my inbox is always open if you want to reach out! i do have a full time job & take online classes, so my responses may be slow during the day but iâd love to talk to yall <3
An Honest Review of SweetDream's Lifelike Companion Photos
Let me be straight about my bias going in: I find most AI girlfriend photos slightly off-putting. There's usually a tell, the waxy skin, the too-perfect symmetry, the sense that no real camera was ever involved. That expectation is exactly why my time on sweetdream.ai stuck with me. The images cleared the uncanny-valley bar that trips up most of the field, and they did it repeatedly, not just once.
The strongest mark in this review is reliability. I generated photo after photo and the character stayed herself, same features, same personality showing through the expression, same look I'd carefully built during creation. Plenty of platforms can fake one good shot; staying convincing across a whole set is the real test, and SweetDream passed it more often than not.
Photos aside, the rest of the experience supports the verdict. The chat is natural and remembers what matters to you, the voice messages and live calls sound genuinely human, and your conversations and content stay private. Judged honestly and feature by feature, SweetDream earns the title of best AI companion platform, and the visual realism is the proof point that makes the case stick.
the second he feels like he's allowed ilya is like i'm going to boyfriend harder than anyone has ever boyfriended ever. win boyfriend olympics. boyfriend hall of fame. watch the fuck out hollander.
Reminder that, AI doesnât randomly sprout random words, they are trained based on stolen works made by humans. Most AI companies do not care about asking or even crediting writers from whom theyâre stealing. Promoting an industry that steals from writers and put it under a tag where most fics are made from humans and was created to promote real writers is lowkey crazy.Â
Itâs not even just companies, there are people here who stole paragraphs from fanfics to put them in their character ai prompt.
And the generative AI industry is very destructive for the planet (summer is getting hotter each year for mafia boss rp to existđââïžđ„) and by extension our lives, not saying that other apps are better for the planet, but at least you can support real writers and not billionaires only.
Or write fics yourself, so you donât pollute each time you ask AI to redo a sentence. âBut Iâm bad at writingâ literally every writers said that, just make it exist first you will make it good later, learn your style, what you like to write and you will eventually create at least one thing you will be proud of. Itâs difficult for everyone but creating things you wish existed is worth it. And believe me that there are people here who would love to see what you write, diversity in fics community is a need. You can do it people âŒïž
contains: mark of cain/the fight with cain mention, takes place right after the fight with cain episode, deanâs a little self loathing but what else is new, mild cursing
faint music intertwined with the low rumble of the impala as sam drove back to the bunker. cas sat in the passenger seat, while you and dean took the backseat. the silence felt deafening, tense, like you were still standing outside the barn beside castiel, crowley, and sam. waiting to see who- or what- emerged from the fight against cain.
dean, surprisingly, didnât put up a fight about letting sam drive and got into the backseat silently. you climbed in after him and you couldnât help but study him. his arms were crossed over his chest, body turned towards the window, eyes looking at the vast darkness outside.
you tried to close your eyes and let sleep take over, but you were restless. you couldnât get that image out of your mind- dean walking out of the barn, beat up and bloody, terror in his eyes. the way he collapsed into sam the moment crowley had disappeared, how he couldnât look at you. heâd been uncharacteristically quiet since and your heart ached for him.
you felt someone looking at you and you opened your eyes. sam and cas were looking ahead, talking quietly to each other and you turned to dean, green eyes meeting your own. you couldnât see him well in the darkness, the moon and occasional gas station on the side of the road being the only light, but you could make out his outline. the way he had shifted just enough, an invitation.
you scooted across the backseat, tucking yourself into deanâs side with a content sigh. dean was tense as his arm settled around your shoulders, and you rested your head on deanâs chest. his heartbeat was steady, comforting. dean let out a slow, shaky breath and you could feel him relax the longer you laid with him. you held his hand in yours, your thumb rubbing gentle circles, and your eyes fluttered close as you fell asleep.
you woke up to the dim lighting in the bunker, carried bridal style in deanâs arms. a sleepy noise left you and dean shushed you. âiâve got you. back to sleep.â you snuggled closer to dean, turning your head to press a kiss to deanâs shoulder and quickly fell back into a dreamless sleep.
it was still dark when you woke up again, bed empty. you frowned as you got up, and you grabbed deanâs discarded jacket, putting it on as you began to look for him. you found him in the kitchen, the smell of booze lingering in the air as he stared at the coffee pot like it held the answers to the universe.
you walked over to join him, hopping onto the kitchen counter. neither of you spoke for a minute, the silence just shy of comfortable. you knew he wanted to talk- needed to, more like- so you sat and waited. giving him time to think of what he would say.
âi fought it,â dean began. his voice was rough with exhaustion, anger mixed in. âi tried so hard to ignore the mark, how every part of my body was screaming at me to stop holding back during that fight. and it still wasnât enough.â dean met your eyes then, rimmed red with tears he couldnât let fall. âi canât get him out of my head.â
dean stepped into your space and you welcomed him. he stood between your legs and you leaned up, wrapping him in a tight hug. âyou did so well,â you soothed. dean shook his head and you frowned. âyou controlled yourself fighting the same man you gave you that mark, dean. you warned us about who may walk out of that fight, but all i saw was you. and iâm so proud of you.â
dean pulled away and you watched him. âyou shouldnât be,â he said as he turned away. âsaid i was living his life in reverse. said how i was gonna kill everyone left in my life. crowley, cas, sammy, you.â deanâs voice broke. you slid off the counter and took a step towards him.
âhe also said heâd be the one to kill you, and he didnât. you survived that fight.â a stretch of silence passed.
âdonât think you can say that. think a big part of me died once i got this damn mark.â dean gripped the counter, eyes staring at something you couldnât see. âi donât know how you can even look at me anymore.â
you couldnât take it anymore. you stepped into deanâs space, standing right in front of him. âhey, look at me.â dean struggled to meet your gaze and you gently cupped his cheek in your hand. âthere he is.â
âi tried so hard to be good,â dean whispered. âto be more than some, some weapon. i donât want that to be all iâm good at, butâŠâ dean trailed off as he pulled you into his chest.
âyouâre more than some weapon.â your voice was quiet, gentle. dean didnât speak, but he was listening. âyou are so much more than that, anyone who truly knows you would say that. youâre a protector. you care and feel so much, even in a world that keeps showing you how awful it can be.â
âyouâre the type of person to get me a snack for the road that i mentioned months ago just because you saw it in the store. the type who drives with the music quieter when samâs in the car because it can give him a headache. the type who explains anything castiel doesnât understand whenever he asks, even if it turns into a thirty minute discussion.â you smiled when you heard a ghost of a laugh leave dean. âthereâs so much good in you, even after all the shit youâve been dealt. i donât get how you do it, but god, dean, i am so proud of you.â
dean didnât say much after that. didnât think he could trust his own voice to respond. but he held you there for a few more minutes, letting you be the support system he needed. the one he always tried to be for other people. eventually, he let you lead him back to bed.
you stayed in bed for a long time, and you were happy to let him get the sleep he desperately needed. and when dean woke, he noticed you watching him with that look in your eyes. that same loving look you gave him when you first got together, and somehow, it felt even stronger now. even through all the shit, you hadnât wavered. your love for him had grown, not shaken by his growing self-loathing.
eventually, heâd believe he was worthy of that look in your eyes. for tonight? heâd let you hold him close and trust that he could just⊠be.
you save clark from the pocket dimension and bring him home.
title based on something lana lang once said on smallville. shout out james gunn for making me care about all the superman lore.
word count: 3k (this was supposed to be a quick blurb but i went bonkers apparently)
»»ââââ-ăâĄăââââ-««
you hadn't been to smallville before.
you never really had a reason to. it's nice, all things considered. though you haven't seen much of it outside of the kent family farmhouse, a couple of cows out in the field. the house is warm, though, worn-in and comfortable and real. you like it.
you'd like it a lot more, though, if clark wasn't currently lying unconscious across from you in his childhood bedroom.
you, martha, and jonathan had all but dragged him up here from the t-craft earlier this evening, you honestly have no idea how long ago. it felt like hours, but that probably wasn't right.
clark was out cold almost immediately, muttering something that distressed the kents before he lost consciousness. they fretted over him as you sunk back against the wall, feeling like you were intruding but also definitely incapable of walking out.
at some point, later, martha insists you stay the night at the farm, "you can't go flying that big old whatever around at this time of night, anyway," and you agree, because you're worried about clark and also because you're dead tired down to your bones.
the kents are nice. of course they are. you've seen the product of their parenting, the kind of son they raised. but still, they manage to surprise you with it once you're on the receiving end. they're just good people.
at one point you think martha tried to get you to come down to the kitchen, probably offering you something, and you think, embarrassingly, that you'd asked her if you could stay here with clark for a little while longer.
she and jonathan had shuffled out, martha insisting that they're going to make up the couch for you, it's no trouble, they won't take no for an answer, you just come down when you're ready and it'll be all set up for you.
you're sure you'll fall asleep on the next surface you lay your head on, and you don't want her to put herself out for you, but you can't make yourself say the words. you just nod, trying to look appreciative, though you feel sort of hollowed out on the inside.
it's been a little bit since you heard them moving about in the house. they must've gone to bed by now.
you should go too, probably. clark really just needs to sleep this off. if his parents felt okay leaving the room, you reason with yourself, then so should you.
you stand from the desk chair you don't recall sitting down in, tucked in a corner of his room, with the intention of leaving. your body betrays you, though, bringing you closer to him rather than out the door.
you sigh at the foot of clark's bed, staring down at his massive sleeping form atop the tiny twin bed. you came to get me, he'd said. like he couldn't believe it.
of course you came to get him. how could you not?
your chest tightens as you look at him, still fully clad in his superman suit, the cape spread out beneath him. he's so beautiful, so solid, so good.
you're seized by the memory of your fear, the desperation you felt standing next to mr. terrific in that portal to the pocket universe. you'd felt so helpless, relying on the few words mr. terrific spoke aloud, unable to see what he was seeing, unable to see clark, as the fabric of the pocket dimension crushed in around you.
suddenly you need to look away, anywhere else. your eyes search the room for something, anything to distract you, landing on his poster of the mighty crabjoys.
god, he would have a giant poster of the most terrible band hanging in his high school bedroom. you remember the conversation where you'd made fun of him for liking their sound, his earnest defense of their musical prowess. that feels like weeks ago now.
and here are the mighty crabjoys themselves, in smallville, staring back at you triumphantly while clark lies motionless a few feet away.
you almost laugh. you feel it rising hysterical in your throat and you have to place a hand over your mouth to force it back down.
god, you're fried.
you turn away from the poster, wandering over to clark's diplomas, his collection of cd's, his trophies. smallville high. iron & wine. debate club winner, science fair scholar. little things you didn't know about him but they make so much sense, fill in the puzzle that is clark kent with such perfect clarity that it makes you dizzy.
yeah, you can't be in his room anymore.
you will yourself to move this time, stopping at clark's side to turn off his bedside lamp before you go. and maybe also to allow yourself one more look at him. call you weak or masochistic or painfully down bad, or all of the above.
even in sleep, clark's brow creases slightly with the memory of a frown. his skin looks normal again, what you can see of it, the physical remnants of his kryptonite poisoning already fading, thank god. you remember how heavily he'd leaned against you in the t-craft, how he could barely hold up his own weight. you'd never seen him weak before.
sure, you'd seen him injured. you've worried for his safety ever since you found out that he was superman. but you only ever really had to be concerned about his pain, his very temporary pain. you'd never truly considered that you could lose him.
not until today.
it's all too much. too real. you love clark in a way that breaks you apart and stitches you back together again. not like a friend. not like a coworker.
you wish you weren't such a coward.
you should've told him how you felt and let him turn you down. he'd do it nicely, at least, that much you know. he wouldn't hold it against you. he'd still be your friend. and at least then you would know. and then, maybe, you could find a way to move on.
you click off the light and the room plunges into darkness.
the dark is different out here, in smallville. not the same kind of darkness you get in the city, with it's streetlamps and blocks upon blocks of apartment buildings. out there, you're never more than a mile from another person.
smallville's darkness is deeper. quieter. the kent farm stretches out, still and stoic in every direction.
for a moment you freeze, your bearings completely lost. for some reason, you hold your breath, too.
and then you let it go. the door is only two steps to your left, you remember. there's nothing blocking your path.
and you almost make it out silently.
two things happen at once; you step on that one goddamned squeaky floorboard just as you're reaching for the doorknob, and in the blackness you miscalculate the distance and ram your knuckles directly into the brass of it. it's not enough to really hurt, but the sound of bone on brass in the quiet room was practically deafening. you freeze again, hoping against hope that clark slept through it, somehow.
"hey," he says, soft and croaky, from behind you.
shit.
"sorry, i wasâ" you start, but you're cut off by the sound of the bed creaking under clark's weight as he sits up. "don'tâ i was just leaving," you rush the words out as you hear his boots make contact with the floor. "you need to rest."
"come here," he says, ignoring your protests. his voice is still so soft from sleep, his tone just shy of pleading. "sit with me."
"where?" you breathe on a laugh, taking a blind step forward. "you barely fit on this bed by yourself."
"ha-ha." his outstretched hand reaches you, guides you by your forearm without smacking your body into any more objects.
you sink down next to him, leaning in involuntarily with the way the mattress dips deep under his weight.
he doesn't say anything, just sits next to you, the warmth of his body radiating into yours. his shoulder brushes yours on every inhale. just barely, just a whisper of a touch, altogether too much and not enough.
"clarkâŠ" you breathe, "you really should be resting. i didn't mean to wake you, i was just goingâ"
"don't go." he says it like it's simple. "i'm fine. i'll even lie down if it'll make you feel better."
he doesn't wait for an answer, the solidness of his body disappearing from yours as he rests back against the pillow, and it doesn't make you feel better at all. he has to turn his hips a little bit, his feet and ankles hanging off the mattress because you were right, of course, you can't both fit like this.
your vision's adjusted just enough to make out the vaguest shape of him now, the outline of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw.
"i was only going to the couch," you clarify, a little bit of a smile taking over by force.
"oh," he breathes. "you're staying?"
why does he sound so hopeful? you can't stand this man. you wish again that you'd gotten out of the room unscathed. this felt like burning.
"of course, clark," you tell him, your voice betraying you.
he sighs, relieved. melts into the mattress in a way that you can feel.
god, why does he do that? react to you like that. it's not fair.
"don't sleep on the couch," he begs. "stay here with me."
there's a beat of silence as his words sink in. the air in the room thickens around you. you want so badly to say yes and you also know completely that you can't.
"clark, this isn't a game." your laugh is disbelieving, like you're admonishing a child, almost.
your head spins. you hadn't meant to say that. hadn't meant to make it sound like that. what was this conversation even about? why were you having it?
"i'm not playing," he says. you can hear the frown in his voice, the genuine confusion behind it.
no, of course he's not playing. he just doesn't get it.
it must be something about the darkness. something about the pitch black room and the steady rise and fall of clark's chest as he breathes and the fact that you can't see the way he looks at you, that makes it so much easier to say the things you've been too afraid to say.
at least, that's how you rationalize it to yourself, because why else would you say what you're about to say to him?
"you can't⊠you can't just say things like that to me, clark. you can't ask me to⊠i can't sleep in here. with you. it's not fair."
"what are you talking about?"
he shifts back up against the headboard, sitting taller. one of his hands comes to rest over yours, his palm wide and warm as it spans the back of yours.
you jerk your hand back before you can become powerless to the warmth of him, the way every touch of his skin ignites heat within yours.
"iâ" you falter, release a shuddering breath, "i could've lost you today, clark. and i can't lose you. you're my favorite person." it comes out in a whisper.
"you're my favorite person, too," he argues, confusion coursing through him in a way that almost feels like anger. you became his favorite person barely a week after he met you. he doesn't understand why you're saying this like it's something bad.
"yeah, clark, but i want you." your voice chokes out at the end, the hurt cracking through.
oh, you shouldn't have said that. you shouldn't be saying any of this.
the weight of it hangs heavy between you, the intensity crackling on the air. you want him in every way a person can, you think you've known it since the first time you ever saw him. but no matter how much a friendship with clark could give youâ and he gives a lot; it's just who he isâ you've always, always wanted more.
he's silent, like he's waiting, and you're not sure you have anything else to offer him. you've already given up too much.
maybe this is just a dream. in the dark, you can almost convince yourself. he's here and you're here, playing versions of yourselves that don't exist anywhere else, and maybe when you wake up tomorrow they'll have faded back into nothing.
"i know it's just me," you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut against the embarrassment. "i'm reading into things. you probably look at everyone the same way you look at me, and y'know, you think everyone's beautiful, and iâ" and i love that about you, you almost say. "and that's great, but i can't handle it, okay?" god, you're rambling. "i'm sorry if that makes things too weird for yâ"
he's shaking.
no, that can't be right. he's⊠laughing?
"are you actually laughing at me right now?"
"i'm sorry, i'm really sorry, you're just so incredibly incorrect, it's a little insane," he says.
your mouth drops open, dumbfounded.
"but not funny," he self-corrects, shaking his head.
you can see the expression on his face even though you can't really see it; his mouth set, dimples showing just a little bit. completely full of shit.
"no, clark, not funny!"
"no, gosh, you're right. i'm sorry. i just really like you," he explains, one hand gesturing in your direction. "i thought it was completely obvious."
"are you fucking serious?"
"what, i thought you could tell! i'm not that nice to everyone!"
"yes, you literally are!"
"really?" he asks, and his voice is a little brighter. a little proud.
"yes, reallyâ" you sputter, "is this really the moment for that?"
"no, you're right, honey, i'm sorry." he reaches for your hand again, tentatively, like he's asking permission. this time, you grant it. "i really am."
honey. "you're so evil," you whisper, your tired brain trying desperately to play catch up.
"well, that's not very nice."
"no, you are. i was being all sad and broody and mentally preparing for us to have a very awkward conversation about friendship and boundaries and instead you're laughingâ"
"friendship and boundaries," he spits back the words like they offend him. like they have thorns. "look where you are right now! my parents are literally down the hall!" he whisper-yells.
"that'sâ that is notâ" well. it is kind of damning, actually. clark may be too trusting for his own good, but his home address isn't exactly something he advertises. "okay, but you didn't have to laugh!"
"i have been poisoned, very recently," he argues, voice pitching high again, "in case you forgot."
you breathe out, slowly and completely, covering your face with your free hand. "i did kind of forget that. it's been a very long weird day."
"yeah, tell me about it."
he squeezes your hand once. a reassurance. it sends shivers down your spine, unhelpfully.
"for the record, i would have liked to have gone about this differently," he says, and you feel the movement of air as he gestures between you. "this is not how i was going to do it."
that gets an eyebrow raise out of you. "you were going to do something?"
he shifts a second, voice going a little squeaky when he answers, "i may or may not have had plans."
"'may or may not have'?" you question, reporter voice coming out involuntarily. the smile taking over your face is completely enamored and also completely out of your control.
"okay, the record is now closed," clark states, a whisper of a flush creeping up his neck.
"uh-huh. well, i will be filing an injunction to re-open the record, i hope you know."
"i would expect nothing less. but the courts don't open back up til monday, so," he finishes, clearing his throat a little, awkward and bumbling and so gorgeously clark.
"guess i'll wait," you breathe, still smiling, and he huffs a sort of relieved, airy laugh.
he lifts your hand then, kisses the back of your fingers, savors the little giggle that escapes from you.
"now will you please," he puts great emphasis on the word please, "get over here?"
you let him pull you closer, mind reeling, and succumb to the warmth of his arms around you.
he just holds you for a while, your cheek pressed to his chest, body halfway on top of his, legs tangled.
he shifts you after a while, and you end up on your side with clark curled up behind you, the cape of his superman suit fanned out over your lower body like a blanket. his arm settles heavy around your waist, grounding you, almost pulling you under.
"i can't stay up here, clark," you whisper before you're too far gone. "your mom made up the couch for me. what if i come off as disrespectful?"
"oh, she'll be fine with it," his voice rumbles low against your hair. "don't let her fool you. she's a mush, too."
you hum, unsurprised. "you never had a chance, huh, kent?"
he just smiles, eyes still closed.
âËâčâĄ
bonus:
"so, you sleep in this suit?"
he squints one eye open, suspicious. "you trying to get me naked already? we haven't even kissed yet."
"no! i'm justâ you're so annoyingâ i justâ" you briefly short-circuit at his use of the word yet. "i just meant..."
"hmm?"
"i don't know. isn't it uncomfortable? your boots are still on."
"i knew it," he says, triumphant.
you sigh, powering through despite it all, "and you're probably covered in weird pocket dimension dirtâ"
"oh that is not a thingâ"
"âit could be! it could totally be a thing!"
"alright, alright, i'm taking it off," he says, groaning as he forces himself up.
truthfully, the suit was kind of uncomfortable. but he would've stayed in it all night if it meant he didn't have to separate himself from you.
"but i'm putting pajamas on! i won't indulge these perverted fantasies of yours," he says, wagging one finger in the air as he heads for the closet.
"oh my god."
you bury your face in both hands, simultaneously exasperated with his bit even as you feel your cheeks heat up from his teasing.
"m'not a pervert," you mumble, once he's finally returned to your side.
"course you're not. why would you even say that?" he asks, sliding back into bed with you. "weirdo."
you sigh again, annoyed and infatuated and exhausted. "you're lucky i like you," you say, already drifting a little, lulled immediately by the warmth of his body.
he's redressed in a simple soft t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and he smells like clean cotton and sun-warmed wood and, faintly, like some kind of baking spice. maybe clove. it's better than anything you could ever find in a bottle. he wraps his arms around you, drawing you in close against his chest, and you feel like you can finally breathe for the first time since you woke up this morning.
on my first watch of supernatural (crazy i know) and just finished season 9,,,,,, what the Hell
this has been such an insane show to watch though!! literally started in mid july, finished season 9 today and so far have seen Zero spoilers for the show so iâm totally going in blind. did not expect season 9 finale wtf
contains: this is just a fluffy get together fic tbh. love writing an oblivious in love castiel
âcas?â a knock on the angelâs door startled him, and he looked away from his television when he heard your voice.
âcome in,â castiel called and the door clicked open. you stood in his doorway, head tilting when you saw him. he knew he looked ridiculous right now, and he barely restrained the urge to hide under his blanket.
âyou feeling okay?â concern was the primary emotion he sensed in your tone, but there was a mix of amusement as well. âyou look how i did when i had that flu a few weeks ago.â you walked over and took a seat at castielâs side.
âaccording to dean, iâm sick.â you frowned at his words, and castiel watched as you leaned forward. you pressed the back of your hand to castielâs forehead and he wasnât proud of it, but he flinched before he relaxed into your touch.
âyou donât feel like you have a fever or anything. you actually feel pretty cool considering,â you gestured to the pile of blankets castiel had buried himself under. âwait, can you even get sick?â
âdean said i was lovesick. iâm sick of love.â castiel recognized a rapid variety of emotions flash through your eyes until you had smothered them all into a blank expression.
ââŠoh? what,â you cleared your throat, âwhat led you to that discovery?â
âwhen i look at y- someone,â castiel caught himself, âmy stomach feels weird. i always want to be around that person and it makes me âtwitchyâ according to dean when iâm not around them. but they also make me feel so much good. i feel deserving of good things because of them.â
your hand traveled to castielâs cheek, and there was a small smile on your lips. âyou are deserving, cas.â a brief pause. âhave you told this person youâre in love with them?â
castiel shook his head. âi canât. and now iâm lovesick.â a huff of laughter escaped you, and something castiel didnât recognized crossed your face.
âthereâs a cure to lovesickness, you know,â you said. castiel tilted his head.
âthere is?â you nodded. âwhat is it?â
âdo you trust me?â you asked. castiel nodded without hesitation.
âwith my life.â a shuddering breath left you and you gently nudged castielâs chin up with your hand. his eyes met yours and you leaned in, closer and closer until your lips were hovering over his own. castielâs eyes fluttered closed as your lips met his, and castielâs whole body felt as if it was ablaze.
your hands cupped his cheeks and castiel wasnât aware his hands had moved until he felt your waist against his hands. you pulled apart just a bit, enough to leave castiel feeling empty.
âi.. i felt better. when you kissed me.â you gave him a bright smile and that warmth filled castielâs entire being.
âthink you need a few more. still look a little lovesick to me.â castiel smiled, a small but sure thing, and he met you halfway this time.
you kissed him once, twice, countless times until you finally parted. you wormed your way under his pile of blankets and tucked yourself into his side. âthink i caught your lovesickness, cuddling also helps.â
â⧠yall loved my sam headcanons so letâs see how we treat dean.
â⧠we established sam is clingy in his relationships and i think dean could have been, if you know. john winchester had been normal.
â⧠i think dean wants to indulge in contact more, but i feel like heâs more transactional with it. but i donât mean him asking you for things. i think dean would rather take a bullet than ask you directly for anything.
â⧠news for dean though, dean isnât as subtle as he thinks he is. and you notice.
â⧠you notice how he sits a little too far back in the edge of the couch when he wants you to sit with him. you notice his slow movements when giving you your cup of coffee, claiming itâs to avoid spills when really, he just wants to hold your hand. you notice when itâs a busier case, his shoulders hurt him more and youâre always happy to give him with the contact he craves with a massage.
â⧠dean usually wasnât big on pda, preferring to keep contact in public brief- if he was out, he usually was on a hunt after all- and you respected that boundary. but behind the safety of the bunker? you were all. over. him.
â⧠you tried really hard to not be too much around sam, but you were like a leech with dean. any chance you got, you were making contact with him. that could be as simple as leaning against him as you caught up on lore in the library, or physically wriggling into his arms as he laid half asleep on the couch.
âpain in the ass,â dean mumbled yet shifted so youâd both be more comfortable. you pressed a kiss to his cheek, smiling against his stubble. âyou love me.â
â⧠dean didnât say those three words as often as you did. you told him that you loved him frequently, enough to cheapen it if it was anyone else. but with you? you meant it so deeply, it felt like the first time every time dean heard it.
â⧠while dean didnât verbalize it as often, you saw it every day in his actions. and you heard it now, his voice soft and laced with an overwhelming amount of devotion. you told him you loved him like you were drowning in love and had to get it out. dean told you he loved you like it was the last time he could say it.
helloo, i would love if you wrote a cas x pregnant! reader đ«¶đ»
the kid isn't Castiel's, obviously. she hunts with the Winchester brothers and Castiel met her when she was already pregnant (the baby daddy ran away after knocking her up).
since the due date was getting closer, Sam and Dean explicitly told her she couldn't keep hunting and had to stay in a safe place- and one day, Cas is there to look after her. just pure fluff. and also I think it would be very cute if Cas tried to feel the baby, putting his hands on reader's bellyđ«¶đ»
àŒàŒàż little kicks, big wings,
pairing. castiel x pregnant!reader ( f )
wordcount. 642 genre. soft fluff
warnings. pregnancy themes (reader is pregnant, not casâs child), fluff, domestic vibes, protective castiel, cas being adorably awkward with human things, belly touches, mentions of absent father.
notes. how god damn adorable is this idea!!! đ
The bunker feels quieter without Sam and Dean stomping around, arguing about lore or rifling through weapons. Too quiet, maybe. You shift on the couch, hands resting over your round belly, trying not to think about how restless youâve been since the boys benched you from hunts.
âYou must find this⊠disorienting.â
The low voice makes you jump, though you should be used to it by now. Castiel stands just a few feet away, his trench coat looking too heavy for the bunkerâs warmth. He tilts his head, eyes soft but probing.
âBeing sidelined,â he clarifies. âYour body no longer allowing you to do what youâre accustomed to.â
You laugh lightly, brushing a hand over your stomach. âYeah. Itâs weird, sitting around while theyâre out risking their lives. But I get it. Theyâre not wrongâIâd slow them down like this.â
Cas studies you, and for once he doesnât argue. Instead, he steps closer, lowering himself into the armchair opposite you with his usual stiff, careful movements. He laces his fingers, leans forward slightly. âYou are not slowing anyone down. You are⊠creating life. That is its own kind of strength.â
The words land heavier than you expect, pulling a warmth into your chest. You duck your head, smiling. âThatâs sweet, Cas. Thank you.â
Silence hums between you for a moment, broken only when you shift again, adjusting for comfort. Casâs gaze follows, and thenâalmost hesitantlyâhis eyes flicker toward your belly.
âMay I?â he asks suddenly.
You blink. âMay you⊠what?â
He gestures awkwardly with one hand. âPlace my hand⊠here.â His eyes dart back to yours, cautious. âOn the child.â
It takes you a second, but then your lips curl into a small smile. âYeah, of course. Come here.â
Cas moves with deliberate care, lowering himself onto the couch beside you. When you take his hand and guide it to rest against the swell of your stomach, his shoulders tense. Heâs still as stone, gaze locked on his palm as though the smallest twitch of your baby might be a sacred revelation.
âWait for it,â you murmur. âSheâs a kicker.â
He frowns slightly, processing. And thenâthere it is. A faint thump against his hand. Cas freezes, eyes going wide, lips parting like heâs just witnessed a miracle.
âSheâŠâ He breathes the word out, astonished. âShe moved.â
âYeah.â You grin, watching him more than your stomach. âShe does that a lot. Especially when someone new tries to feel her.â
Cas keeps his hand steady, reverent. âItâs⊠extraordinary. I can sense the grace of life, the spark of a soul. But thisââ Another tiny kick meets his palm, and his voice drops, hushed with awe. âThis is physical proof of it. A small being, not yet here, already asserting herself.â
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. Nobodyâs talked about your pregnancy like that before. Sam and Dean are protective, sure. But Casâhe sounds like heâs marveling at a piece of heaven.
âSheâs lucky, you know,â you say softly. âThat sheâll have people like you in her life.â
His eyes lift, piercing blue but warm. âIt is I who am fortunate. To be entrusted with even a fraction of her protection. Of yours.â
For a moment, the bunker doesnât feel so lonely. His hand is still against your belly, and the baby kicks again, strong enough to make you laugh. Cas doesnât laughâhe never doesâbut thereâs the faintest curl to his mouth, a ghost of a smile meant only for you.
âShe knows you already,â you whisper. âI think she likes you.â
Cas tilts his head, voice gentle. âI will like her, too. Very much.â
You lean your head back against the couch, a little teary, a little lighter. With Casâs hand warm over your belly and his steady presence filling the silence, it feelsâfor the first time in a long timeâlike everything might just be okay.
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this is so cute oh my god???? not usually a fan of the pregnancy trope but this was so sweet. cas, my shaylaaaaaa. (totally did not get emo over "cas doesn't laugh- he never does")
