even if I do not entirely understand why you are laughing."
Castiel looked down at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in something that might have been a smile.
"I am glad you are safe," he said softly. "I would have been… distressed if anything had happened to you."
"Nothing happened, Cas. I'm fine. We're all fine." You glanced at Dean, who was still looking a little pale but had finally loosened his death grip on your hand. "Dean's fine too. Mostly."
"I am not-" Dean said flatly. "I am traumatized. I'm going to need at least three beers to recover from this."
"Alcohol is not the solution." Castiel said.
"But it's definitely a solution."
"It is not."
"It is."
"It is not."
"It is!"
Sam watched the scene unfold with a soft smile on his face. Dean had finally let go of Sam's hand, and the circulation was slowly returning to his fingers. The big brother was standing off to the side, trying to look unaffected by the entire experience, but Sam could see the way his shoulders had relaxed now that they were on solid ground, the way his hand was still slightly trembling from all the adrenaline.
"Cas?" Sam said, and the angel broke his gaze away from your elder brother's. "You want to tell us what you know about the case? We should probably get to it."
"Later." Castiel said firmly. "First, the young one requires comfort. She has experienced a traumatic event. Her vessel is in distress."
"Her vessel is just fine—"
"Her vessel is in distress," Castiel repeated, and there was a note of finality in his voice that brooked no argument. "I will provide comfort and reassurance. You will wait until her equilibrium has been restored. This is not negotiable."
Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked at Sam with an expression that clearly said, What the hell is happening right now?
Sam just shrugged, still smiling. "The angel says we wait. So we wait."
"I am simply providing necessary emotional support to a member of my flock."
"She's not a sheep, Cas."
"Metaphorically, she is. And I have labelled myself as her guardian angel. This is part of the job description." He looked down at you, still wrapped in his arms, and his face softened. "She is under my protection. I will ensure her comfort and safety. This is my purpose."
You looked up at him, still teary-eyed but smiling, and Castiel's own lips twitched in what might have been a smile.
"Thank you, Cas," you whispered. "For coming to get us. For being here."
"I will always be here," Castiel said, and the words were so earnest, so completely without irony, that Sam felt his own heart warm. "I am your guardian angel. This is what I do."
"You really do call yourself that?" Dean asked, and Castiel nodded.
"Yes. It seemed appropriate. She is young, she requires protection, and I am an angel. The title fits."
"It is pretty cute," Sam admitted, and Dean shot him a look.
"I am not weird. I am celestial. There is a difference."
"There really isn't, Cas."
Castiel looked like he was about to argue, but then you hugged him again, your arms tightening around his waist, and all the fight went out of him. He just stood there, patting your head with that same careful gentleness, looking like the world's most awkward but well-meaning guardian angel.
"Fine," Dean said, rolling his eyes but not able to keep the smile off his face. "Fine. We'll wait. But I'm getting pie first. Pie fixes everything. Even angel-induced weirdness."
"That is not scientifically accurate—"
"Shut up, Cas. You don't know anything about the healing properties of pie."
Castiel opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked down at you with a question in his eyes. You just laughed, the sound bright and clear and utterly without fear, and shrugged.
"I don't know, Cas. Dean might be right about this one."
"I am always right about pie. It's basically my only redeeming quality."
"That's not true, Dean," Sam said, and the sincerity in his voice made Dean look away, feeling a little exposed. "You've got more than just one redeeming quality."
"Yeah, well. Whatever. Let's go get pie. And then we can work the case. And then we can never, ever talk about this flight again."
"Agreed," you said fervently. "It never happened. We drove. We drove the whole way and it was fine and Dean didn't scream like a little girl and I didn't cry and we were both very, very brave."
"You definitely cried." Sam said, and you and Dean both shot him identical glares.
"Nope. We all agreed it never happened. You're getting whatever pie you want, Sam. Even weird healthy pie. Just don't talk about the flight."
"I don't want healthy pie. I want normal pie."
"That's what I'm offering! Normal pie! All the pie! Just stop talking about the flight!"
Sam laughed, and it was the good kind of laugh, the kind that came from a place of pure, uncomplicated joy. His family was ridiculous—a terrified pair of siblings who would rather face down demons than get on a plane, an angel who pat their sister's head and called himself her guardian, and himself, stuck in the middle of all of it, loving every ridiculous moment.
"Fine," he said. "We never flew. We teleported. Cas teleported us all here."
"That is not true," Castiel said. "I did not teleport you. I was not present for-"
"Cas, buddy, we don't know what that word means, we just teleported. Okay? We teleported. It was great. No planes involved. We didn't know what planes were until right now. Planes are new to us."
"That is also not true-"
"Castiel," Sam said, and his voice was perfectly serious. "We teleported. We definitely teleported. There was no plane involved. It was magic. Angel magic. You taught us."
Castiel blinked, looking between the three of them with mounting confusion. Then, slowly, a look of understanding dawned on his face. "You are being humorous."
"Yes, Cas. We're being humorous."
"I do not understand human humor. I have attempted to learn, but it seems-"
"Don't worry about it, Cas," you said, patting his chest. "We love you anyway."
And Castiel, who had been through so much, who had died and been resurrected and fought and lost and won and lost again, just looked at you and smiled. It was a real smile, small and tentative but genuine.
someone get me home i am not going to step foot on a plane ever again. yes, waiter! another round of THE COUPLE TJAT IM STAYING WITH THAT'S MY FSMILY SCREAMING AT EACV OTHER WITH A BABY CRYING AND THEM MAKING ME BUY THEM ALL WATER BOTTLES AND FOOD INSTEAD OF BUYING THEM THEMSELVES AND COMPLAINING THAT I CAN'T CARRY ENOUGH LUGGAGE WHEN I'M WEARING MY BAG, HOLDING THE TRAVEL THING WITH WHEELS, HOLDING THE DOG CARRIER AND CARRYING ANOTHER BAG ON MY SHOULDER.
sorry for the rant i am stressed out. my apologiesie.
he the only thing holding me together now, Sabre and I against the world it seems I AM ON A TAXI, ALONE, GOING TO THE CAPITAL CITY'S MAIN TRAIN STATION, ALONE, TO RIDE A TRAIN FOR THE FIRST TIME, ALONE. I AM GOING TO COMMIT SEVERAL DEGREES OF MURDER INCLUDING THE ONE TO ONESELF.
someone get me home i am not going to step foot on a plane ever again. yes, waiter! another round of THE COUPLE TJAT IM STAYING WITH THAT'S MY FSMILY SCREAMING AT EACV OTHER WITH A BABY CRYING AND THEM MAKING ME BUY THEM ALL WATER BOTTLES AND FOOD INSTEAD OF BUYING THEM THEMSELVES AND COMPLAINING THAT I CAN'T CARRY ENOUGH LUGGAGE WHEN I'M WEARING MY BAG, HOLDING THE TRAVEL THING WITH WHEELS, HOLDING THE DOG CARRIER AND CARRYING ANOTHER BAG ON MY SHOULDER.
sorry for the rant i am stressed out. my apologiesie.
the stress that comes from a flight being fucking OVERBOOKED doesn't compare to snything I've felt. finally sat down on my seat, my family scattered over the plane, and i lowkey feel like im gonna pass out during the flight 🤍
I like how you give details whenever you explain things to back up your reasoning, it makes it easy to understand and I think it’s really neat that you’re so good at it
omg thank u smmm, im so glad, this means a lot to me u are very sweet<3333
Why are you purple like those purple minions from despicable me in your portrait....
LMAOOO FUNNY COMPARISON THAT I ACTUALLY LOVE! but yeah it's a creative portrait. i draw myself purple because of a dead girl walking going on feeling, i often feel extremely detached from my body and also lowkey have had close calls with death, so ir just resonates to me! also it's an artistic choice to match the color pallete and differenciate my creative portraits/sonas from my actual self as i often use this specific representation to project/convey some feelings<3
