THANK YOU I LOVE THAT MOVIE AND I BOUGHT IT ON WEDNESDAY I’M GLAD YOU CAUGHT THAT.
"Prince Of Hell" - Crowley imagine edited/reposted. The reader, after discovering she’s pregnant, must deal with the frightening task of relaying the news to her lover, the King of the Crossroads. Fluff.
~RECOMMENDED IMAGINE OF THE DAY~ "Overprotective"
I’ll have to call it quits early tonight (my “early” is now five minutes to eleven how sad is that) but I plan on editing some Sam and (maybe) Dean tomorrow. As for the weekend, I’m working both Saturday and Sunday, which, coupled with homework, may prevent a lot of writing, but I’ll try to keep posting things. We do, after all, have a metric shit-ton of writing that needs to get back onto this blog. Also, as I progress forward through imagines, and as my beginner’s writing begins to teeter away to the better stuff, it will likely take a good fifteen minutes less to edit. We’re getting there, minions. Also, if you’d like to message me a preferred brother (a simple “Sam” or “Dean” will suffice) please do so, and I’ll prioritize the brother with the most minions backing their writing and edit for the winner first . Please stay off anon. I know you may think I get seventeen replies to these things, but I get nine at the most. I know when the same person sends in four votes on anon. You are not subtle, minions, but we can work on that at a later date. Please refrain from attempting to rig the vote. I’m off to finish up my Biology homework and sketch an at project until midnight. Until tomorrow, minions. Over and out.
Crowley imagine requested by take-me-to-the-stars! Y’all are just baby-crazy this week! I’ve edited this imagine for reposting, just to add on to the scarce details I thought would suffice back in the beginning days of this blog. Hope you like it!
You stared down at the little pink-capped stick laying in the faux porcelain basin of the motel sink, body rigid with anxiety, your pulse loud enough for the residents behind the thin drywall to hear every stammering beat of your heart, for sure. This was the great reveal. This was the moment that would alter your life, no matter the outcome, no matter the… consequences. Either result, you’d have to tell Crowley. You’d have to look him in the eyes and tell him you were either harbouring a half-demon embryo or that you had almost thought… and you didn’t know which expression would be worse as it played over his features. You only prayed he would take his time in returning to your humble abode, subconsciously crossing your fingers that whatever business he was attending to would drag on and grant you time to chew over the best route of damage control. Alas, your hopes were shattered like a fallen light bulb against concrete, thin glass cascading outwards, a treacherous covering of paper-like shards strewn about, leaving you to tiptoe around the shrapnel. The door to the motel room clicked to a close loudly beyond the bathroom door, the only substance separating you from the King of Hell the cheap wooden planks. Though he could appear beside you at any second, you had come to an agreement that the bathroom was a no-fly zone. Privacy was a must, even in this relationship. The last thing you wanted was for him to walk in on you while you were, so to say, at your most unattractive. Well, it was now or never, your eyes locking on the plastic tube laying oh so innocently before you, the results facing downward. Steeling your breath with a shaky gulp, your fingers extended towards the pregnancy test, hands quivering like the last leaf of summer before it falls to the soil below. You flipped the stick over, pulse stuttering in your chest, your breath trapped in your throat. You forced your eyes to register the two pink lines, the cogs in your brain rusting over, your mind slipping away as you attempted to wrap yourself around the results staring back at you, plain as day.
Holy Hell, you were pregnant. You froze, shock stealing your mobility, your joints crystallizing, your eyes on the thin contraption as if a certain level of scrutiny would seal the two lines together as one.
Perhaps it was wrong… maybe you just had the flu? Maybe you ate something off-kilter, or your hormones were unbalanced because of… of… you had no idea. the outcome seemed impossible. Your mind started wandering, speeding through possibilities, scenarios flickering by like flashcards, your breathing shallowly scraping along the interior of your lungs as your thoughts ran amok. Crowley… if he was angry, there was no chance in Hell of your survival. He could kill you as easily as pressing a fingertip to an insect, murdering his competition, and heir, inside of you in the process, this relying on the accuracy of your drugstore etch-a-sketch. He could kill the baby, leaving you an empty shell, in a heartbeat. He could storm out, leaving you with an anti-Christ on your hands, completely alone and absolutely clueless. You doubted there was a "What To Expect When You’re Expecting The Spawn Of The Devil" handbook out there. The odds of him being happy about your delicate predicament were slim to none in your mind. Crowley was a demon. Demons weren’t created to be the happy, joyous fathers when they received the news. They weren’t the type to walk their children home from school or teach them how to ride a bicycle or cradle their infants as tears ran over their cheeks. Demons were… well, they were demons. If he was happy… he was capable of love, that much you were sure of, but you couldn’t bring yourself to open the door, couldn’t bring yourself to watch that same love dissolve in his ruby irises. His voice seduced the air on the opposite side of the insufficient barrier.
“Darling? I’m back!” he called, his briefcase clomping to the floor with a muted thud, his footsteps waltzing into the bedroom. Crowley had taken the liberty of booking the honeymoon suite for the two of you, just for the sheer luxury; the King of Hell couldn’t be expected to reside in one of those one-room joints. No matter the stale quality, your residence was admittedly superior to the likes of which you were accustomed to prior to involving yourself with the demon. The bedroom connected to the bathroom by a stunted excuse of a hallway, the thin door your only separation from his very likely rage. You gulped down the bile rising from your stomach, the acid scorching along your taste buds, your hands dropping the incriminating test into the wastebasket, trashing the evidence before you set to washing your hands.
You sloshed the frigid tap water over your face, generic citrus soap stinging against your eyes, your frightened features gazing back at you through the looking glass. Your eyes were shining with fear-induced tears. Like it or not, you’d have to face him. Hell, if you could muster up the bravery to willingly commit to dating the King of the Crossroads, a man you knew to be a vicious, merciless murderer, you could let slip one detail. Clearly, you weren’t one to flee from conflict. Also, your flight plans were limited; there was nowhere to run off to, you couldn’t hide from him… you’d be clinging to the shadows forever, a baby in your arms wailing like a verbal flare. They’d never leave you be, they’d never let you live a regular life. Your kid would be hunted from the moment you told your lover, assuming he didn’t take the news lightly.
“Y/n? Is everything alright?” Crowley rapped his knuckles against the bathroom door, startling you out of your escape plans, your body jolting at the abrupt sound. The paranoia was eating you alive, and you had only known of your fate for all of three minutes. Whether you were jumping to violent conclusions, you couldn’t be sure, but Crowley’s unpredictability only furthered your fears. You began to speak, but your response emerged a crackling squeak, vocal chords still solid from surprise and therefore unable to produce an adequate sound. You cleared your throat, shaking hands pressing wetly to your stomach, leaving a dampened imprint on the clothing covering your… baby, the word flickering awkwardly across the expanse of your eyelids. How long did you have before you started to look, you know, pregnant? In short, how long could you avoid the inevitable conversation? Or would it be easier to just… be honest with the man on the other side of the door? Eventually, you found your voice.
“I-I’m fine, babe. Just give me a se-econd.” you stammered, drying your hands on the plush, if starch-stiff, towel, embroidered hearts mocking your current predicament.
“Oh, come out, love, let me see you.” he flirted, his voice thick with adoration, admiration, and something close to idolization. This love, the love that watered his usually harsh tone, would wash away so quickly when he found out. Demons were not programmed to love. Yet, the way he spoke to you twisted the stereotype to the point where a painful, dulling ache of hope fluttered about in the pit of your stomach, a dangerous little thing. Gathering every scrap of courage you could collect, you turned to face the exit, your hand closing around the doorknob, icy metal chilling your skin. You opened the door slowly, gingerly, aware of every aspect of his fury that you had witnessed, the violence he had inflicted upon others, most of the time for your sake, burning into the tissue of your brain. Your eyes shot to the suite’s front entrance before connecting with Crowley’s warm irises, his seductive smile sending warmth and chills down your spine, affection and terror fighting for supremacy within you. His hands snaked around your waist, pulling you over the threshold and into his arms, his wet lips pulling at yours with a patient kind of urgency, so hungry for your affection, yet too caught up in the passion of the moment to move too quickly through the embrace. Your eyes flickered closed, your brain going fuzzy, a high-pitched buzzing filling out your ears, erasing the terrified pulse for an erratic, excitable thrumming. His tongue darted into your mouth, his hands angling your face to his, his chest pressing against yours deliciously. When he dragged the tip of his tongue over your lips, you shivered, the cold extinguishing the flames his presence ignited. Your head began to clear as his actions slowed, your thoughts tugging back towards the situation at hand. Crowley bit at your lip, and you found your hands pressing against his chest, easing him away from you, your body seizing up. His expression of shock was almost humorous, if you hadn’t known his temper. God, you had to say it before you convinced yourself to wait, before his kiss tempted you into denial, before your love thieved your logic away.
“Wha-” he began, voice rising an octave in confusion. You braced your body against the wall, the beeline to the door a clear path. Maybe, just maybe, you could run past him, if things went downhill. He parted his lips to continue his thoughts, but you cut his speech short.
“Crowley, I’m pregnant.” You spat, your stern voice battling off tremors, the result a surprisingly stoic exclamation. His face went blank, all emotion sapping from his features within a second. Your breath polluted the silence, Crowley’s hands frozen in his shocked shrug, his body stuck ten seconds behind his mind. Then, a miracle, if you’d ever seen one. His face broke into a smile, his feet crossing the room to meet you, hands grasping the sides of your face as his fervent lips colliding with yours, his unabashed grin present through his kiss. When he pulled away, he was beaming, his grin illuminating the room, his eyes glimmering red before fading back to the human-esque chocolate he knew you preferred.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked, his voice tainted with joy. You sighed in relief, nodding, every ounce of fear draining from the soles of your feet through the motel’s scuffed wooden floorboards. Crowley laughed aloud, his hands clenching around your waist, hoisting you up into the air and spinning you around, placing you down in the center of the room after a whirlwind journey, his lips finding yours once more. “A prince of Hell! Can you believe it? And you’re certain?” he chuckled, his grin threatening to overpower his face, cheeks stretched almost painfully to accomodate for his glee. You laughed with him, brain backtracking to every moment he’d exhibited his love for you, every second he’d spent smashing your assumption that demons were incapable of affection. After all he’d done for you, you’d still allowed yourself to ignore his actions for the standard his species held with pride. Of course, he would be happy. If he cared for you half as much as you did him, you could expect no less. You threw your arms around Crowley’s neck, allowing him to swing you into the air once more, embracing you again, Hell’s royalty celebrating in an unlikely motel room, his lips pressing into your cheeks, laughter filtering through the air.
Happy… evening… minions. It’s actually closer to night now, but I’m in denial. I, as I tend to do, passed out after school until about an hour ago, which leaves all of my homework undone. I have quite a lot to get done, but I’m happy to procrastinate and dig into my sleep to get some work up for you all :) Besides, I care far more for writing than algebra. I’m planning on editing some Crowley for you guys, and that’s likely to be it for the night, as that homework load does have to get done by the morning. Stay tuned for some King of the Crossroads and, you guessed it, another pregnancy imagine. I’m not sure why they’re all concentrated into this week… I don’t write pregnancy imagines that often, but it seems I’ve stumbled upon ALL of them all at once. Expect that to be posted within the next hour. I’ll get to editing, minions. ALSO, SMUT REQUESTS ARE IN HIGH DEMAND. Also, other types of requests are welcome. I’m very, very, dangerously low (as in 0-2) on Charlie, Crowley, Gabriel, Kevin and Castiel. Those would be super helpful. Right, work. I need to do that. Over and out.
"A Heavenly Stranger" - Castiel imagine edited/reposted. The reader, currently homeless, stumbles upon an unlikely friend in a man who calls himself Castiel, the two holing up together in a church, staying the night out of the cold. Fluff.
~RECOMMENDED IMAGINE OF THE DAY~ "Marco, Polo"
Alas, minions, it is far too late now to begin editing a new piece for reposting. I’ll try to get that Crowley fix fulfilled tomorrow, but (as always) I may be overrun with homework and unable to commit to writing. Just as a reminder, the "Barracks" are still (and always will be) accepting recruits for notifications when their favourite character is written. People in these barracks will be notified either through ask or fanmail whenever their favourite character is written for. Say you like Dean. Join the Dean barrack and you’ll never miss an imagine! All you have to do is message me OFF anon (so I know who the Hell I’m sorting) and I’ll drop your URL into a barrack with a link over it (for ease of contact)… and you’re set. I’ll message you a brief summary of the imagine (something like you’d see in a “Written today” post) along with a broken link (parentheses go around punctuation so the link can be sent through ask), bada bing, bada boom, you’re done. Just drop me a line if you want to be sorted. ALSO, requests are still more than welcome. I’m looking for smut requests as well as anything involving Crowley, Castiel, Kevin or Charlie, smut or fluff. Those would be much appreciated. Until tomorrow, minions. Over and out.
Minions, I must focus now on my English homework (which is usually no trouble)(I mean)(I write every day), which involved annotating a SUPER GRIPPING article about procrastination, followed by a write-up of what I gleaned from reading the VERY EXCITING text. I should be able to come back and edit another imagine, but if I don’t, expect more work tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy this link to the imagine I just wrote (linked below), as well as this invitation to join the Barracks (found, obviously, on the "Barracks" page). We currently have full vacancy in the Castiel Barrack and many, many places available in others. If you’d like to be placed in a Barrack (and notified whenever I write for your character of choice (I.E. PICK ONLY ONE, MINIONS) via ask), please feel free to message me off anon. Over and out, minions.
Castiel imagine requested by anon! This imagine has been edited for reposting to amp up the details and bring my sub-par beginner’s writing up to my current standards. Also, disclaimer, IT ONLY LOOKS REALLY LONG BECAUSE OF DIALOGUE BREAKS. Trust me, it’s not a novel. Hope you like it!
The wooden pew was hard beneath you, the constant discomfort distracting you from the staggering beauty of the church you were temporarily calling home. The stained glass windows sent delicate beams of colour cascading to the sparkling pine floors in glittering shafts, igniting the motes of dust in technicolor, little sparkles in innumerable hues drifting about the stagnant chapel air in a celestial ballet. The pews were polished to gleaming perfection… their pristine glow a false advertisement of promised relaxation, given their tendency to sap every scrap of comfort from a user’s body, an experience you were currently dealing with, your spine crackling against the solid wood every time you squirmed. This place was stunning, you’d grant it that much. You wouldn’t mind crashing here, among the sinners and repenters… Hell, you’d sleep on the altar if you had to, or under a bench for a few nights… just until the snow cleared outside. Being without a place of residence wore harshly when the winter blew in, all ice and running noses and people too concerned with sprinting through the mounds of blinding white into a shelter (and out of the blustery snowfall) to spare a dollar for someone, like you, who had nowhere to run off to. Though the thought was borderline sacrilegious, you decided on transforming the place of worship into a holy sort of motel room, claiming your current pew as your poor excuse of a mattress. You hoped to God none of the angels minded your abuse of their house. After all of your bad luck, the last thing you needed was divine intervention, least of all that fueled by hostility.
It was on days and nights like this that being homeless transformed from a major inconvenience to a threat on your life, your lack of fortune and housing leaving you to hold your own against Mother Nature’s oh-so-courteous blizzards without any means of warming yourself, unless you holed up like a rodent in a public building, such as you intended to do tonight. Temperatures this low did not fare well with those unable to don their fur-lined parkas and sip their peppermint lattes in the comfort of their heated automobiles, headed home (key word here being “home”) to their electric fireplaces and scratchy woolen blankets and their Christmas carols. Most people on the other, less glamorous end of the spectrum ended up dead in a snowbank, their fingers frozen stiffer than the icicles dangling above them. You refused to add yourself to the body count. Thus, you were showing up bright and early for Sunday mass.
The morning had attracted a handful of the congregation’s most devout to pray, lined up in the first pews in a fashion similar to elementary school overacheivers grabbing the desks in the front of the classroom, plopping themselves where their hand could most easily be seen by the teacher… or, in this case, God. You fidgeted on your pew, desperate for comfort, watching them all knead their rosary beads between arthritic fingers and twist the binding from their bibles, confessing their silent infractions, their heads bent over, posture riddled with guilt. The women wore their pearls, the men, their slick black dress shoes, all tidied up for an entity they had no proof could see them at all. They had such blind faith… you only wished you had been fortunate enough to receive that same religious trust. It came with stable bearings, you assumed. Regardless of your lack of belief, you bowed your head, mirroring the people rows before you, clasping your shivering hands together in mock-prayer, sin prickling with the unshakable feeling of being watched, your eyes nervously flickering to the painted Jesus staring down at you from the window panes. God, they knew you were a phony. You were definitely going to Hell.
“What do you pray for?” Came a gravelly, surprisingly gentle voice from behind you, startling you out of your paranoia, your head snapping u to attention at the sound. You turned in the direction of the hushed voice, locking eyes with sapphires, suspended over a stubble-ridden jawline, the man leaning forward on the pew behind your own, his lips pursed in question and his hands clasped between his legs, wrists propping themselves up on his knees. Though he was disheveled, he was admittedly beautiful… and on to you. You shrugged, shifting so as to better accommodate for conversation, eyeing the figure in the window once more before focusing your attention on the stranger.
“Nothing, really. I’m not the praying type.” You replied, admitting your falsehood, your voice barely scraping a whisper for fear of disturbing those in the front of God’s classroom. They seemed like the type to tattle to the teacher. “Just keeping up appearances.” The man smiled at the floor, lips stretching over a shy grin, his head dipping in silent amusement. His broad shoulders shuddered once before he reigned in his laughter, lifting his gaze to yours, eyes molten oceans of emotion you could not yet read.
“I have…” he dropped his voice lower, his jaw clenching as he realigned his thoughts. “I had a friend like you. Never the religious type. And yet, you find yourself in a house of God.” He smirked then, eyebrows lifted to acknowledge the irony of your predicament. Your cheeks flushed a violent crimson, the smear of colour walking hand in hand with delectable, staticky warmth, heat erupting along your cheekbones. Of course, it did seem rather odd to find a non-religious woman sitting with polite quietness on a church pew, pretending to pray. Despite your raging blush, you held his eye contact, smiling as if unaffected by the blasphemy you were swimming in.
“Hey, I’m just using the roof,” You chuckled, rubbing up and down your arms to illustrate the cold that racked your body. The man’s eyes melted around his sorrow, blue darkening from within in a style you found only the genuine and pure of heart can accomplish. His hand rested on your shoulder, palm spreading electrifying flames to lap at your bones, your heart hammering against your chest.
“I understand your burden. Its become too cold to sleep outside. Would you mind if I joined you?” He asked, brow furrowing in understanding. You then realized that the pain in his eyes was also derived of a gut-wrenching loneliness. Holy Hell, he was homeless too. Recently so, you noted, as he didn’t yet seem used to the art of hunkering down where he didn’t belong. You nodded your consent to his inquiry, offering a weak smile.
“Of course, …?” Your voice trailed off, encouraging him to introduce himself, your body hyper-aware of his hand on your shoulder.
“Claren… Castiel. My name is Castiel.” He spoke slowly, picking and choosing his words carefully. You grinned, struggling against the snort that threatened to shatter the peace of the sanctuary.
“Were your parents Bible-thumpers or something?” You giggled, watching his face light up, his head tilting to the side, brows raised.
"Yes, I suppose you could say that." He laughed, facing you once more. You whispered your name, his smile spreading to reveal straight teeth, his kindness inducing your own grin. A woman in the first pew shushed you loudly, her behind squeaking against her perch as she swiveled back to face the board. So much for being respectful.
“Its a pleasure to meet you… Y/n.” The way your name rolled off of his tongue and the minuscule smile that danced over his smooth lips made your heart flutter. He stood, shuffling down the short stretch of aisle, plopping down beside you, his arm brushing against yours. You set to explaining the workings of infiltrating the church, hashing out the details, ensuring neither of you were caught whilst hiding from the janitors. When night fell, you emerged from the confession chamber to find an empty church, the entrance door closing behind the heel of the departing custodial staff. Castiel crept into the sanctuary from the nursery, fists laden with a handful of cheap granola bars, which he set down on an unassuming middle pew, the same you had claimed earlier in the day, your footsteps echoing against the vacant church as you strode towards your new friend. You both scuttled underneath the wooden bench, preferring the scarce carpeting to the unforgiving pews, unfolding the thin blankets you had stuffed in a world-weary backpack over your bodies, using each other for warmth, the shift in position awkward at first as you allowed the stranger to tilt his chest to yours, his arm slithering beneath your head, his muscles a human pillow. The air inside a sanctuary, as you may know, is never silent, but filled with phantom song you can just barely hear if strain your ears. The shallow sound erupted once you and Castiel had finished crunching on your makeshift dinner, the absence of white noise in your ears from chewing the stale granola making room for the empty song to flood your way. You both admired the true heavenly chorus, the man’s eyes falling on yours as you listened to the nothingness.
“How long have you been homeless?” You mumbled, your voice remaining docked to a whisper despite your lack of company, the question emerging when the empty language made you uneasy. Castiel, his arm underneath your head, shrugged, eyes flashing upwards as he counted. The facade was tangible, the answer slapped across his face like ink, obvious though he tried to hide the truth; it had been a while since he’d last known a home. His voice perked up in the darkness, matching your tone as he breathed a response.
“As long as I can remember. Perhaps a few months.” He replied, eyes lowering to meet yours. You giggled, unsure whether or not he was cracking an amnesia joke or if he was serious. He laughed along awkwardly, his body shifting closer to yours. “My memory doesn’t stretch very far back.” Your silence prompted his eyes to flutter to yours once again, his brows pinching briefly before his lips turned upwards. “What is it?” he asked, dissecting your quiet as you lay together beneath the pew.
“You’re… different, Cas. Is it alright if I call you Cas?” You pondered, snuggling closer to him in the most unromantic way possible (though your heart seemed to believe otherwise), your plea for heat embarrassingly clear. He obliged to your wordless complaint, further proving your statement as he held you tighter to his body, willing to share his warmth on the chilled church floor, the fibers of the carpet wearing against your clothing as the man moved you.
“My friends used to shorten my name as well. It does make it easier.” He said, voice deepened by a dull pain and sharp with fact. “How am I different, Y/n?” You thought on this, stewing the examples in the musty odor of aging talcum powder and decades of dust, the traces of musky perfume clinging with admirable vigor to the motes swirling still in the air. This man had not yet known you a full day, and all he’s done for you… he was unlike anything you’d ever seen. In short, he was an angel.
“You’re very… innocent. And kind. I mean, you shared your food with me, we’re holed up beneath a bench together and you haven’t tried to cop a feel. That’s… that’s something. I don’t know, it’s… the world hasn’t gotten to you yet.” You concluded, your feet tangling with his, both of you wearing bulky layers of thermal controlled stockings you’d scavenged from the donation bin in the back of the hall of worship, guilt chewing at your insides, though, technically, those clothing were going to end up with you anyways. He inhaled deeply, pulling from the same scent as you had, and smiled, his face inches from your own, eyes boring down into yours.
“No, I suppose it hasn’t.” With that, you drifted to sleep, guarded by the unlikely angel you’d discovered in a stranger, his arms protecting you from the cold.
Hello, minions! I think it’s best to get the good news out before the bad. The people in this fandom… we’ve been through enough, you know? Let’s maybe smile a bit first, shall we? I’m about to sit down and edit a Castiel imagine for reposting, and I may be able to write more after for whatever character I see fit, probably Crowley. I’ve got time, though I also have a bit of homework. You guys are my priority.
Okay, bad news… I’ve decided to drop the BFC (Biggest Fan contest, as you may know it)(more information on said contest can be found on the "Guidelines" page under the section titled “In Regards To The Biggest Fan Contest”). This decision was made due to the lack of responses from most of the winners, which then backed up the contest results, which then lead to a cluster of work I had promised to sit down and write (which takes a good chunk of time, minions) and woah, was it hectic. Some winners sent in triggering topics„ which lead to awkward chew-outs and all the fun stuff that comes along with those… you get the idea, it was a lot of unnecessary trouble. I’ll still be doing the contest occasionally, just not at every hundred. I apologize, minions, but it’s just been really taxing to wait for replies and find default winners and work out things I had already written and… yeah. Sorry again. I’ll get to working on that Castiel imagine… under this rock… so I’m not attacked by the masses. Over and out.
"Marco, Polo" - The second installment of the "Gone Without A Trace" series (that link will take you to the first installment) in which the reader, having been taken captive, meets up with her lover once again. Fluff.
~RECOMMENDED IMAGINE OF THE DAY~ "Night Terror"
I’ll hopefully be able to edit/repost some Castiel or Crowley tomorrow, but I have quite a bit of homework to complete, as well as a test to study for. I’ll try, minions, believe me. The "The Story Continues…" page has been updated with two new links and a bit of reformatting, so you might want to check that out. Until tomorrow. Over and out.
Second installment of the Dean imagine "Gone Without A Trace," (you’ll be able to find that imagine linked on the title as well as on the "The Story Continues…" page) the extended plot line brought to you by a lovely anon. ”If you do decided to make a sequel for “Gone without a Trace”, a possible plot could be that after a few months after the reader leaves, when she has a visible bump, demons kidnap her to use her as bait to lure the Winchesters and when they go to rescue her, Dean finds out about the pregnancy and after he and Sam defeat the demons, the reader and Dean reunite, all fluffy XD" I’m still unsure of whether or not to tear your beating hearts from your chests with this one, minions. Don’t expect a warning if this gets sad.
Living a proper, normal life hadn’t been as easy as you had assumed when you trudged along the ribbon of drying grass on the edge of the highway, abandoning your former way of living for a cherry-pie existence, the best solution you could fathom to ensure your child’s safety. For starters, you ended right back in a motel room, dusty comforters and grime-slick faux porcelain bathing basins greeting you like an unsightly blemish on your face after a night of praying the mark would disappear before morning. Your credit scams barely covered the expense of your living conditions, but your sticky fingers managed to fill your increasing appetite just fine. Not exactly an honest mode of survival, but it was for the best. You couldn’t endanger your baby. You could throw your neck beneath the guillotine as easily as breathing, but your child… your child was a different story entirely. Blame it on the hormones or blame it on the hero complex, you weren’t about to plop your flesh and blood atop the torture table for who knows what to carve up, even if the price of it’s safety was your happiness. Visions of Dean pulling at his hair as he searched for you, tossing pillows and scanning the windows for sulfur haunted your every nightmare, his emerald eyes brimming with tears as his mind ran rampant, imagining your fate, holding himself accountable, without doubt. After about two months, your sleep became dreamless. One more month after that, you hardly remembered sleeping. Perhaps you didn’t. You couldn’t say. the only reminder of time passing was the gradual swelling of your stomach, an almost unnoticeable food baby of sorts, bulging out to strain against the fabric of your tee shirts, a dead giveaway of your oh-so fragile condition.
Your weary way was not paved in ammunition; in fact, you were in the process of re-sensitizing yourself to the familiarity of holding a firearm of sheathing a dagger in your jacket while on a grocery run (where everything was free if you could pocket it fast enough), leaving your means of protection in your duffel, though it fought against your every instinct like a caged bear fights against the chains securing it’s massive paws to the steel bars. It was due to this new habit that your kidnapping was so successful. A knock on the head, most likely a bottle of some kind, as the lacerations were made painfully obvious upon your waking, was all it took to make you mobile. You emerged from your surprise slumber to the dim lighting of a bare bulb on it’s last legs, the glass container of illumination spluttering every few minutes, as if catching it’s fleeting breath, denying Death the right to reap a perishing soul. Beneath your sprawled legs was the unforgiving surface of porous concrete, the hardened foundation of a warehouse, a factory, someplace no one would look for a drifting, faceless, friendless pregnant woman, your denim scratching against the floor as you shifted in your seat. Chains jingled behind you, alerting you of their presence, your wrists shackled behind your back, cool metal wearing against your already numbed skin, your bindings creating ironically merry music as you twisted your hands, pulling your skin against the thick bands locking your arms from use, unable to slip from the cuffs. The acrid stench of sulfur tangled with the dust motes above you brought about the knee-jerk identification of your captors, though they remained unseen, the ringing in your ears fading in time to hear their frantic whispering from beyond o rotting wooden door, planks appearing spongy, patches of mold growing in obsidian clusters along the weakened wood. You continued your thrashing, attempting to yank your hand from the metal bracelets, your neck straining as you tugged. Suddenly, the door flung open, the terrified face of your impromptu guardian contorted with the extent of her fear, eyes pooling like ebony glass behind a thick fringe of lashes, her brow furrowing in anger as she locked her gaze on your sorry strive for freedom. She bolted towards you, her steps quickening before stumbling to a halt, her skull flashing a fiery crimson before her eyes glazed over, her body striking the floor. As she fell, she cleared your view of the doorway, where the familiar features of a familiar hunter stood behind the smoking end of his gun, his emerald eyes widening as he took in your form, crumpled upon the floor. His brother flocked to his side, hauling his own demon in tow, his hands gripping a bicep and an angel blade, the point pressed to the vessel’s spine. His eyes flashed to his brother, who had lowered his arm, frozen in shock, the demon laughing joyously.
"Y/n?" Dean whispered, his lips moving around your name, flinching as if the very word stung him, driving thorns into his heart as he spoke. His eyes never left your face, though his hand drifted to his chin, fingers running through the stubble along his jawline, the demon’s words hardly denting his overwhelmed lack of composure.
"We thought a little family reunion was overdue," she hissed, voice lilting like a bell as she spat the words, Sam’s grip tightening around her arm. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, his arm falling limp to his side, brow knotting as he scanned your body for signs of injury or physical harm, pointedly ignoring your stomach.
"Sammy," He rasped, voice hoarse from emotion. His eyes returned to your face, dissecting your calm facade (though, internally, your organs were executing a rather complex synchronized swimming routine) as he sidestepped away from his brother. Sam’s blade disappeared within the vessel’s back, bones illuminating within her willowy figure before she joined her companion on the ground. He took the liberty of excusing himself from the room, exiting to search the rest of the building, his hazel eyes soft on his brother’s before he ducked around the corner. Dean remained locked in time, his chest rising and falling the only indication of life, his eyes molten on yours. You avoided his stare, writhing about in your chains, the hunter finally snapping out of his trance, rigid limbs working once more as he rushed to your side, kneeling as he began to pick the lock on your constraints. The proximity was… damn near intoxicating, his touch so gentle, delicate even, as he removed the frigid bands from your wrists, his calloused hand dropping from yours when you flinched away, his breathing shallow, almost calculated, in your ear. After a moment of immobility, he moved to lift you from the ground, his hands gripping beneath your arms as he raised you to a standing position, his eyes dropping to the tightened cloth covering your distended belly, his breathing slowing further. You fully intended to inch away from him, but he held you to his chest, your shoulder separating you, his a breath away from yours. "Y/n…" he began, exhaling your name, his features twisted in pain. "I, uh…" he shook his head slightly, swallowing once more before returning his gaze to you. "I found the test. In the trash. Why didn’t you… you could have told me instead of walking out like that. I tore that place apart, thinking you were killed or taken or, I don’t know, ten things worse than that. You didn’t even tell me where you were going. I don’t know why you left, but I’m not… mad at you, for this.” His eyes drilled into yours, displaying his emotion like warpaint, his sincerity tangible in the air. His heat radiated outward, engulfing you, dragging you into him like sunfish to a flashy lure. You turned to face him, your body pressed against his at every angle, your child between you, your hands ghosting to his chest as you nuzzled your cheek into his shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist, relief filling his lungs as he sealed you to his body, lips planting kisses all along the top of your head, his nose inhaling the scent of you.
"Dean, I don’t know if we can…" you began, his gentle whispers hushing your words, his gravelly voice assuring you that you would be fine, his palms rubbing patterns into your back as he rocked the two of you, well, the three of you, in his arms. In that moment, he had you convinced of your safety. Nothing would harm you, or your child, with a father like Dean standing guard.