when I was like 14 I used to reblog these posts on here that were like "YOUR 20S ARE NOT AN IMAGINARY RACE YOURE DOING JUST FINE!!" just to be positive towards my older mutuals even though i didn't really get what they were about and I'd be in the tags like "#so true!! #everyone does things at their own pace!!" and now im 24 I'm thinking back to it and it's like Oh of course the imaginary race. Which im losing
recent portrait. hai guys haiii haiii
1x02 / 1x03 / 1x04
looking through discord messages trying to find lore of your own oc is so funny. like let me consult the sacred texts
"They go to SEX CLUBS and pretend to be DOGS!"
Yeah well you go to church every Sunday and pretend to be a good person
"Nobody is coming to save you" WRONG! I am running late. I DO NOT have a HORSE!
SUPERNATURAL 1.17 HELL HOUSE
you know, a strong as fuck ice mummy doesnt actually delineate any hostility. the ice mummy could be chill. metaphorically. you know
Humans lowkey don't have enough climbing enrichment at home
↳ what we built
summary: after the world doesn’t end, dean winchester chooses to live. this story follows dean and reader as they leave hunting behind and build a quiet life together — one filled with ordinary days, growing old, and a love that doesn’t end, only waits.
pairing. dean wincchester x reader
genre. fluff, feels
word count. 886
warnings. pregnancy (if you squint), aging, death
a note from starlight ᝰ.ᐟ there is a "mrs" in this chapter but i originally intended for this to be a gn!reader so that's my bad...
sam blinks between the three of you.
dean’s grin from a second ago is gone—replaced by something steadier. realer.
dean looks at you first. not for permission, for grounding.
then he turns back to his brother.
“we need to talk, sam.”
sam’s eyebrows lift. eileen glances between them, eyes widening slightly.
“he said sam,” she signs, half-stunned. “must be serious.”
you smile at that, soft and knowing.
the kitchen smells faintly like coffee and old wood and home. dean pops two beers and hands one to sam, who leans back against the counter like he’s bracing for bad news.
dean doesn’t sit.
“i’m done,” he says.
sam frowns. “done…?”
“with the life. the bunker. hunting. all of it.” dean exhales, scrubs a hand over his face. “i want to live. i want a house. a job. i want to grow old. i want to spend whatever time i got left with them.”
he swallows hard.
“and i don’t want to die on a hunt.”
sam just stares at him.
dean braces himself for the argument. the guilt. the ‘what about saving people’ speech.
instead, sam laughs.
it’s not cruel. it’s not dismissive. it’s relieved.
“oh my God,” sam says, shaking his head. “dean. you scared the hell out of me.”
dean blinks. “what?”
“i thought you were dying or cursed or something.” sam takes a sip of his beer, smiling softly. “man… i want out too. eileen and i, we’ve talked about it. a lot.”
dean’s shoulders sag, the tension bleeding out of him all at once. “seriously?”
“seriously,” Sam says. “you’re not abandoning me. you’re choosing yourself. about damn time.”
dean laughs, shaky and disbelieving. “so you’re… okay with this?”
sam steps forward and pulls him into a hug.
“i’m happy for you.”
in the library, you and eileen sit cross-legged on the floor, backs against the shelves.
“so,” eileen signs, thoughtful. “guess this is really happening.”
you nod, eyes drifting around the room. the bunker has always felt eternal—unchanging, indestructible. now it feels… tender.
you think about the memories layered into the walls. getting drunk with the boys that first thanksgiving after moving in, laughing until you cried. forcing dean to haul a christmas tree inside three years ago because you deserved a real holiday, damn it. watching scooby-doo in the dean cave and laughing for hours. still, somehow, finding confetti in random corners from the new year’s eve six years back.
“gosh,” you murmur. “i’m really going to miss this place.”
eileen nods. “yeah. but… we’re not losing it. we’re just… outgrowing it.”
life after the bunker is quieter.
you and dean find a place not too far away—a fixer-upper with creaky floors, a leaky sink, and way more potential than polish. dean takes one look at it and grins like he’s found buried treasure.
he becomes a mechanic. turns out he likes fixing things that stay fixed.
you take a job doing something steady, grounding. something that lets you come home at the end of the day and leave work at the door. the house slowly comes together under dean’s hands. new cabinets. fresh paint. a porch he insists on rebuilding himself.
your relationship changes.
it gets better.
there’s no more watching the clock during hunts. no more stitching him up with trembling hands. when he drinks now, it’s on warm afternoons with the grill going and classic rock humming from the radio.
the demons don’t vanish completely. the nightmares still come—but quieter. less often. and when they do, dean wakes up to your hand on his chest, your voice steady in the dark.
he’s focused now.
on you.
on the small life growing beneath your ribs.
years pass.
your son becomes a teenager—too smart for his own good. your daughter hits her tween years like a hurricane, stubborn and loud and fearless.
dean has never been so stressed in his life.
“she’s thirteen,” he groans one night. “i’m not emotionally equipped for this.”
you laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “you wanted this, winchester.”
he sighs dramatically, then smiles.
“still do. mrs. winchester.”
more years.
the kids come home from college for thanksgiving break. you cook dinner while laughter fills the house. sam and eileen are there, their daughter tucked between them. sam points at dean’s hair and smirks.
“you know you’re going gray, right?”
dean scoffs. “distinguished.”
everything feels full. earned. safe.
time keeps moving.
the kids grow up. build lives. call home.
dean grows old.
when he goes, it’s quiet. peaceful. the way he always deserved.
you live on.
one evening, missing him especially hard, you pull on one of his old flannels. it still smells like him—oil and soap and something warm you can’t name.
your fingers brush against something in the chest pocket. a folded note.
you sit down before you open it.
“ you always loved this flannel, so u figured this was the best place for you to find this.
i’m not great at letters. you know that. but i didn’t want to leave without saying this.
thank you for giving me a life.
not a job. not a mission. a life.
loving you was the best thing i ever did. and if i had to do it all over again—every hunt, every screw-up, every scar—i’d still choose you.
i’ll be waiting. no rush. ”
—dean
fantasy is when currency is referred to as "gold" and sci fi is when currency is referred to as "credits"
