𝒗𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒔

older dean is my roman empire

[vampiredaisiesss]

hi my loves, welcome to my masterlist!

characters i have written for - the winchesters, the salvatores, homelander, billy butcher, logan howlett.

𖤐 indicates strictly mature content

one shots

touch me 𖤐

fill me with color, paint me blue 𖤐

love in twenty two

the boy beneath

sharing's caring, right? 𖤐 (w/sam)

jealousy, jealousy 𖤐

to hold a dying sun (coming soon)

all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream

things we lost in the fire 𖤐

imagines

baby diaries

dean helping you undress after an injury

dean is affected by a curse and you're the object of his desire 𖤐

waking up to dean's beautiful face every morning

poetry

ghost on aisle six

other

his love has teeth and i want to be devoured - castiel x dean

this is me trying - dean x sam

being a part of team free will will include

one shots

truth or dare?

the thought of losing you

sharing's caring, right? 𖤐 (w/dean)

other

this is me trying - dean x sam

mini-series

all a ghost can do is haunt, part one

all a ghost can do is haunt, part two

les trios (elena x damon x voyeur! reader) 𖤐

cardigan (the salvatores x reader)

the anatomy of a goodbye (billy butcher x reader)

vice (homelander x reader) 𖤐

beg for it (soldier boy x reader) 𖤐

[vampiredaisiesss]

a dead language | uncle! baelor x niece! reader

summary: patience, he had taught you. it was near a language you had invented together. patience and longing, intertwined so closely you had lost track of where one ended and the other began.

tags: targcest (uncle! baelor x niece! reader), age gap, aerion targaryen exists, baelor teaches the art of self pleasure and sucks his fingers afterwards, mentions of westerosi misogyny, spoilers for episode 5 of akotsk, angst.

we grieve like widows with this one!

Here is what no one tells you about longing.

It does not ride in like a host of banners snapping in the wind. It does not thunder down from the sky with storm and lightning. It settles slow, like the red dust of the Dornish marches upon a man’s cloak after a long ride. Grain by grain, day by day, until one morn you wake and find it has buried you to the chin. The only proof you were ever free is the ache in your jaw from clenching your teeth against the words that would have named it.

You have been clenching your teeth for years.

i.

The first time you knew what he was to you, you were twelve and tearing open a pomegranate beneath the twisted trees of Summerhall. Your small hands were slick with crimson juice, your skirts ruined beyond any washerwoman’s prayer. Your uncle Baelor came seeking your father and found you instead, crouched like a wild thing in the dappled shade.

He did not laugh.

That was the first mercy.

He lowered himself to one knee, the Prince of Dragonstone in plain riding leathers, and said, “Show me, little one.”

So you did. You split the fruit between your palms until the seeds spilled like rubies across the ground. His big hands—hands that would one day hold a kingdom—gathered them without flinching. For a breath there was only the sweet bruised smell of the fruit and the quiet warmth of him beside you, patient as the tide that gnaws at Dragonstone.

“You have red on your chin,” he said at last.

You scrubbed at it with your wrist and only smeared it worse. He watched, and something shifted behind those mismatched eyes—something you would spend the next ten years chasing in every mirror and every dream. Then he rose, offered his hand, and the gardens of Summerhall seemed to hold their breath.

You took it.

His palm was warm, rough with the honest calluses of the yard, yet gentler than your father’s. He walked you back to the keep without another word, and for three weeks afterward you pressed your own small palm to your cheek in the dark, trying to summon that warmth again.

You were twelve.

You knew nothing of desire. Only that something had stirred.

ii.

Aerion had come to you just as the singers said he would.

He was your lord brother, bright and monstrous, a dragon in human skin. The betrothal had been your father’s notion, which was to say the notion of kings and bloodlines and the old Valyrian madness that the blood of the dragon must never be diluted. No one had asked you. Daughters of the dragon do not speak; they are wed where the realm requires.

He gripped your wrist too hard when displeasure took him. In public he spoke to you with honey on his tongue, and you smiled because you had learned to smile while your stomach turned. You had seen the servants after his rages.

You had learned patience from your uncle.

Patience was armour.

Baelor noticed. Of course, he did.

Not with words. Your uncle was never a man to waste breath when a look would serve. At Highgarden, when you were fifteen and the progress had dragged you south, Aerion made some jest at your expense before the lords. Laughter rippled through the hall like air itself.

You went very still.

Across the tables, Baelor’s jaw tightened. He did not come to you then. He waited until the feast fractured into music and drunken song, then appeared at your elbow like a shadow.

“Walk with me,” he said.

The courtyard was cool, the moon fat and silver above the roses. He was silent a long time, as was his way.

“He will not do it again,” he said at last, eyes on the moon.

“How do you know?”

“Because I spoke with your father.” A pause. “And because I will be watching.”

You did not ask what had passed between them. Some protections are like the roots of weirwoods, better left unseen while they hold the earth steady beneath your feet.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“Go to sleep, my princess,” he said, and the gentleness in that strong voice nearly undid you.

You went.

iii.

There was a hunt. You were seventeen.

Your father had dragged the court north to Winterfell for matters of state too heavy for a daughter’s ears. Baelor was there, as he always was.

The hunt was your doing. You asked; he granted. That was enough.

You slipped from the keep before dawn, the air sharp as a blade, your mare’s breath pluming white. You wanted the forest to yourself, the cold, the silence with no Aerion, no eyes, no weight of crowns lurking.

Baelor was waiting at the stables. He said nothing of the hour, nothing of propriety. He saddled his own horse, glanced at you once, and looked away.

You rode north. The trees closed around you like old friends.

You killed nothing. Neither spoke of it. The grey sky hung above like a blank page, and for the first time in moons you felt almost clean.

“You are unhappy,” It was not a question.

You could have lied. You were skilled at it. But those eyes had always seen through every mask you owned.

“Yes,” you said.

His horse snorted steam. “Aerion?”

“It is everything,” you answered carefully. “Aerion is only the sharpest thorn.”

He was quiet so long you thought the matter closed. “When this progress ends,” he said, “when we return to King’s Landing, I will speak with your father.”

You stared at his profile, carved against the frost. “About what?”

He hesitated one heartbeat, no more. “About what is good for you. And what is not.”

You wanted to seize his sleeve, to shake the words from him, to demand everything he had never said. But you were seventeen, he was the Prince of Dragonstone, and the trees kept their own counsel.

Patience, he had taught you. It was near a language you had invented together. So you rode home in silence and kept it like a souvenir.

iv.

The feast at Ashford was loud with the joy of men who would soon be trying to kill one another.

Knights had come from every corner of the realm. The hall blazed with candles and the smell of roast boar. A flute wove high and sweet through the rafters. You wore green silk the color of new leaves—the same green, you knew, that had made Baelor’s gaze linger when you entered the hall.

You had felt it like a touch.

A touch you quite liked.

You sat too far from him, beside your brother. Aerion was in a fine mood, which meant his wit was a razor. Twice he laid his hand over yours. The second time you knew it was no accident.

Across the torches Baelor spoke with Lord Ashford, courteous as ever. He did not look at you. Not once. Then he did, and the whole noisy hall narrowed to the space between your eyes. He looked away first, and you saw the cost of it in the set of his shoulders.

Later, when Aerion went hunting more wine, you slipped into the night. The air was cool, smelling of horses and trampled grass and the slow river beyond the walls.

You expected him to come.

He came.

You felt him before you saw him. The same animal knowing you had carried since childhood. You turned. He stood at the edge of the torchlight, hands clasped behind his back.

“You should go back inside,” Baelor said.

“So should you,” you countered.

Neither of you moved.

Your brother’s laughter still rang from the hall behind you, and the thought of his hands on your wrist made your stomach twist. But Baelor was here and that was comfort enough. Baelor, who had never once touched you the way Aerion touched you—like a thing to be owned.

“You were cold at table,” he remarked.

“I am well enough.”

“That is not what I asked.”

A silence stretched, taut with everything you couldn't say.

“Aerion—” you began.

He made a small sound, almost pained. “Give me your hands.”

You stared.

“Your gloves,” he added softly. “They are too tight. I watched you flexing your fingers all evening.”

You lifted your hands without thinking.

His fingers, long and aristocratic found the tiny buttons at your right wrist. He undid them one by one, deliberate as a man disarming a trap. Each brush of his skin against the softness of your inner wrist sent lightning racing up your arm. The glove slid free. Cool night air kissed your bare palm, your fingers, the soft blue veins at the inside of your elbow.

Then he took your hand in both of his.

Gods. His hands were so large. Yours disappeared inside them like a child’s. The calluses rasped gently across your knuckles, and lit something low in your belly you had never felt before.

A slow, liquid heat.

A pit opening.

Desire. Is this what it felt to desire?

Aerion had kissed you many times. You had let him. You had parted your lips and endured because it was safer than waking the dragon. His mouth had been hot and demanding and left you cold inside, as if he had sucked all the heat from your body.

But this—this was different.

Baelor’s thumbs traced slow circles on the back of your hand, and your breath fractured. Your nipples tightened against the silk of your gown. Between your legs, a sudden, aching throb began, as though your body had only been waiting for his touch to remember it was alive.

“The other,” you whispered, emboldened.

He obeyed. The second glove fell away. Now both your small hands lay bare in his huge ones, and he looked at them as though they were holy relics.

His long fingers stroked up your wrists, tracing the frantic flutter of your pulse. You felt it everywhere—between your thighs, in your throat, behind your eyes. You wanted him to touch you everywhere. You wanted his hands on your breasts, his mouth on your neck, his cock—gods, the word alone made you flush—pushing inside you until the ache was filled. You wanted to taste the salt of his skin on your tongue, to take him into your mouth like the lowborn women in the songs.

The septons would have burned you for the thoughts alone.

“Baelor,” you breathed. Not uncle. Not today. “Please.”

It was unbecoming. A lady did not beg. But you were past caring.

He did not answer with words. Instead he lifted one of your hands and pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist. His mouth was soft, his beard not so. It scraped deliciously against the delicate skin. You let out a sound you ought to be ashamed of, but couldn't bring yourself to.

Then higher, along the bare skin of your forearm where the sleeve ended, slow kisses that left fire in their wake. His other hand rose to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. Noble, always noble. He kissed the corner of your mouth, not quite claiming it, then trailed his lips down the line of your throat, the only skin the gown allowed him. You shivered so hard your knees nearly gave.

“Has Aerion touched you?” he murmured against your pulse.

“No,” you gasped. “Never like this."

His breath was warm on your neck. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“I only want you,” you said, and the truth of it tore out of you like a sob. “Only you, Baelor. Please. I am dying for it.”

“He is your betrothed,” he said, voice rough with the effort of restraint, but his lips never left your skin. He kissed the hollow beneath your ear, the slope of your shoulder, while his free hand stroked slow, maddening circles on the small of your back through the silk—suitable places, always suitable, and yet each touch set you aflame. “He is your brother. The blood—”

“I do not care about the blood,” you begged. “I want yours. I want your hands on me. I want—I want you inside me. Please.”

You were melting. Your legs trembled. The ache between them had become desperate and slick. You could feel your own wetness soaking through your smallclothes.

Baelor drew back just enough to look at you, violet eyes nearly black in the torchlight. His hand still cradled your cheek.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asked, so softly it felt almost a caress from the breeze.

You shook your head. breasts rising and falling against the silk. “I—No."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Then, gentle as a man handling something infinitely precious, he took your right hand in his again and guided it downward.

“Do it now,” he murmured. “For me.”

Your fingers shook as you obeyed. You gathered the silk of your skirts, slipped your hand beneath, past the linen of your smallclothes, until you found the slick heat between your thighs. The first brush of your own fingers made you gasp.

Baelor’s mouth was at your ear, his body a solid wall holding you upright against the wall as your knees turned to water. “Right there between your legs,” he whispered, voice low and patient as ever. “There is a little nub, my sweet girl. Feel it? Stroke it. Softly. Like this—” His free hand covered yours through the silk, guiding the motion. “Circles. Yes. Like that.”

You moaned wantonly, feeling sparks shoot up your body. A sharp pleasure erupted from where your fingers worked together, hips rocking into Baelor's hand.

“Push a finger inside,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Go slow. Feel how tight you are. Imagine it is me. Imagine my cock filling you instead.”

You did. The thought of him inside you had your cunt quivering around your fingers. Your head fell back against his shoulder. He held you easily, one arm around your waist, the other still guiding your hand.

“Another,” he murmured. “That’s it. Ride your fingers for me. Let me hear you.”

You were panting now, shameless, the wet sounds of your fingers obscene in the quiet night. The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter. You wanted his cock so badly you could taste it. Wanted to drop to your knees right here and take him into your mouth, wanted him to spend down your throat, wanted every inch of him buried inside you until you forgot where you ended and he began.

“I’m—Uncle—Baelor, I’m—”

“I know,” he said, calm as a septon at prayer even as his voice shook with hunger. “Let it come. Let me taste what you’ve made for me.”

The release crashed over you like a wave. Your legs gave out entirely; only his arm kept you from falling. You cried out, clenching around your own fingers as pleasure tore through you in long, shuddering pulses.

When the last tremor faded, he took your hand gently from between your legs. Your fingers glistened in the torchlight. Without a word he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean thoroughly, eyes locked on yours the entire time. The sight of it—his tongue sliding over your slick skin—nearly made you come again.

He kissed your fingertips one last time, then lowered your hand.

“Go inside,” he said, voice hoarse now. “Before Aerion comes looking.”

You could barely stand. Your body still sang. Your mind was a haze of want and wonder that desperately wanted to protest.

But you went.

And the night air carried the taste of you on his tongue all the way back to the hall.

v.

The morning of the trial dawned too bright, the air too still, as though the gods themselves held their breath. You found him in the arming tent at the edge of the meadow, already half in his plate.

Not his—you realised—Valarr's. Your cousin was with him, strapping on the greaves to his father's legs.

Baelor looked up when you entered. Something moved behind his eyes, the same thing that had lived there since the night before, when your bare hands had trembled in his and your body had learned what wanting truly was.

“Why do this?” you asked, voice small.

“Because it is right,” Baelor said simply, as though that explained everything in the world. He always did.

Valarr glanced between you, then bowed his head. “I will go ahead, Father. The lists are nearly ready.” He clasped Baelor’s shoulder once, and left without another word. The tent flap fell shut behind him.

You were terrified. The fear sat in your belly like a metal hook, gutting you from the inside out. You picked up his—Valarr's helmet from the table. It seemed small for his head, your fingers tracing the narrow slit for the eyes.

"At least wear something your size." you urged, looking up to the armoured Prince.

“It serves its purpose,” he said gently. “No one will harm me, princess. I am a prince of the blood. Even Aerion would not dare.”

You swallowed. “Maybe Aerion will die today. Maybe it will be for the good.”

“Stop that.” His voice was soft but iron lay beneath. He stepped closer, and laid one gauntleted hand along your cheek. “The septons say we must love our brothers, no matter how daft they are. Even the worst of them.”

You smiled at the choice of his words. “I only love you, uncle. The septons damn me for it, but I do.”

The words seemed to have their effect. Baelor closed his eyes, breath leaving him in a slow, pained rush. When he opened them again, all the colour in his eyes had shruken to black.

“After the trial,” he said, voice rough, “I will go to your father first thing. I will ask for your hand. Whatever the cost. I swear it on the Seven.”

You shook your head, tears burning. The fear would not let you go. “Kiss me,” you begged. “Please. Kiss me now, Baelor. I cannot bear it if—”

His lips sought yours before you could finish.

It was not the chaste brush of the night before. This was languid and devouring. His mouth opened over yours, claiming, tasting, as though he would drink every last drop of you before the gods took him away.

His tongue slid against yours, and you moaned into him, knees buckling. One of his arms locked around your waist, holding you upright as he kissed you like a man who had waited a lifetime and would not wait another heartbeat. You tasted salt—yours or his, you could not tell. Your hands clutched at his breastplate, desperate, wanting to crawl inside the steel with him.

When he pulled back at last, you found your knees weak and trembling.

“Come back to me,” you whispered.

You helped him with the helmet yourself. Your fingers shook as you lowered it over his hair with the same care he had shown your gloves the night before. The steel hid his face, but you could still see the line of his mouth through the slit.

His lips, you could still taste.

He mounted his horse outside the tent. You stood at the gate and watched him ride through it, tall and shining, until the meadow swallowed him whole.

You waited. You pressed your gloved palm to your cheek the way you had when you were twelve, chasing warmth that was already fading.

The sun climbed higher. The horns sounded. The crash of steel rang across the field. You kept your patience as you always did because he had taught you so.

You waited.

You waited.

vi.

Here is what no one tells you about longing.

It keeps making room. Steps to the left in a doorway so he can pass through. Reaches across a table for nothing. Turns, in a crowd, toward a voice with the same cadence. The body is loyal past all reason. The body is still waiting in the meadow, hands open, arranging itself around the shape of a man who no longer exists in the world.

That is what longing is. Not a feeling. A posture. A whole life tilted toward an absence.

You will pass years like this. You will learn his patience the way you learn a dead language—with no one left to speak it to. You will dream him alive and wake and lose him in the space between one breath and the next, which is the smallest and most merciless distance in the world.

The meadow did not give him back that day.

You are still leaning toward where he was.

You will lean there forever.

[punkseye]

JIM HOPPER in STRANGER THINGS 5, EPISODE 6: ESCAPE FROM CAMAZOTZ

[vampiredaisiesss]

This and Hopper standing next to Kali had me going FERAL. This man is enormous!!!! (Writing a dozen fanfiction, brb)

[vampiredaisiesss]

The monster was beautiful, actually.

Elordi being hot as Frankenstein’s creature isn’t some modern thirst trap twist, but it’s closer to what Mary Shelley meant in the first place. Her monster was supposed to be beautiful: black hair, perfect teeth, features chosen “as beautiful.” The horror wasn't in ugliness by design, but in the uncanny wrongness of reanimated dead flesh in motion. Once brought to life, Victor's creation became "a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived."

That’s the point people miss. Shelley knew monstrous men rarely look monstrous. They’re charming, magnetic, soft-eyed. They make you forget where the danger lies until it’s too late. Del Toro’s casting of Elordi just brings that truth full circle that the real monster isn’t the one with stitched skin or the dead flesh. It’s the man who believes he can play God, who mistakes creation for control, and abandons his "son" on the whim.

Especially in our current age, when AI threatens to replace human creativity, when tech bros fantasize about transcending biological limitations, when the question "what makes us human?" feels more urgent than ever—del Toro's Frankenstein arrives with eerie timeliness. The story is, perhaps even more relevant than ever before, with Victor portrayed as the true monster, as he always should be.

[vampiredaisiesss]

things we lost in the fire | d.w. x reader

tags and warnings: angst, major character death, grieving, themes of loss, abandonment and emotional dependency, soft smut, p in v, riding, domestic dean, older dean with grey in his hair says hi.

summary: you and the winchesters go a long way back. dean was your first love—and your first heartbreak. a lifetime later, the world has burned down around him. sam is gone. and dean winchester comes back to you, seeking the only arms that ever knew how to hold him without breaking.

but grief is a fire. and love is never untouched.

The rain's always the first to arrive, isn't it? Three days of it drumming against your kitchen window like knuckles rasping against wood, like someone asking to come in. You don't know yet that it's carrying Dean Winchester back to you.

You are making tea when the headlights slice through the thunderstorm. Earl Grey with honey, the way your grandmother taught you—steep for exactly four minutes. No more, no less. Time matters, she used to say. Too little and you taste nothing. Too much and you taste everything wrong.

The car door slams. One door. Not two.

Your hands know before your mind does. The mug slips, porcelain shattering against the kitchen tiles in cloud of steam. Seven years of bad luck, grandmother would say. But you think you've already lived through yours.

When you open the door, Dean is standing there with his shoulders bent against the storm. Water runs down his face—rain or tears, you cannot tell. Will never ask. His leather jacket seems to engulf him whole tonight. You remember suddenly how he looked at seventeen, caught in a downpour after his first heartbreak, when love felt like something that happened to other people.

"Sam—" he starts, and the word breaks in half.

You already know. Have known since the phone stopped ringing three weeks ago. Have known since the dreams started, the ones where you're reaching for something that dissolves the moment your fingers touch it.

But you let him tell you anyway. Let him shape the words with his mouth, this mouth you once kissed behind the gymnasium when you thought you were invisible. Let him speak his brother's name like a prayer and a curse and an ending all at once.

"I burned him," Dean manages to say. "Spread his ashes in the wind like he was—like he was nothing."

But Sam was never nothing.

Sam, who used to steal cookies from your mother's jar and leave apology notes written in careful third-grade cursive. Sam, who cried the day you found a dead bird and insisted you bury it with full honors. Sam, who grew tall as a tree and gentle as autumn breeze and never learned how to be anything but good in a world that ate good things alive.

You open your arms. He falls into them.

He stays because where else is there to go? The bunker holds too many ghosts. His car holds too many memories. The road holds too many possibilities that end in the same nowhere.

You give him the guest room, but he doesn't sleep there. Doesn't sleep anywhere, really. You find him at three am sitting at your kitchen table, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. At four am standing at the window, watching for something that will never come. At five am with his head buried in his face.

"You don't have to take care of me," he says on the third morning, not looking up from his mug.

"I'm not," you lie. "I'm making breakfast."

"You hate breakfast."

He's right. You've lived on coffee and anxiety for most of your adult life. But Dean hasn't been eating. He needs feeding the way broken things need mending—carefully, persistently, with more patience than you think you possess.

You learn his rhythms. How he flinches when the phone rings. How he checks every lock twice before bed. How he keeps Sam's phone number in his contacts and almost calls it a dozen times a day, thumb hovering over the screen.

"Tell me something good," he says one evening as you sit on the porch, watching the day die in shades of orange and pink.

You think of the summer you caught fireflies in mason jars, how Sam insisted on letting them go because he read they only lived for two months. How Dean pretended to be annoyed but released his too, watching the tiny speck of light drift away.

"Your brother," you say, "was the only person I ever met who could make the smallest of creatures sound like the most important thing in the world."

Dean's laugh comes out broken. "Yeah. He was good at that."

Was. The word sits between you. A sound with its own weight.

The nightmares begin on a Tuesday.

You wake to screaming. Raw, animal sounds that seem to come from somewhere deeper than his throat. You find Dean thrashing in the guest bed, sheets twisted around his legs, his hand reaching out into the darkness of the room.

"Sammy!" he cries, and the name is a wound torn open. "I got you, I got you, don't—"

You touch his shoulder and he comes up swinging, eyes wild and unfocused. For a moment you think he might hit you. For a moment you think he wants to.

"It's me," you whisper. "It's just me."

Recognition filters back into his face. He collapses against the headboard, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin.

"I couldn't catch him," his voice is a child's voice, small and lost. "He was falling and I couldn't—my hands weren't fast enough."

You don't ask what he was falling from. Don't ask why Dean's hands feel responsible for every tragedy they couldn't prevent. Instead, you sit on the edge of the bed and wait.

"Will you—" he starts, then stops. Starts again. "Would you mind—"

"Yes," you say before he can finish asking.

You slide under the covers beside him, careful to leave space between you. He turns toward you anyway, instinctive as a plant seeking light, and you let him. Let his forehead rest against your shoulder. Let his breathing gradually match yours.

"Tell me about before," he whispers into the darkness. "When we were kids."

So you do. You tell him about the fireflies.

Dean's breathing evens out against your collarbone. His hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining like he's afraid of getting lost.

This becomes your routine. His nightmares, your presence. The slow, careful work of learning how to exist in the same space without bleeding all over each other.

Spring arrives eventually, as spring always does, stubborn and hopeful and impossible to ignore. Dean starts working in the garden. Needs something to do with his hands, he says.

You watch him from the kitchen window as he plants tomatoes and peppers and herbs you can't pronounce. His shoulders are broader now, less weighed down with hunger and sleeplessness. His hands move through the soil with surprising gentleness, and you remember suddenly that he used to draw, before the world taught him that his hands were only good for violence.

"You could take classes," you suggest one evening over dinner. "Art classes. Like you used to talk about."

He looks at you like you've suggested he learn to fly. "I don't remember how."

"Hands remember," you say, thinking of your grandmother's fingers finding piano keys even after her mind forgot the songs. "Even when we don't."

He doesn't respond, but the next day you find sketches on the kitchen counter.

The first time you make love—and you use that phrase deliberately, make love, because what you do is less about desire and more about creation—it happens just like that.

Dean appears in your doorway at midnight, barefoot and hesitant. He's been having good days lately, days when he laughs at something on television or hums while washing dishes. Days when he seems to remember that he exists in present tense.

"Can't sleep," he says, but his voice carries something different tonight. Not the familiar weight of nightmares, but something lighter. Something that might be want.

You pull back the covers without speaking. He crosses the room one step at a time. His lips crash against your lips. They're rough, chapped from neglect, tasting of the apple pie you baked for desert and blood, as if he had bitten his lips crimson before arriving here. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, seeking entry, and you open for him.

A soft moan catches in your throat.

His hands find your face. They're trembling a little. Trembling with a terrible responsibility of touching something you love more than yourself. Fingers of his other hand dig into the soft flesh of your hip as he presses himself closer, chest to chest, the heat of him searing through your thin shirt.

You tug at his tee, pulling it over his head, and his freckled skin gleams in the moonlight. Your fingers trace the curve of his jaw and he shudders, breath hitching, as you press your lips there, tasting salt.

“Are you sure?” you whisper, your mouth brushing the corded muscle of his neck, where his pulse leaps.

“No,” he says honestly, for once. “But I want to feel—God, I want to feel alive.”

You guide his hands to your shirt, and he pulls it off. Calluses scrape your skin, sending sparks down your spine. His fingers fumble with your bra until it falls away, and his breath catches at the sight of your breasts, soft and heavy in the dim light. He cups them, thumbs brushing your nipples, which harden under his touch. You gasp, arching into him. And his mouth follows.

Ardent lips closed over one nipple, tongue swirling, hot and wet. You back arched more, letting you into a slow and languid ride of delight. His hand kneads the other breast, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

Dean moves to the other breast, leaving your tender nipple with a suckling pop. Saliva drips from his mouth, the sight of it making heat pool between your thighs.

His eyes find you like he's sketching you into existence. "You're so beautiful," he says in a brittle voice. "I'd forgotten that things could be beautiful."

You push him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. His eyes, wide and searching, lock on yours. Your fingers work his jeans open, the zipper loud in the quiet. He lifts his hips as you tug them down, revealing the hard line of his cock straining against his boxers. You slide them off, and he’s bare before you, thick and flushed, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Your hand wraps around him, stroking slowly, and he groans. His head tips back, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he fights to stay present.

You shed your own pants, your underwear, and climb over him, knees bracketing his hips. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, guiding you as you sink down, taking him in inch by inch. He’s hot, hard, stretching you, and you both moan out at the sensation. Your hips roll, slow at first, finding a rhythm, and his hands slide to your ass, urging you deeper. He thrusts up, tentative, then bolder, his cock sliding in and out. The friction sparks heat that pools in your core.

His breath is ragged, puffing against your shoulder as he sits up, arms pulling you close. Your breasts press against his chest, nipples grazing his skin, and he kisses you, desperate teeth nipping your lower lip. His hands roam, one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your hip, guiding your movements as you ride him. Your bodies are slick with sweat. The bed creaks, a counterpoint to your gasps, his grunts, the wet sounds of your bodies joining.

“You feel so good.” he whispers, lips brushing your collarbone, voice thick with something like awe. His hips snap up, harder now, and you meet him. Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving half-moons on his skin. You clench around him, and he curses softly. A broken “fuck” erupts against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

You move faster, chasing the heat building between you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and rubbing in tight circles. The sensation is electric, a jolt that makes you cry out, and he watches you with wide eyes and parted lips.

When you come, it’s a wave crashing, and he follows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he finishes inside you.

Afterward, you lie tangled in sheets and starlight, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare shoulder.

"I used to think," he says quietly, "that wanting things was selfish. That love was something you couldn't afford if you were trying to save people."

"And now?"

He considers this, his thumb finding the pulse point at your wrist. "Now I think maybe love is what gives you something worth saving."

You marry on a Thursday in October, when the leaves are dying their most beautiful deaths. No ceremony, just you and Dean and a justice of the peace and some of your loved ones. Jody. Claire. Donna.

Dean wears his father's ring on a chain around his neck—one of the only heirloom that survived all the burning—and you wear your grandmother's dress, altered to fit a life she never could have imagined.

"Do you take this man," the justice begins, and you want to laugh because take implies acquisition, ownership, the claiming of something that was never really yours to begin with.

But you say yes anyway. Yes to this man who waters your plants when you forget. Yes to this man who learned to make soup from scratch because you were down with cold. Yes to this man who still wakes up reaching for his brother but has begun, slowly, to reach for you instead.

The ring he slides onto your finger belonged to his mother. You think about that sometimes—how love travels through generations, how it survives even when the people carrying it don't.

Your daughter arrives on a Tuesday morning in March, screaming her indignation at the bright, cold world. She has Dean's eyes—that impossible green—and Sam's stubborn forehead, already set in determined lines.

Dean cries when he holds her, tears he's been saving for years finally finding their purpose. His hands dwarf her tiny body, but he holds her like he held you the first time you made love. That terrible responsibility of holding something you love more than yourself hitting him again.

"She looks like him," he whispers, and you know he means Sam. "Around the eyes."

She does. The same wide-set gaze, the same expression of intelligent curiosity.

"What do we call her?" you ask.

Dean is quiet for a long moment, studying your daughter's face. "Hope," he says finally. "We call her Hope."

It's a dangerous name, hope. The kind of word that can cut you if you hold it too tightly. But Dean says it determinedly, like something he's finally ready to believe in again.

Your son comes two years later, quieter but no less miraculous. Where Hope demands attention like a small, beautiful storm, he observes. Watches. Thinks before speaking, the way Sam used to do.

Dean teaches them both everything he knows about being human. How to tie shoes and throw baseballs and fix engines and scramble eggs. How to be kind to things smaller than themselves. How to say please and thank you and I'm sorry like they mean it.

"Why do we have to be gentle with the cat?" Hope asks one afternoon, age five and already full of so many questions.

"Because she's smaller than you," Dean explains, guiding her tiny hand as she pets your tabby. "And because being strong means protecting things that can't protect themselves."

You watch from the doorway as he shows her how to scratch behind the cat's ears, how to read the signals that mean more or stop or I trust you. This man who once thought his hands were only good for violence, teaching his daughter the act of tenderness.

Now you stand at the kitchen window, watching Dean chase your children through the meadow behind your house. They're playing some elaborate game involving dragons and knights and magic spells that only they understand.

Hope, seven now and fast as wind, dodges between Dean's arms with delighted shrieks. Your son, Sam—yes, you named him Sam, after long conversations and longer silences and finally the understanding that some names are too important not to carry forward—tackles Dean's legs with his five-year-old determination.

Dean roars dramatically as he's brought down by tiny hands and high-pitched battle cries. He gathers both children against his chest, spinning until they're all dizzy with laughter, until they collapse in a tangle of grass and happy limbs.

The afternoon light catches in his hair. It's more gray now; he doesn't want to dye it as it reminds him of the privilege of having made so far. You think about time. How it's cyclical inside of linear. How the boy you loved at fifteen became the man you married at forty-two, became the father you watch at forty-nine.

"Daddy, tell us about Uncle Sam," Hope says as they lie in the grass, clouds moving overhead them.

Dean's face goes quiet for a moment, the way it always does when the past surfaces unexpectedly. But then he smiles—not the practiced smile he wore for years, but something real and unguarded.

"Your Uncle Sam," he says, pulling both children closer, "was the kindest person I ever knew. He used to say that loving someone meant wanting them to be happy, even if their happiness looked different from yours."

"Like how Mama is happy when she's reading and you're happy when you're fixing things?" young Sam asks.

"Exactly like that." Dean's eyes find yours through the window, and his smile widens. "Love means making space for different kinds of happiness."

You look up to the sky, a soft smile playing on your lips. Sometimes in May, an ache crawls under your ribcage and squeezes your heart. And you sit with it under the blue sky, hoping Sam would be looking down at you as you look at him. So, you throw him a smile and a silent prayer.

You know he'd say that love isn't just about holding on, but about knowing when to let go. Like how Dean learned, finally, to carry Sam with him without drowning in the weight.

The timer chimes. Dinner is ready. You call them in, and Dean looks up from the meadow, grass in his hair and dirt under his fingernails and your children hanging from his arms like small, perfect miracles.

He smiles at you—this man who learned that survival and living don't have to be the same thing, who discovered that happiness isn't something that happens to other people—and you understand, finally, what it means to build a life from the ashes of an old one.

"Coming!" he calls, and his voice carries across the meadow.

You beam, satisfied. So this is how you survive the unsurvivable. This is how you survive the burning. You don't just live through it.

You live beyond it.

[vampiredaisiesss]

ah the amount of older dean fics sitting in my drafts where dean's a sappy old man who needs to be taken care of while being simultaneously assured he is worth taking care of.

[vampiredaisiesss]

જ⁀➴ all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream

∞ synopsis: somehow, somewhere across time, you had met dean winchester before.

∞ tags: themes of death, grief, and melancholia, age gap relationship, dean is mentioned to be thirteen years older than the reader, winchester family angst, themes regarding the winchester's childhood, john winchester, a rollercoaster of emotions with a happy ending!

∞ words: 4.7k

You trace the edge of the worn formica table with your fingertip, the same way you did five years ago when you first saw him.

The Dusty Fork Diner in Nowhere, Nebraska. Where everything began.

You can still see him sliding into the booth across from you, leather jacket creaking as he settled in. It had been early afternoon then, sunlight streaming through the blinds in dusty golden beams. When he looked up at you, the light caught his eyes in a way that reminded you of sunshine dappling through forest leaves. That same shifting, mesmerizing green.

That was the first time you laid eyes on him. Dean Winchester, the man you had heard so much about. His brother Sam had smiled at you kindly before excusing himself to the restroom. They hadn't known then that you were a hunter too. Just another face in another nameless town.

"Coffee here any good?" Dean had asked, voice gravel-rough from too many late nights.

You hadn't answered right away. Something about him had left your words trapped somewhere between your lungs and lips. Not just his looks—though those sun-touched green eyes could've stopped traffic—but something more.

It takes a hunter to know one. And you recognized the darkness in him right away, one you shared.

"Tastes like it was brewed in a boot," you'd finally managed. "But it'll keep you awake."

That small exchange had been the thread that unraveled into something more. A simple salt and burn on the outskirts of town. A vengeful spirit that had taken three lives already. You'd been tracking it for days when the Winchesters rolled into town in that rumbling Impala.

The case had been straightforward enough. But working alongside them had been anything but standard. Dean was the perfect soldier, and Sam's research skills bordered on encyclopedic. And you—you'd just been you. Twenty-three, still learning the ropes but determined to prove yourself.

Your fingers now curl around the cold ceramic mug. Your reflection in the coffee's dark surface looks tired, hollowed out by grief.

Dean had been thirteen years your senior. Not that the years mattered much in a life like yours, where death came calling early and often. But it mattered to you then. You'd convinced yourself that he'd see you as a kid. That the flutter in your chest whenever he smiled was yours alone to bear.

So you'd kept it locked away, that feeling. Partnered up with them occasionally over the years. Answered their calls when a hunt required an extra pair of hands. And eventually, moved into the bunker with them. All while carrying the perpetual ache of your unrequited love.

Now he’s gone. Really gone. The kind of gone that not even the Winchesters can come back from.

Outside, rain begins to patter against the windows, a gentle percussion that matches the ache in your chest. You slide out of the booth, leave too much money on the table, and walk into the night. Your truck waits in the parking lot, Dean's flannel shirt folded carefully on the passenger seat where you'd left it.

You had left the bunker after Dean died. Cas was gone too, and Sam and you might as well be. You both remain nothing but a hollow shell with a dean-sized space in your hearts. Somewhere in your heart, you knew it was selfish to leave Sam. But you don't think your heart could've taken seeing his face every morning you woke up.

It was too painful.

Back at the motel, you curl around Dean's shirt that still smelled like him. It's all you have left of him now. That, and the weight of everything you never said.

Sleep comes for you slowly. You don't dream of his death. Instead, you dream of that first meeting, the warm afternoon sunlight streaming through the diner windows, illuminating those forest-green eyes as he walked through the door.

In your dream, you stand up. You walk over. You say all the things you should have said.

The flannel shirt is gone when you wake. So is the motel room. Your eyes snap open to sunshine filtering through cream-colored curtains. The light is different somehow—softer, warmer than what you're accustomed to.

A woman hums in the kitchen. The melody is unfamiliar but comforting, like a half-remembered lullaby.

You sit up, but there's no bed beneath you. Instead, you're standing in the middle of a living room you've never seen before. Family photos line wooden shelves. A worn couch with crocheted throw blankets. A television set that belongs in a thrift shop rather than a home.

"Dean, sweetie, do you want apple or orange juice?" The voice floats from the kitchen.

You freeze. Heart hammering against your ribs, you move toward the sound.

The kitchen is bright, yellow wallpaper with tiny blue flowers making the space feel sunny despite the modest size. And there she stands. Mary Winchester. Not the ghost you'd heard stories about, not the yellowed photograph Dean kept folded in his wallet. Real. Alive. Beautiful. A baby—Sam—balanced on her hip as she flips pancakes one-handedly.

"Apple, please!" A small voice answers from the table.

Your breath catches.

The boy can't be older than four. Sandy blonde hair, freckles scattered across his nose, green eyes focused intently on the paper before him. He draws what appears to be a family represented by stick figures, the smallest one barely more than a circle with lines.

Dean.

You approach slowly, hand outstretched. "Dean?"

Neither he nor Mary reacts to your voice. You wave a hand in front of Mary's face. Nothing. You try to touch the refrigerator door, covered in crayon drawings held up by alphabet magnets, but your fingers pass through it.

"You're not really here," you murmur to yourself. "This isn't happening."

Mary turns, passing directly through your shoulder as she sets a small glass of apple juice beside Dean's drawing. "That looks wonderful, honey. Is that all of us?"

Dean nods enthusiastically. "That's Daddy, that's you, that's me, and that's Sammy." He points to each figure in turn.

"I love it," Mary says, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. "We'll put it right here when you're done." She taps the refrigerator.

The front door opens, and Dean's head snaps up. "Daddy!" He scrambles from his chair, barely avoiding knocking over his juice in his haste.

John Winchester looks nothing like the hardened hunter from Sam's stories. This man is smiling, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes as he scoops up his son. "Hey, tiger! Were you good for your mom today?"

"Uh-huh! I drew our family and helped with Sammy and didn't even run in the house once!"

"Not even once?" John raises an eyebrow, exchanging an amused glance with Mary.

"Well, maybe once," Dean admits. "But it was an 'mergency. Spider."

You watch them, this perfectly ordinary family, going about their perfectly ordinary evening. Dinner around the kitchen table. Dean chattering about monsters under his bed, blissfully unaware that in a few months, monsters would become all too real.

Later, you follow Mary as she carries Dean upstairs to his bedroom. The walls are blue with clouds painted near the ceiling. Toy cars line a small shelf, and a stuffed bear sits against his pillow.

"Angels are watching over you," Mary whispers after tucking him in, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

Dean's eyes are already heavy with sleep. "Can they watch over Sammy too?"

"They watch over all of us," she promises, leaving the door cracked open just enough for a sliver of hallway light to reach his bed.

You sink to the floor beside Dean's bed, wishing you could take his small hand in yours, wishing you could somehow warn them.

You watch the rise and fall of his small chest. An ache blooms in your heart at the sight of the child who still believed in angels, who hadn't yet learned to be a soldier in a war he never asked for.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," you whisper to the sleeping boy. "I'm so sorry for everything you're about to lose."

The warm glow of the Winchester home dissolves around you like mist. For a moment, you're suspended in darkness. Then reality reassembles itself, pixel by pixel.

A motel room materializes. Peeling wallpaper in a faded pattern that might have been floral once but now resembles jaundiced bruises. A rattling air conditioner struggles beneath a window sealed with duct tape at the corners. Two beds with spreads so thin they barely qualify as blankets.

A boy sits at a small table near the kitchenette, hunched over like an old man. But this isn't an old man. It's Dean—older than the four-year-old you just left behind, but still painfully young. Nine, maybe ten years old.

His small fingers carefully separate crumpled dollar bills and loose change into neat piles. His lips move silently as he counts, recounts. When he finishes, his shoulders sag slightly.

"Three more days," he mutters to himself. "Just gotta make it stretch three more days."

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam. Sam emerges, drowning in an oversized t-shirt that reaches his knees, hair dripping onto his shoulders.

"Dean, there's no more shampoo," he announces, rubbing a towel over his head.

Dean doesn't look up from the money. "Use the soap bar."

"I did, but my hair feels weird."

"We'll get some tomorrow. C'mere, you're gonna catch a cold."

Sam pads over to his brother, who takes the towel and efficiently dries Sam's hair with practiced motions. There's something both heartbreaking and beautiful about the gesture. The casual competence of a child who's been forced to parent another child.

You watch as Dean makes Sam a dinner of SpaghettiOs, carefully saving most of the food for his little brother. He checks the salt lines, locks the door, and places a shotgun within reach before finally allowing himself to relax.

"Dad called while you were in the shower," Dean mentions, cleaning the sawed off shotgun. "Said the hunt's taking longer than he thought."

Sam looks up from his math worksheet. "Is he okay?"

"Course he is. He's Dad." Dean's voice holds such conviction that even you almost believe him. "Said he'll be back day after tomorrow."

He never once looks up from his shoes as he says it. He’s lying, you know it from years of watching him. He always looked at his shoes when he lied.

"I'm not scared," Sam insists around a yawn.

"I know you're not." Dean ruffles his brother's hair. "But wake me anyway."

Once Sam's breathing evens out, Dean doesn't immediately go to his own bed. Instead, he pulls a chair to the window, parts the curtain just enough to see outside, and sits.

Watching. Waiting. A sentry at his post.

You move to stand beside him, wishing he could feel your presence, wishing you could tell him it's okay to just be a child.

"You don't have to do this alone," you whisper, knowing he can't hear you. "You'll meet people who'll help you carry this. One day, you'll meet me."

His only response is to shift in his chair, eyes fixed on the parking lot where the Impala should be but isn't. Eventually, exhaustion wins. His chin drops to his chest, body finally surrendering to the sleep he's fought so hard. Only then does he look truly his age.

You sink down next to his chair, leaning your head against the wall. Your last thought before sleep takes you again is that you never realized how young Dean was when he learned that safety was something he had to create for others, not something he could expect for himself.

The motel room with its twin beds dissolves around you, and you're suspended in that now-familiar void again. When the world resolidifies, you're in yet another motel room. This one has three beds.

The door bursts open, and two young men stumble in, laughing. You immediately recognize them both. Dean, now around twenty-two, his face leaner than you've ever seen it, but with that same cocky grin. And Sam—gangly, with too-long hair falling into his eyes, looking all of his eighteen years.

"Dude, your face when that ghost came up behind you," Dean chuckles, tossing his jacket onto his bed.

"Yeah, well, next time you can be the bait while I handle the shotgun," Sam retorts, but there's no heat in it. He's grinning too.

"I'm first shower," Dean announces, already pulling off his mud-caked boots.

"Fine, but save me some hot water this time."

Dean disappears into the bathroom. The moment the door closes, Sam's smile fades. He sits heavily on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair. Then, with a furtive glance at the bathroom door, he reaches under his mattress and pulls out an envelope.

The Stanford University seal is visible even from where you stand.

Sam stares at it, turning it over in his hands. His knuckles are white where they grip the paper. When Dean emerges in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his waist, Sam quickly stuffs the envelope under his pillow. But not quickly enough.

"What was that?" Dean asks, reaching for a clean t-shirt.

"Nothing." Sam's response is too fast.

Dean pauses, t-shirt halfway over his head. "Sammy."

"It's Sam." The correction is automatic, defensive.

"Fine. Sam. What are you hiding?"

You can see the exact moment Sam decides to come clean. His shoulders straighten, chin lifts slightly. "I got into Stanford. Full ride."

Dean freezes, one arm still not through his sleeve. For a heartbeat, his face is completely unguarded—shock, pride, and devastation cycling through his features before he manages to lock it all down.

"Stanford?" he repeats, voice carefully neutral as he finishes pulling on his shirt. "Like, the college?"

"Yeah, Dean. The college." Sam pulls out the envelope again, extends it toward his brother. "I applied months ago. Didn't think I'd actually get in."

Dean doesn't take the envelope. Instead, he turns away, busying himself with his duffel bag. "That's in California, right?"

"Yeah."

"Long way from—" Dean gestures vaguely.

"From what? This?" Sam waves at the dingy motel room. "Crappy motels and credit card scams?"

Dean's hand goes unconsciously to the amulet hanging around his neck. He fingers it briefly before letting it drop. "So, college boy. When were you planning on telling Dad?"

"Tonight. When he gets back." Sam's voice is steady, but you can see his hands trembling slightly. "I'm leaving at the end of the week."

This gets Dean's full attention. He spins around. "This week? What's the rush?"

"Summer programs. I need to be there early."

Dean nods too many times. "Right. Sure. Get a head start." He forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "That's... that's great, Sammy. Really great."

The awkward silence that follows is broken by the rumble of the Impala pulling into the parking lot. Both brothers tense.

"Guess it's showtime," Dean mutters.

You watch the scene unfold like a car crash in slow motion. John's initial confusion giving way to comprehension, then fury. Sam standing his ground, letter clutched in his hand. Dean hovering at the edges, trying and failing to defuse the situation.

"So that's it? You're just going to abandon your family?" John's voice rises.

"I'm not abandoning anyone! I'm just going to college!" Sam shouts back.

"People are dying out there, Sam! While you're off playing student, innocent people are getting torn apart!"

"And they'll still be getting torn apart in four years! There will always be monsters, Dad! But this is my one chance at a normal life!"

Dean steps between them. "Hey, come on. We can figure this out—"

"Stay out of this, Dean," John snaps.

"Don't talk to him like that," Sam fires back.

"It's fine, Sam," Dean says quietly.

"No, it's not fine!" Sam turns on Dean now. "Why are you always defending him? Why can't you see that there's more to life than following his orders?"

Dean's face shutters, the mask slipping firmly into place. "Because unlike you, I'm not looking for a way out of this family."

The words hang in the air between them. Sam recoils as if struck.

"That's not fair," he says softly.

"Isn't it?" Dean's voice is suddenly cold. "You've been planning this for months, keeping it secret. Doesn't exactly scream family loyalty."

You can see it happening—Dean pushing Sam away before Sam can reject him, choosing anger over vulnerability. It's a defense mechanism you've seen the older Dean employ countless times.

"If you're going to leave, then leave," John says, voice deadly quiet. "But if you walk out that door, don't you ever come back."

Sam's jaw tightens. He turns, grabs his duffel bag and begins shoving clothes into it with jerky movements. Dean watches, silent now, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.

"Sam—" Dean finally says, but it's too late.

Sam pauses at the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, duffel in hand. He looks at Dean, a silent plea in his eyes. Wait for me. Come with me. Say something. But Dean turns away, busying himself with cleaning a gun that doesn't need cleaning.

When the door closes behind Sam, the sound is too quiet for the magnitude of what it represents.

John disappears into the bathroom. The shower turns on. And Dean is left alone in the center of the room, still as stone.

You follow him when he finally moves, grabbing his jacket and a bottle of whiskey before slipping outside. He settles on the hood of the Impala, uncaps the bottle, and takes a long swallow.

The parking lot is empty except for the two of you—though he remains unaware of your presence. Above, stars puncture the night sky, indifferent to human suffering.

Dean reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a worn photograph. You move closer to see it's a picture of him and Sam, much younger, arms slung around each other's shoulders.

His thumb brushes over Sam's face once before he tucks the photo away again. Then he takes another burning swallow of whiskey, tilts his head back against the windshield, and closes his eyes.

You sit beside him on the hood of the car that will one day become as much yours as his, watching as a single tear tracks silently down his face. He doesn't bother to wipe it away.

It will be nearly two years before he sees his brother again.

Another shift, and this time the surroundings are familiar. You're in a forest clearing just outside Kansas. The Impala is parked nearby. The Winchester brothers look a little older now. A glance at the hovering billboard reveals that it’s 2007. The year after John dies. And the year before Dean goes to hell.

They're working a case, digging up a grave while bickering in that way that they always do. You've been here before. Not at this exact moment, but in this time. You were alive and hunting during this period, just never crossed paths with the Winchesters until years later.

"Dude, would you hurry up? I'm freezing my ass off," Dean complains, breath visible in the cold night air.

"Maybe if you'd help instead of supervising," Sam retorts, still digging.

"I'm keeping watch! Important job, Sammy."

You smile despite yourself. This is the Dean you first fell in love with—sarcastic, loyal, brave to the point of recklessness.

As they salt and burn the bones, Dean pauses and looks directly at where you're standing. His brow furrows slightly, as if sensing something. You freeze in your spot.

Can he see you?

Your relief is prematurely cut short when he shakes his head and follows Sam back to the Impala.

The transitions are getting faster now, flickering glimpses of Dean across his timeline.

Dean meeting Castiel for the first time. Sam jumping into the pit to save the world. Dean’s life with Lisa. Dean drinking alone in motel rooms.

And then suddenly, everything stops.

Morning light filters through the blinds of your motel room, striking your face with gentle persistence. You open your eyes slowly, disoriented. The flannel shirt is still clutched in your hands.

You're back. The journey—or dream, or whatever it was—is over.

You sit up, running a hand through your hair. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 11:17 AM. Glitching below the time is the barely readable date that makes your eyes go wide.

April 9, 2015.

The day you met the Winchesters for the first time. Holy Shit. What if—

Outside, traffic moves along the highway, ordinary people going about ordinary lives, unaware of the monsters that lurk in shadows or the hunters who die fighting them.

Dean's face lingers in your mind—as a child, as a teenager, as the man you knew. All the versions of him you witnessed, all the pieces that made him whole.

Without really deciding to, you dress and head to your truck. There's only one place you want to be right now.

The Dusty Fork Diner looks exactly as it did when you first arrived five years ago. You slide into the same booth, order coffee, and stare out the window at the parking lot. Everything feels eerily familiar.

You glance at your watch. If memory serves, they'll walk through that door in exactly seven minutes.

The waitress sets your coffee down. You thank her absently, not really seeing her. Your mind is elsewhere, wondering if you've truly lost it this time. Grief can do strange things to a person.

The bell above the diner door jingles.

Your heart stops.

Afternoon sunlight spills into the diner, silhouetting two tall figures. One ducks slightly to clear the doorframe. And the other...

It's them! It's the day you first met!

Somehow, impossibly, you've traveled back to where it all began.

The brothers slide into a booth across the aisle from yours. Sam with his back to you, Dean facing in your direction. Just like before.

The waitress approaches their table. You hear Dean order coffee, Sam excusing himself to go to the restroom.

You can't breathe. Can't move. This is exactly how it happened five years ago, down to the smallest detail. In a moment, Dean will look up and notice you.

The moment approaches. Dean raises his head, green eyes catching the sunlight streaming through the window. The color reminds you of forest leaves dappled with sunshine. His gaze sweeps the diner casually before landing on you.

"Coffee here any good?" he asks, echoing the first words he ever spoke to you.

Finding your voice, you follow the script from five years ago: "Tastes like it was brewed in a boot. But it'll keep you awake."

The moment you say it, something shifts in Dean's expression. A flash of déjà vu, powerful enough to make him flinch.

Sam returns from the washroom, and the waitress seta down their coffees. Dean never takes his eyes off you.

"Do we know each other?" he asks, brow furrowed in concentration. "Because I'm getting the strongest feeling that we've met before."

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Then he's sliding out of his booth, coffee in hand, and approaching yours. Your pulse hammers in your throat.

"This is gonna sound batshit crazy," he chuckles awkwardly before settling across from you. "But I've seen you before," he continues, leaning forward. "You've been in my dreams. My memories."

Sam approaches cautiously, standing at the edge of your booth. "Everything okay, Dean?"

Dean doesn't look at his brother. "You were there when I was a kid," he says to you, ignoring Sam completely. "In our house in Lawrence. I could feel someone watching me while I colored at the kitchen table."

Your breath catches.

"And at that motel when Dad left us alone for a week. I was keeping watch by the window." His voice grows more certain with each word. "And the night Sam left for Stanford. I was sitting on the Impala, and I felt like I wasn't alone."

Sam shifts uncomfortably. "Dean, what are you talking about?"

"You were in Hell with me," Dean continues, his voice barely above a whisper now. "I couldn't see you, but I felt you there. In Purgatory too."

Tears blur your vision. This isn't possible. None of this is possible.

"You were watching over me," he says softly, a bittersweet smile making his lips twitch. "All those times I felt like someone was there... it was you."

"You could see me?" you whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

"No. Not everytime," he admits. "Sometimes there were fragments, impressions of you. But enough to know that somehow, across time, we've met before." His eyes search yours. "Who are you? What are you?

Sam is staring at both of you now, thoroughly confused. "Dean, maybe we should—"

"Give us a minute, Sammy," Dean says, not looking away from you.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of the truth on your tongue. "You won't believe me if I tell you."

"Try me." The corner of his mouth quirks up.

Tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you lean forward. "I was just a hunter you met in a Nebraska diner. Here—at this very moment, this very table. A hunter who became part of your family." Your voice breaks slightly. "In nearly five years from now, I was holding your flannel shirt, crying myself to sleep because you were gone. Then I had these visions of your past. And now—" you gesture helplessly at the space between you, "—I'm back here, where we first met."

His expression shifts, comprehension and disbelief warring across his features. "I died?"

You nod, a tear finally breaking free to trail down your cheek. You taste the saltiness on your lips.

"Was it cool, like in the movies?" he asks, but the forced lightness in his tone can't mask the shadow that crosses his face.

You shake your head, then laugh despite yourself, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "It was messy and sudden. Too much blood. Too much left unsaid."

He nods solemnly. Something in your expression must betray the depth of what you're not saying, because he reaches across the table, offers you a napkin from the dispenser with surprising tenderness.

You take it, dabbing at your eyes, terrified to blink too long lest he vanish like smoke. "What do you think happens now?"

"Now?" A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth—that same smile that first made your heart stutter five years ago. "Now we start over. But this time, we don't waste a single day."

He stands, tugging gently on your hand. You rise, letting him pull you into his arms right there in the middle of the diner. His embrace is solid, warm, real. You bury your face against his chest, breathing in leather and the tinge of his aftershave.

He’s real. He’s here. In your arms.

"I don't understand how," he murmurs against your hair, "but I've missed you."

You close your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. Whatever cosmic force brought you here—gave you this second chance—you silently promise not to squander it.

"I've missed you too," you whisper back. "Every single time."

Outside, the Impala gleams in the afternoon sun. Inside, your fingers intertwine with Dean's, holding on like he might vanish if you let go. Sam watches from across the diner, witnessing something he can't understand but somehow knows is right.

The road awaits—a different road this time, one where Dean Winchester doesn't meet his end in a pool of blood five years from now. One where you don't stand at his funeral wondering what might have been.

The universe has rewritten your story, giving you both a second chance at a first meeting. And this time, you won't let fear or doubt or perceived differences keep you from living every moment.

Because in a world of endless monsters and miracles, you've been granted the rarest gift of all.

Time.

[vampiredaisiesss]

for the game of thrones community, i am currently writing an oc insert time travel got fanfic on wattpad with multiple love interests, primarily robb and jaime. check it out if you're interested, it'll be a fun ride—i promise. updates twice a week.🌻✨

The last leaves of autumn are drifting across Winterfell. Jon Arryn is dead, and King Robert rides North to Winterfell with the Lannisters

[vampiredaisiesss]

GUYS WAKE UP J2M ARE IN SEASON 5 OF THE BOYS!!!! the gag reel is going to be insane this season 😭😭😭

[vampiredaisiesss]

❝ all a ghost can do

is haunt ❞

— part two

★ dofp! logan howlett x younger! reader

tags & warnings - age gap (reader is in her 20's), the brutal sting of jealousy, light angst, a sweaty logan in his slutty white vest, reader being called a kid, descriptive physical fighting, mentions of being touch starved, kissing :)

word count - 2.3k

part one

You wake up to an empty bed.

The indent in the mattress still holds Logan’s shape, sheets carrying the lingering musk of his skin. Real. It was real. A smile tugs at your lips as you press your face into his pillow, inhaling deeply. Your heart feels too big for your chest, giddy and terrified all at once.

Logan—the Logan whose rare smiles have been making your stomach flip for longer than you'd care to admit—fell asleep in your arms last night.

Your fingers drift over the empty space where his body should be, a tendril of anxiety curling in your gut.

You’re not offended by his absence. Of course, he left. He's Logan. He probably has a hundred reasons why this was a mistake— the age difference, your positions at the school, all the complications it would bring.

Above all, he is still your training instructor.

Training. Classes. School.

Fuck!

The clock catches your eye and panic shoots through you. "Shit!" You're late. Very late.

Your telekinesis responds to your distress before conscious thought kicks in. Clothes float from drawers as you brush your teeth, straight to your waiting hand. You catch your reflection as you rush around – cheeks flushed, hair wild, eyes twinkling both with giddiness and anxiety.

Class is mostly uneventful; You find your mind constantly drifting to the training session ahead. The usual thrill of teaching young minds political theories is dulled by the alternating waves of anticipation rolling through your stomach. Each time you imagine seeing Logan, your heart leaps a little in your chest.

The gym is buzzing with activity when you arrive. Rogue catches your eye from her position on the treadmill, her knowing smile making your cheeks warm.

"Hey," she calls out, wiping her brow. "Logan's in the locker room." The wink she adds makes your heart stutter.

Marie has been teasing you about your little crush on "Professor" Logan for a while now. Despite the fact that you’re only a couple years older than her, she seems too determined that Logan’s got it for you. In solitude, you find yourself wondering if he does, even a little bit.

Your feet carry you toward the locker room, greeting students along the way with what you hope passes as a normal smile. Then you hear it—his voice, low and rough, uttering a name that stops you cold: "Jean..."

The world narrows down to the gap in the double doors. Through it, you spot Logan's broad back, his muscles rippling beneath his tank top. Those arms, the same ones that infiltrate your mind so often, are now wrapped around Jean Grey's frame. Her fingers thread through his hair—oh for fuck's sake, his hair—and white-hot jealousy floods your system.

The pain is immediate, like someone's reached into your chest and squeezed. Hot tears prick at your eyes as your mind cruelly reframes every moment from last night. Of course he'd go to Jean. Brilliant, beautiful, mature Jean. Not some young teacher who he probably sees as nothing more than a student who graduated to a friend, someone who needs protecting rather than someone to lean on as a real partner.

What are you to him? A student? A friend? Some kid he needs to protect? 

No.

You refuse to cry here. Swallowing past the knot in your throat, you force yourself to speak, proud when your voice comes out steady. "Logan, are you inside?"

"Uh, yes." His disorientation is right there. "Be outside in a min."

In the adjacent room, you trade your original outfit for a blank tank and track pants. When you arrive back inside the gym, you notice he's wearing a white tank and loose running pants, as opposed to his usual jeans.

It is a good look for him. Really good. Stop looking, you immediately chide yourself.

Logan demonstrates several maneuvers, pointing out where to move and how to strike Usually, he makes you spar with someone else. Someone safe who won't knock your teeth out. But today, you have a different proposition for him.

“Why don't you be the opponent today, professor?"  your words make several students' heads turn. "That way, I'll be learning from the best."

Logan frowns. "That's not happening." He states firmly.

“Why not? Afraid I’ll disappoint?”

“What? No.” He jaw works as he tries to figure out the look on your face. What has gotten into you today? When he speaks again, his voice is lower, meant just for you. "You don't have anything to prove here. You can get hurt."

"I'll heal." The words – his words – hit their mark, and the crease between his brows deepens.

You watch the muscle in his jaw tick as he weighs his options. Behind him, you notice that your little argument has drawn a crowd. Jean stands at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, watching with that penetrating gaze that makes you feel impossibly young.

"Fine," Logan rolls his shoulders, and you see the moment he shifts into instructor mode. "But we do this by my rules. First sign of—"

"Real fight, Logan." You drop into a ready stance. "Stop treating me like I'll break."

Half heartedly, Logan mirrors your stance. "Let me know if it gets too much, kid."

The word 'kid' lands exactly as intended, stoking the fire in your chest. You bare your teeth in what might be a smile. "We'll see about that."

The mat creaks under your feet as you square off against Logan. His stance is relaxed, still dismissive—feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides. You recognize the careful way he's holding himself back.

Something inside you snaps.

You launch forward, aiming high with a strike that leaves you exposed. It is rookie mistake he's warned you about countless times. His response is immediate. One hand catches your wrist while the other sweeps your legs out from under you. The mat slams against your back, forcing the air from your lungs in a harsh exhale.

"Sloppy," he growls, already backing away to give you space. "You're better than that."

You roll to your feet, ignoring the protest of your muscles. Your eyes track his movement—the subtle shift of weight from one foot to another, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders. He's taught you to read these signs, to anticipate your opponent's next move. Now you'll show him how well you've learned.

You feint with your elbow, a move telegraphed enough to make him think you're still fighting angry, still not thinking your moves through. He takes the bait, backing up slightly to avoid the strike. The space opens up exactly as you planned, and you pivot on your back foot, channeling your momentum into a roundhouse kick that catches him across the jaw.

The impact reverberates up your leg, making you groan. Logan's head snaps to the side, and for a moment, the gym falls silent. When he looks back at you, there's something new in his expression. Surprise, yes, but also pride, and something darker.

"Too much?" You can't help the cockiness in your voice, even as your heart pounds against your ribs.

Logan doesn't answer.

Instead, he lunges forward with frightening speed, hands reaching for your waist. You twist away, driving your elbow into his back as he passes. The grunt he releases is deeply satisfying, even though you know he's still holding back. One wrong move with his adamantium-laced bones could shatter yours.

"What's gotten into you today?" he demands, circling you now with predatory focus.

You ignore the question, analyzing his gait for openings. Your next attack is ambitious – trying to use his momentum against him, to flip him over your hip. It's a move that might work on someone your size, but Logan is pure muscle, immovable as a mountain.

Instead of him going down, you find yourself stumbling, barely catching yourself before face-planting on the mat.

His laugh ignites something primal in your chest. You spring up, pushing past your body's complaints, and strike him across the face. It's not a combat move. It's a slap, sharp and personal, the sound cracking through the air like a gunshot. His head turns toward Jean, and the sight of his profile facing her direction reignites your fury.

You don't think. You just move, launching yourself at his exposed back. But Logan's instincts are honed by decades of combat. He spins with impossible speed, catching you mid-air. The world tilts and blurs, and then you're on your back again, but this time he follows you down. His body pins you to the mat, hands gripping your wrists beside your head, knee pressed between your thighs to immobilize you.

The position brings every point of contact between your bodies into sharp focus. The press of his chest against yours, both your breaths intermingling. The callused warmth of his palms around your wrists. The solid weight of his thigh between your legs. 

Anger and desire war in your veins, making it impossible to think clearly.

"Enough! What's this about?" His voice rasps low, meant only for you. This close, you can see the flecks of amber in his hazel eyes, the same eyes that often soften when they fall upon you.

"You wanted me to be able to defend myself," Your voice comes out breathier than intended, betraying the effect his proximity has on you. "I was just being a good student."

You attempt to rise, to escape the intensity of his gaze, but his grip tightens fractionally. The knee between your legs shifts, pressing higher, and suddenly the pretense of combat feels paper-thin. The gym's watching crowd, led by Jean, seems to disperse, offering you some space to work out your… well, whatever it is you two needed to work out.

"This isn’t about proving yourself in combat. You think I’m an idiot?" His eyes search yours, seeing too much. "Is it about this morning?"

The reminder of yesterday stings fresh. "Don't think too highly of yourself." The words come out sharp. "Why should I expect you to stay? You're not my boyfriend."

"Hey, lose the tone!" The command in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, and when you try to squirm away again, his knee presses more firmly between your thighs, holding you open beneath him.

Something breaks inside you then. Maybe it's the warmth of his body egging you on, crystallizing all your feelings into a single moment of reckless courage. Your lips seek his, catching him mid-word. For one glorious second, he responds, his mouth moving against yours with the same hunger that consumes you both in your daydreams.

Then he pulls back, though not far. "Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart," His breath fans across your lips. "Don’t do that."

You feel the tears building, blurring your vision, and hate how easily he can unmake you.

His expression softens at the sight. “Kid..."

"I'm not a kid!" The words burst out with a sniffle.

"No, you're not," he agrees, his voice gentling. "I don't mean it literally, you know."

"I know," your voice catches. "I just wish you'd stop treating me like one."

"I'm over 200 years old, bub."

"You're quite well preserved for a mummy."

His answering chuckle rumbles through his chest into yours. One hand releases your wrist to brush away a tear. "What is it about, really?"

"I saw you with Jean." You admit finally. A sigh leaves him, but you press on. "And I understand, she's older, wiser, more beautiful—"

"You're wise and beautiful,” Logan’s thumb traces your bottom lip, silencing you. "You want to know what happened in that locker room? Jean was telling me to stop being an idiot. To stop running from this, from us. I couldn't kiss her if I wanted to. Been that way for a while now. There's only one person I want, and she just tried to kick my ass in front of the whole damn school."

 "Logan..."  His name fills your lungs like the first real breath after drowning.

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me," you whisper, arching up slightly. His hold on your wrists loosens, prompting you to break free and slip your hands into his locks. Desperately, you plead. "I want you to kiss me."

The moment his lips meet yours, your whole world goes quiet. It's soft—so much softer than you'd imagined the Wolverine could be. Your heart feels too big for your chest, like it might burst from finally having something you've wanted for so long. 

Logan cradles your face like you're something precious. His calloused fingers find yours against the mat, threading them together, and that simple touch sends warmth flooding through your whole body.

Your mind flashes to all those times you've watched him from afar, wondering if he'd ever look at you the way he's looking at you right now. Not as a student, not as someone who needs protecting, but as someone who understands his darkness and wants him anyway. 

It is a feeling capable of curing the ache of starvation that one feels when they've begged for morsels their entire life. And God knows you both have.

"For God's sake, get a room already!" Bobby's exasperated voice cuts through the moment, followed by Rogue's laugh.

Logan's grin against your mouth is pure sin. "What do you say, bub'? Wanna continue this somewhere more private?"

"Thought you'd never ask, Professor."

★

author's note - i might or might not be thinking of releasing a part three by next weekend if this one gains traction. i just love these two soooo muchhh AHHHHH.

[vampiredaisiesss]

beg for it — soldier boy x reader

warnings: MDNI, rough oral (male receiving), misogyny, degradation, soldier boys cums a lot?, basically porn without plot.

welcome to horny town, fellas.

"Pretty please can I have it?"

You're on your knees with a puppy dog look in your eyes. Lashes thick with mascara bat at the man towering above you in all his naked glory. It seems you've kept your bottom lip between your teeth for too long when you taste copper, mixing with the saliva practically dripping from the corners of your mouth.

"Please?"

Soldier Boy doesn't answer you. Instead, he presses your cheeks together and shoves the mushroom tip of his thick cock into your mouth through the O-shaped space he's created.

His cock fills your mouth slowly, the base of it dragging along your velvety tongue, to hit the soft piece of flesh dangling down the back of your mouth. You feel your lips stretch wider and wider as he bucks his hips forward.

The thick girth of his cock reaches down your throat, making the muscle bulge out from outside. He moans at the warm, velvety texture of your mouth, hand leaving your jaw to push your head down on whatever portion of his cock remained out.

Soldier Boy almost shoots his load as you look up from between his thighs. Your doe eyes are wide and filled with tears, nose situated in the bush of curly raven hair around his cock, letting you inhale his manly scent every time you try to struggle for whiffs.

"Look at you so full of my cock," he smirks satisfiedly. "Letting me use that pretty mouth like a pussy to empty my balls in."

You moan at his dirty words, the noise only adding to his pleasure.

"Stupid cockdrunk whore," he grunts, thrusting into your mouth while pushing your head backwards.

Soldier Boy's grip on the sides of your head is light, but determined. It's not like he wants to crush you, but only to remind you that he very well could do it. 

He has your head trapped between the bed and his strong thighs, fucking your mouth to his pleasure— rocking his hips as you gawk and gag on his thick cock.

Honestly, it's sweet fucking music to his ears.

The wet, sloppy sound of him fucking your throat echoes in your ears. Your lips are stretched wide around his cock. Your eyes are watering, your vision blurring. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but take it, take all of it.

Your hands find his thighs, a plea for mercy, for even a second of breath. But it is rejected instantly.

"Oh, no, no, no." Soldier boy tuts, hips never missing a beat. "You're gonna take this goddamn cock like you were fucking born to. You hear me?"

He pistons his hips, slamming into you, again and again, his balls smacking against your chin, his cock hitting the back of your throat, bruising it raw. Spit drips from the side of your chin onto his balls and legs, creating strings between you.

He's close, you can feel it in the tense cords of his neck, the way his breath hitches, the brutal pace of his fucking. Then, with a final thrust, he lets out a roar, his cock pulsing in your mouth. Hot, salty cum explodes onto your tongue, spilling over your lips, pouring down your chin, and dripping onto your heaving breasts.

"Fuck, fuck!"

He withdraws suddenly, fisting his cock hard and fast over your face until thick ropes of his cum land on your face, painting it white.

Soldier Boy looks down at you, a sneer on his lips, his cock still hard, still glistening with your saliva and his cum.

"Clean yourself up," he growls, reaching for the cigarette lying on the side table, and putting it between his lips. "And next time, don't be such a fucking tease."

[vampiredaisiesss]

❝ all a ghost can do

is haunt ❞

— part one

★ dofp! logan howlett x younger reader

tags & warnings - mentions of domestic violence and daddy issues, age gap, (reader is in her early 20s), mentions of logan being referred to as an 'old man' and him calling the reader a 'kid', fluff, itsy bitsy angst, time has softened logan a bit.

word count - 1.7k

part two

★ ★ ★ ★

The whiskey burns, but not enough. Never enough to dull the edges of memories that cut deeper than any blade could. 

Logan sits at the kitchen counter of the mansion, darkness pressing in from all sides. His demons always seem to find him here, in these quiet hours when the world narrows down to silence.

Even the adamantium in his bones feels heavier tonight.

He catches your scent before he hears you—that vanilla body lotion you always use. Your bare feet pad against the hardwood floors, and he takes a long gulp of his Jack Daniels when he feels your eyes land on him.

Your eyes are full of worry, as they often are for him. You can’t help it. You both know he drinks too much, smokes too much, gets angry too fast and doesn’t sleep enough. You might be a lot younger than him, or seen half the world he has, but that doesn’t mean you are incapable of distinguishing his self-indulgent tendencies from self-destructive ones.

"You're brooding again," you murmur, voice soft in deference to the midnight hour. The gentle concern in your tone makes something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

"Ain't brooding, bub. Just thinking." The lie tastes bitter, worse than the whiskey.

"Same difference with you," There's no judgment in your voice as you pad closer. You slip onto the stool beside him, close enough that he can feel the heat of you against his arm. "Share your demons with me, old man."

Logan's grip tightens on the bottle, knuckles white. "They ain't your burden to bear, kid."

"Seems like they should neither be yours to carry alone anymore," Your hand finds his forearm, fingers gently coaxing his own to uncoil from the bottle. "They’re tearing you apart, Lo."

“I’ll heal,” his voice turns assertive.

For the first time since you walked in, Logan looks at you. There’s no real heat behind his hazel eyes, but the intensity of his gaze makes your mouth go dry. 

Logan's the kind of handsome that gets better with age, with grey starting to streak through his dark hair at the sides. You've spent more nights than you'd care to admit thinking about running your fingers through that hair, wondering if it's as soft as it looks. 

“There are some scars that can’t heal on their own.” Your voice catches, vision blurring as memories surface. His expression softens, recognizing your demons as they dance in front of your eyes.

You grew up in a small house on the outskirts of town, where the screams couldn't carry far enough for neighbors to hear. Your father worked construction, coming home with anger burning through his veins, fueled by whatever poison he'd picked up at the local store. The bruises started small—a grip too tight around your wrist, fingers digging into your shoulder. By thirteen, you'd mastered the art of layering clothes in summer without breaking a sweat.

Your mother watched it all happen through a veil of willful blindness. She'd whisper "I love you" while dabbing antiseptic on split lips, promising "things will get better" as she covered the marks with a drugstore concealer. But she never left, trapped in her own web of shame and financial dependence.

The day Charles Xavier found you was the day your powers manifested. 

Your father had been in one of his rages, when something inside you finally snapped. The resulting telekinetic burst had sent him flying across the room. You ran, terrified of what you'd done, of what he'd do in retaliation. That's when the professor's black car pulled up, offering sanctuary within the walls of his school.

Xavier's became more than just an escape—it became home. A home with an unlikely collection of mutants who’d soon turn into family. As far as you were concerned, Charles Xavier was your father and Storm had taken on a motherly inclination when it came to you.

And then there was Logan… gruff, protective Logan who understood you without you having to explain. You both sat in this very kitchen the night you finally told him everything.

You'd watched his knuckles whiten, saw the rage build in the set of his jaw—not at you. Never at you. You remember thinking that your father wouldn't survive the night if Logan decided to pay him a visit. But instead of violence, Logan had offered something far more precious than revenge.

Understanding. 

And that was the first time you fell a little for him. 

Logan lets out a breath that shakes more than he'd like to admit. "Been thinking about Stryker. The lab." His voice roughens as he admits. "Sometimes it all just... comes back. Can’t close my eyes, for the life of me."

You don't flinch from the roughness in his voice—you know too well how memories can become monsters in the night. Instead, your fingers slide down to cover his hand, "Would you like to spend the night with me?"

"That's how rumors start, you know." The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his hand turns beneath yours, rough fingers catching against your skin. He shouldn't enjoy your touch this much, shouldn't let himself notice how perfectly your small hand fits in his giant one.

"You worried about your reputation, Howlett?" You lean closer, unable to help yourself. Everyone else might see your relationship as purely paternal, but the thoughts that race through your mind when he looks at you are anything but daughterly.

"Hell nah, never been." His voice drops lower, rougher, allowing himself this small indulgence. "You sure you wanna be associated with a sleazy old bastard like me?"

"I'm afraid it's too late for that." The words come out playful, but your mind floods with memories. 

Ever since you joined the team, Logan's been your shadow, protecting you during every mission. You think of training sessions in the gym, how good his hands feel when they’re adjusting your stance. You think of the day he carried you through the mansion when your leg broke after a mission gone sideways. You'd been mortified at first, but when you felt him cradle you against his chest, you'd buried your face in his neck.

When it comes to Logan, it's more than just physical attraction. It’s the way he’ll jump in any fire to save you. It's the way he'll sense your fear and comfort you whenever you have nightmares. It’s the way he can make you laugh just by raising that eyebrow in exactly the right way at exactly the right moment.

You felt safe with him. You wanted him to know he could feel the same with you too.

Logan watches you lose yourself in thought, fighting the urge to brush back the strand of hair that's fallen across your face. 

He's spent too long trying to convince himself that his feelings are purely protective, that the way his chest tightens when you smile at him is just paternal instinct. But there's nothing fatherly about the way his body responds when you're close, about how often he finds himself thinking about the sound of your laugh.

"And call it daddy issues or whatever," you add with deliberate casualness, though your heart is hammering against your ribs, "but I like older men. So you're in luck, old man."

Logan knows he should say no. Should keep his darkness away from your light. But when you stand and offer your hand, he takes it, letting you lead him through the silent halls like a ship following a lighthouse home.

He has been in your room before, though never like this. Your room is almost the same as his. Almost, with bits and pieces of you sprinkled throughout. A huge antique bookshelf, courtesy of Charles, is one of them, covering an entire section of the four-walled space. 

You watch Logan from your perch on the bed, the way his hands are curled into loose fists at his sides. "It's okay," you let him know softly. "Let me help."

He draws a breath at your words. His hand falls from the doorframe, and the door closes behind him with a soft click, separating the two of you from the rest of the sleeping world.

The mattress dips beneath his weight when he finally sits. You resist the urge to immediately touch him, letting him arrange himself comfortably, until he's lying down with his head in your lap. 

His breathing is too measured, too even to be natural. You watch his hands, curled still into loose fists against his chest, and wait.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the rigid line of his spine begins to soften. He drapes his left arm over your legs, and your fingers find their way into his hair. And fuck, if it isn’t as soft as you imagined. 

"Is this okay?" you ask softly, working your fingernails through his scalp; The first stroke sends a shiver down his spine.

He responds with a barely perceptible nod.

"You're safe here," you murmur, tracing patterns against his scalp. "No labs, no Stryker. No pain. Just you and me."

His eyes flutter close, though he fights it at first but all protests die in his throat. Your fingers continue their gentle journey through his hair, across his scalp, and you feel him surrendering inch by inch to the comfort he's denied himself for so long.

"Those memories? They're just ghosts now. They can haunt you, but they cannot touch you. They can't hurt you anymore, because you survived. You got out, Logan. You're here. You're loved. You're safe."

A soft whimper escapes him. Slowly, so slowly he almost doesn't notice, the tension begins to leak from his muscles. The metal in his bones feels lighter now, smoothing the worried crease between his brows.

"That's it," you whisper, and he feels the smile in your voice. "I've got you, Wolfie. Rest now."

Wolfie, he smiles sleepily. The nickname is the last thing he registers before sleep claims him whole.

★ ★ ★ ★

a/n: Do we want a part two???

[vampiredaisiesss]

his love has teeth—and i want to be devoured

— castiel has been ordered to save god's righteous man. but will the angel of god save hell's brand new torturer or will he get saved instead?

They say God's righteous man traded his soul like a playing card. And when the night of the reckoning dawned, he obediently let hellhounds tear him open, all to bring his brother back from the cold earth.

What kind of righteous man deals with devils?

The desperate kind.

The Winchester kind.

Hell is a melting pot of everything vile. It claims sinner and saints alike. For thirty years, Alastair peeled him apart — skin to muscle to his psyche. For thirty years, Dean Winchester remembered how to scream his brother's name. Remembered why the pain mattered.

But there are nearly 1.89 billion minutes in 30 years. I don't blame him for forgetting, father. I don't blame him for becoming what he feared.

Does he?

I find him at his rack, picking apart another soul like a child picks the wings off flies.

The righteous man has learned Hell's language too well. His agony has teeth. It bites down hard when I reach out to save him, flesh searing where my hand finds his shoulder. But I am older than teeth, older than this damned pit, older than the first time a creature learned it could hurt another creature.

He flinches when I press two fingers to his forehead, but stays silent as his bones knit back together, as muscle and skin rewrap his frame. He isn't afraid of pain anymore; It is my mercy that terrifies him.

Father, forgive me.

I followed your orders. I restored your creation.

But no one warned me how saving one human soul can feel like swallowing a star, how it burns going down, how you never quite recover from the light.

I have remade him, but I fear he unmade me. Now something grows in me that has no name in Enochian. I can't describe it, but I can feel myself catching it like a fever.

Even his love has teeth, and I find myself aching to be devoured by it.

[vampiredaisiesss]

ghost on aisle six - d.w. x reader

[vampiredaisiesss]

touch me — d.w. x reader

synopsis - you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. the lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter. you find him all the more beautiful like this.

trigger warning - older dean winchester (early 40s) with younger reader (early 20s)

He thinks about time, about how it marks you, about how each silver strand falling to the floor is another reminder of all the years between the two of you.

The harsh glare of the bathroom light is unforgiving, casting every line on his face into sharp focus. Dean watches your reflection in the mirror. The gentle snip-snip echoes off the tile walls as you work the scissor over his hair, your lip caught between your teeth.

Steam still clings to the bathroom mirror from your shower, making the edges of your reflection soft, dream-like. Your tank top's damp where his hair falls against it, and there's something so domestic about this moment it makes his chest ache.

You hum "Hey Jude" while you work, because of course you know that's what Mary sang when she cut his hair. Of course you know that's what he sometimes hummed in his sleep whenever he'd have a nightmare.

"You're thinking too loud, again," you murmur, running your fingers through the short hairs at his nape.

"I've got shirts older than you," he says finally, the words tasting bitter on tongue.

You laugh out loud, and it sounds like every good thing he probably doesn't deserve. "And they're all flannel, and they all smell like gunpowder and cheap liquor that you probably spilled on them two decades ago, but never got dry-cleaned, and I love them." Your smile turns soft at the edges. "Just like I love the man wearing them."

"Kid—" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Don't 'kid' me, Dean Winchester. Not when you're balls deep inside me every night." You pause for just enough time to fix him a determined stare, and he offers you a small smile.

"You think I don't know who I'm choosing? You think I haven't counted every scar, every gray hair, every year you spent saving the world before I was old enough to know it needed saving?"

The scissor is forgotten on the countertop as you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. Your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. The lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter.

You find him all the more beautiful like this.

Dean's throat tightens. You're stripping him bare with your touch. "Exactly. You could have anyone. Someone who—"

He swallows hard, but he's smiling now. His chest feels heavier with something else. "When you say it like that, sounds like I should be in a museum, not your bed."

"Someone who what? Someone who hasn't survived forty years in hell? Someone who doesn't wake up reaching for a weapon? Someone who doesn't understand why I keep rock salt by the bed and devil's traps under the rugs?" You shake her head. "I don't want easy, Dean. I want you."

"There," you say finally, brushing loose hair from his neck. Your lips find that sensitive spot behind his ear, and he can feel you smile against his skin.

"Please," You chuckle. Your hands slide back into his hair, resuming cutting. "Museums are for looking, not touching. "And I'm very..." snip "...very..." snip "...fond of touching you."

"Touch me," he says, and it comes out like a prayer he never learned properly – rough and wanting and holy all at once. It curls around your heart in the shape of Dean's hand.

He reaches up, catches your hand before you can move away.

You touch him like you're reading braille, like every freckle on his body has a story to tell. Your lips trace constellations across the map of blue veins over his body. And when you finally put your lips on the scar along the side of his hip — the first ever souvenir he collected on his skin — you feel the smallest tremor in his breath. It’s so faint, but unmistakable, and for a moment, you could almost swear you made Dean Winchester mewl.

And you do.

[vampiredaisiesss]

love in twenty two | d.w. x reader

summary: an afternoon in october, sitting across from you on a kitchen stool, dean winchester learns the true meaning of the word "love."

Your hands are stained with what could be blood but isn't; the pomegranate bleeds onto the cutting board as you break its skin open.

The kitchen is drowned in October light, a tinge of blood orange that covers your face in streaks. He watches you dissect the fruit with the care of a surgeon, separating white pith from the pomegranate seeds.

You could buy these already processed fruits, vacuum-sealed in plastic at the grocery store. But here you were, your hands stained red, taking twenty-two minutes to do what capitalism could do in two.

Your fingers dive deeper into the fruit's flesh, and the bowl fills slowly: ping, ping, ping.

His heart aches with the weight of something he can't name. His entire childhood has been junk food and trying to patch wounds quick enough to make it to the next fight. But here you are, deseeding a pomegranate for him with a care he’s never known.

The Greeks believed that pomegranates grew from the blood of Dionysus, the god of wine and ecstasy. But unlike the Greek god's blood, which birthed fruit that would feed generations, your labor bears fruit only for his sustenance.

You don't even realize that you are mending something you haven't even broken, teaching him that love can be patient, that he is worthy of being tended to with this quiet reverence.

He breathes in the October air, thick with citrus and the warmth of revelation. This is what love must be, he thinks—an art in its slowness, in the devotion of the simplest gestures.

[vampiredaisiesss]

the anatomy of a goodbye — billy butcher x reader

synopsis - sometimes loving someone means having the heart to watch them leave, night after night, until the leaving becomes permanent.

You press your back against the cold brick wall, your heart pounding in your chest. Just around the corner, Billy stands beneath the flickering streetlight, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

He takes a long drag before huffing out a grey cloud of smoke. Golden specks of light dance around his face, allowing you a glimpse of the shadows under his eyes—the hollowness in his cheeks.

His hand trembles as he flicks away ash. A car passes by, its headlights cutting through the darkness his eyes are accommodated to, and he flinches.

Just for a second, but you see it.

Oh, my love. What demons are you fighting tonight?

You want to run to him, to wrap your arms around his frailing frame and promise him everything is going to be alright. But you both know it's a lie. You're losing him. Every day, every hour, every second of whatever time he has left—you're losing him.

And still, you both can't let go.

He finishes his cigarette, crushing it beneath the sole of his boot.

For a moment, he glances in your direction, and you hold your breath. Does he know you're here? Does he feel your eyes on him, stealing moments of glances every time you can? Does he feel your heart breaking for him, sinking in your chest every time he breaks into a fit of cough?

Please, just go home. Be safe tonight. For me.

But he doesn't. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking down the street, towards the Flatiron.

You should follow him. You should stop him. You should save him even when you know he doesn't want you to.

But you cannot put a shattered glass back together, no matter how deftly you align the jagged shards. You cannot glue the fallen petals back onto the stem of a broken flower, once they have fluttered to the ground. You cannot breathe life back into the dead when the soul has withered.

And you don't move. You just watch as his silhouette grows smaller and smaller, fading into the darkness like a ghost.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

And in the quiet of the night, you wonder how many more times you can watch him walk away before there's nothing left of either of you.