Dean Winchester is amazing with kids — like, instinctively good. He can make a child laugh in two seconds flat, he knows how to drop his voice soft, how to kneel to their level, how to make them feel safe. Kids trust him without even thinking about it.
But being good with kids is totally different from believing he could ever be a dad.
And that’s where he struggles. Hard.
Dean grew up raising Sam while barely being a kid himself, dealing with monsters, violence, fear, and a father who meant well but gave them trauma instead of childhood. So the idea of bringing a child into the world with a hunter for a father? It terrifies him.
Not because he doesn’t want it.
Because he wants it too much.
He’d be the kind of guy who holds a baby and freezes for a second, because something in him softens and aches all at once. He’d be great at bedtime stories, pancakes at 2am, fixing broken toys with the same intensity he fixes the Impala.
But the guilt? The fear of repeating his childhood? It lingers in him like a scar.
He looks at kids and sees everything he never had — and everything he’s scared he can’t give.
Bolaire's body being killed in battle and Hal tenderly picking him up off of the unusable corpse and putting him on his own face so Bolaire isn't left behind.
Bolaire getting cracked or damaged as he is forcefully torn off his body in a fight, and Hal cradling him as he rushes him to Azune and begs Azune to mend him again.
Hal dying in battle and Bolaire refusing to let him stay down, ripping himself off his own body and attaching himself to Hal's until he can get him help.
Bolaire forcing Hal's body to breathe, trying to close the wounds with his and Hal's hands, trying to stop the bleeding, begging for Hal to stay with Hal's own mouth.
Hal being gone for good, and Bolaire refusing to let go of him. Thaisha begging for him to let Hal go and give him back so he can be buried and laid to rest, but Bolaire flees with Hal's body, wearing him until he's a shambling, crumbling husk, unable to let him go.
Hal's body finally giving out somewhere unseen, and Bolaire forced back into sleep as it does.
Bolaire demanding to be buried with Hal when Hal's body is retrieved.
Hello! Can you make a Smoke Headcannons? If you can add a NSFW section? Please and Thank you so much❤️
🀥 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 🀥
𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ➤ Elijah “Smoke” Moore
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ of course! here you go! enjoy!
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ emotional withdrawal, avoidance, fear of abandonment, rough sex, spit play, oral sex (implied), praise kink, control kink, black reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), light bondage (implied), overstimulation (implied), dirty talk, mirror play, and possessiveness. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐓𝐄, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃. it ain’t even always about food, really. elijah be pickin up lil things like the way your energy drop when you ain’t had enough protein or how your skin get extra dry when you been skippin meals outta stress. he won’t nag, never does—just slide through your apartment while you at work and stack your fridge up, leave post-its on the door sayin “don’t be stupid, eat sum.” if he there when you cookin, he always sit at the counter, rollin up slow and watchin you with that lazy-ass smirk, callin you “chef girlie” under his breath even when all you makin is some boxed mac and a baked chicken. he love seein you nourish yourself, ’specially when it’s for you and not just for him.
𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘. he ain’t grew up knowin what to do with curls, coils, edges, none of it—but the first time he seen you sittin on the floor between your homegirl’s knees gettin your scalp oiled, he ain’t say nothin for a good five minutes. just stared. then after that, he got quiet every time you brought out your bonnet or your wide-tooth comb. not cause he ain’t care—nah, cause he was tryin to learn. eventually, he started offerin to grease your scalp himself, real slow with his fingers, thumb pressin right where it felt good at the base. “this what you like, huh?” he’d ask, voice low, lips on your neck. he always kept his hands warm for you, too.
𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔. you could feel it in the way he moved when y’all fought—that sharp, clipped silence he slipped into, like he was already pullin away from you before you finished yellin. he ain’t say sorry unless he meant it, and sometimes he ain’t mean it, even when he hurt you. “i love you” ain’t stop his pride from showin up first, loud and reckless. but it was the way he looked at you after, like he ain’t know how to reach out but still wanted to. he always let you go if you needed to walk away, but he never moved from the spot you left him in.
𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓. he’d press you into the mattress real slow, hand wrapped firm around your jaw, thumb draggin over your bottom lip while his eyes stayed locked on yours. “you gon be good f’me, huh?” always a question, never a demand. but you could feel the weight of his voice in your chest, the way his fingers slipped past your waistband like he already knew you was wet for him. he liked keepin you there, teeterin between a moan and a plea, legs wide open while he took his time. he was obsessed with makin you feel it everywhere—fingers, tongue, voice, all in sync like he practiced it. and maybe he did, in his head. said you was “his lil prize” like it was scripture, like the world ain’t deserve to see what you gave him.
𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔. he’d back you up against the bathroom mirror, one hand between your thighs and the other pressed flat against your lower back, like he tryna fold you in half. “look at how messy you get f’me,” he’d growl in your ear, draggin his lips down your throat while his hips ground slow, deep. he loved seein you lose your words—watchin you stutter, eyes glazed, mouth open while he whispered filth in that heavy voice. praise, too, when you took him real good. “yeah… just like that, pretty. don’t run now.” spit play? that was his shit. had no shame spittin in your mouth while he fucked you slow, callin you “good girl” like a reward. rough hands, soft lips. and the smirk he gave when you couldn’t walk right the next morning? cocky as hell.
boyfriendLevi! who wants to get married to you as soon as possible so he can officially claim you as his and only his
boyfriendLevi! who cuddles you when you have period cramps because he knows you like them
boyfriendLevi! who gets protective of you because he is scared of loosing you
boyfriendLevi! who immediately cancels work if you get the slightest fever- You're his most important priority
boyfriendLevi! who has stocked up the freezer with your favourite ice cream as you crave it at the most randomest times - he would still go through hell for it as it makes you happy-
boyfriendLevi! who loves your scent especially when you're fresh out of the shower
boyfriendLevi! who has zero tolerance for people who are shitty to you he'll make their life hell for trying to wipe off that dazzling smile of your face
boyfriendLevi! who will watch a movie whilst staring at your expressions because they are so amusing and cute
Uhhhh Louis is Alive and he's still in pain from the fire, because of course he is, he was burned alive a mere 200 years ago. The thing is, he's kinda selfless to a fault. And he knows that his beloved is already in a bit of a fragile state... He's just going to hide it til it goes away.
Problem is, it doesn't go away. It doesn't go away for the same reason walking on a broken leg won't make it heal. And he keeps nearly having panic attacks (though, he probably wouldn't know to call them that) when he goes out into the sun, the scent of burning skin, that sizzling- it's too reminiscent.
But he's doing a pretty good job masking it, all things considered, and Owen isn't pushing back when he says he's fine. And maybe he's connected with Scott's fledgelings, and he doesn't want to worry them-
Sometimes when he's alone, he can't hold it in. He collapses to the ground, goes fully still and has to do everything he can to keep from screaming. He bites into his own hand. He writhes. But he manages to get himself together before somebody needs him. He manages to keep himself together till nobody does.
And then he can't.
It's a combination of things. It's a sunny day. It's a particularly bad pain day. He hasn't had more than a moment to himself in days.
Maybe he's surrounded by people. Maybe it's just him and Owen. Or him and the Doc. (trustbites anyone?) Maybe he's not even really sure who's with him because he's nearly delirious with pain (Owen must be here because he can see him but everyone else- if there is anyone- has faded out)
Either way, he can't hide it anymore.
He stops mid-stride, almost collapsing right then. He presses his lips together tight, but a sound still comes out, a bit like a dying animal. He collapses to his knees- maybe someone catches him, maybe they can't.
He is on that pyre again. He can feel the wood against his back, the cord tying him to it. He sobs, openly, he is in pain, he begs. He cannot hold strong like this.
He comes to- maybe in the crypt, maybe in the doctor's house, or his not-so-secret lab, but certainly not wherever he passed out- and he immediately puts the mask back up. All smiles and I'm fine, reallys, he's sure he can put this back together.
Fortunately for him and his healing process, they do not believe he is fine.
