In Re: “cas Knows Dean Better Than Sam”

y'all, I'm sorry, he's so bad but he's so fine. like I can't even defend him

Incest fics are way too common

Dean's baby (Dean x reader)

Summary: After a long day of research, you go bother Dean in the garage.

words: 2.7k

Warnings: none

The bunker’s garage. Dean is under the hood of the Impala, a socket wrench in one hand, grease smudged on his forearm. His muscles flex subtly beneath his t-shirt with every movement, the faint sheen of sweat catching the dim light filtering through the room. The scent of motor oil hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of tools and old leather. The rhythmic clinking of metal echoes softly, grounding the space in familiar sounds of work and grit.

You wander in, your footsteps light but still noticeable against the concrete, the echo bouncing lazily through the garage. Boredom clings to you after hours spent in the bunker.

 The day had started off normal: wake up, polish some ancient weapons down in the bunker, make breakfast, and check the news for any strange sightings. One report caught your attention, a possible wendigo sighting. You never liked those. They always made your skin crawl.

That’s where you’ve been for most of the afternoon: doing research with Sam. Well, mostly he’s been doing the actual research while your mind drifts elsewhere.

Honestly, you’re a little annoyed with him. The younger Winchester and his big, stupid puppy-dog eyes. And that hair, god, that hair. Always falling into his face until he sweeps it back with that effortless little motion, usually when he’s frustrated or deep in thought.

You’d caught yourself staring, a lot.

Anyway.

You spot Dean, engrossed in his work in the garage, and smirk to yourself.

"Hey, grease monkey," you call, leaning against the workbench with a lazy grin.

Dean doesn’t flinch. His arm tenses as he tightens something under the Impala’s hood, the movement drawing attention to the way his shirt strains slightly across his shoulders. There’s a faint sheen of sweat along his forearms, catching the light just enough to highlight the grease smudges marking his skin. The garage hums with the familiar scent of motor oil, metal, and leather, a warm, grounding smell that feels like him.

"If you’re here to help, there’s a rag over there. If you’re here to annoy me, the exit’s where you left it," Dean mutters, not bothering to look up.

You smirk but don’t move. "Why not both?"

Finally, Dean ducks out from under the hood, giving you that half-annoyed, half-amused look he’s perfected over the years. His eyes meet yours, sharp and clear, but your mind has already started drifting, back to where you spent most of the afternoon.

Research with Sam.

You were more focused on how easily he navigated the endless pages of lore and obscure texts, piecing things together faster than you could even process. It’s annoying, how effortlessly smart he is, how his mind seems to work ten steps ahead while you’re still trying to catch up.

You pretend it doesn’t bother you, but sometimes it does. Not because he makes you feel small, Sam would never do that, but because you wish you could keep pace. And honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how often you find yourself nodding along, hoping he doesn’t notice when you’re completely lost.

Dean's voice pulls you out of it. "Aren’t you supposed to be helping Sammy with the case? Or did you solve it already while staring at his hair?"

Your cheeks heat, but you roll your eyes, playing it off "Sam’s doing his super-sleuth thing," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "I was starting to lose brain cells watching him cross-reference, so I figured I’d come see some manual labour”

Dean smirks, turning back to the engine. "Well, you came to the right place. Watch and learn, kid. This baby’s a masterpiece."

"Masterpiece? It’s stuck together with duct tape and prayer."

Dean freezes, socket wrench in hand, and slowly turns his head to glare at you. There’s that dangerous glint in his eyethe one that usually means you’re about to get roped into cleaning weapons or organizing the storage room. But beneath the mock offense, there’s humor simmering just under the surface.

"Careful," he says, voice low with faux seriousness. "You’re walking a fine line."

You hold his gaze, arms crossed, trying not to let the corner of your mouth twitch. Dean’s like that, a mix of sharp edges and warmth that sneaks up on you. He acts tough, all bravado and snark, but you’ve seen him stay up all night patching Sam up after a hunt, or quietly fixing the broken lock on your door without ever mentioning it.

"Relax," you tease, nudging the Impala’s fender with the toe of your boot. "I know she’s your baby. I wouldn’t actually insult her… to your face."

Dean’s glare narrows further, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. "Good. Because this ‘baby’ has more heart than most people I know. You’d be lucky to be half as reliable."

You snort, shaking your head. "She’s lucky to still be running at all."

Without missing a beat, Dean grabs the dirty rag from the workbench and flicks it at you, the grease-streaked fabric catching you square in the shoulder.   

"Hey!" you yelp, recoiling with a laugh as you swat it away. "Gross!"

Dean grins, clearly pleased with himself. "That’s what you get for disrespecting the queen." He tosses the rag back onto the bench like nothing happened, already turning his attention back to the Impala.

"You’re impossible," you mutter, brushing off the faint smear left behind.

"And you’re still standing in my garage," Dean counters, leaning back under the hood. "Which means you’re fair game."

"Yeah, yeah." You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the grin tugging at your lips.

Moments like this, easy, light, and a little messy, are the rare ones you tuck away for later, because you know they don’t come around often.

It’s strange, really. How easily this life found you. Or maybe how easily they found you.

Meeting the Winchesters hadn’t exactly been planned. You stumbled into their world under circumstances that could generously be called chaotic, one wrong place, wrong time situation after another until suddenly, there you were. Tied up in the mess of hunts, ancient books, and things that shouldn’t exist outside of nightmares.

But somehow, instead of leaving you to deal with it on your own, they’d taken you in.

Dean likes to act like you’re a pain in his ass, but he’s the one who never lets you drive anywhere alone. The one who shoves a gun into your hand and taught you how to shoot, even if he complained about it the entire time. And sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, his eyes soften, if only a little.

And Sam, Sam’s different. Gentler in his approach, but no less protective. He’s the one who stays up late researching the things you don’t understand, explaining it all in that calm, patient way that somehow makes you feel a little less out of your depth, even when you know you’ll never catch up to him.

They don’t call it family. Not out loud. But it’s in the way Dean knocks your boot off the workbench with a muttered "Get your feet off Baby," or the way Sam always checks to make sure you ate something after long nights.

It’s quiet, unspoken, but you feel it all the same.

You let out a breath, still leaning against the workbench, watching Dean work. "So, what’s wrong with her this time?"

Dean shrugs, wiping his hands on another rag, his muscles moving slightly with the movement. "Nothing serious. Just a tune-up. Gotta keep her running smooth." He glances over at you with that smug, gruff look, eyes gleaming. "Something you wouldn’t understand, what with you not knowing the difference between a carburetor and a spark plug."

You gasp, hand to your chest in exaggerated offense. "I know what a spark plug is! It’s the… sparky thing."

Dean freezes for half a second, staring at you like you’ve personally insulted his entire existence. And then he barks out a laugh, loud and unapologetic, shaking his head. "Sparky thing. Yeah, okay. You’re a regular gearhead."

You roll your eyes, stepping around to the other side of the Impala and leaning against the fender with a lazy stretch. "I’m just saying, for someone who spends hours messing with this thing, you could at least upgrade to something newer. You know, with Bluetooth. Or seat warmers."

Dean’s hand stops mid-wipe, and he lowers the rag slowly, fixing you with the kind of glare that suggests you’ve crossed into dangerous territory. "Seat warmers? Really?" His voice drips with disbelief, as if you’ve just suggested painting flames down the sides of the car.

"First of all, seat warmers are for wimps. Second, this car’s got more soul in her headlights than any of those plastic toys rolling off assembly lines. She’s not just a car. She’s family."

"Right…." you say, holding back a laugh. "The Impala is the real Winchester sibling."

"Damn straight," Dean replies, his tone serious.

He goes back to tightening a bolt, his forearms shifting with the motion, tense and controlled. There’s a natural ease to the way he moves, like he’s done this a thousand times, every motion instinctive. His t-shirt pulls just slightly across his back as he leans over the engine, the faint sheen of sweat from hours in the garage catching the low light.

You try not to notice, but it’s hard to ignore the quiet strength in the way he works, strong hands, calloused and capable, making even the smallest task look deliberate.

For a moment, the only sounds are the soft scrape of metal and the rhythmic click of his wrench, and you find yourself lingering longer than you meant to.

You tilt your head "You really love this car, huh?"

Dean glances at you, his expression softening slightly. "Yeah, I do. She’s been through a lot with us. Hell, she’s saved our asses more times than I can count."

He pauses, rolling the wrench absently in his hand, eyes flicking over the engine but not really seeing it. His voice drops, quieter now, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. "When everything else goes to crap, at least I know she’s still here. Still running."

For a moment, the weight of his words lingers, heavier than the air thick with motor oil. You catch the flicker in his eyes, the kind that doesn’t need explanation. It’s not just the car. It’s everything she’s carried him through.

The unexpected honesty catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t have a snarky comeback. You watch the way he absently runs a hand along the edge of the hood, fingers tracing the curve like it’s second nature. You can’t help but wonder how many nights he’s sat in the driver’s seat alone, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

"That’s... kinda nice," you say quietly, the words feeling too small for the moment but all you can come up with.

Dean straightens, shrugging it off almost immediately, like he didn’t just crack the door open to something more vulnerable. His eyes flick back to you, the faintest smirk returning to his face. "Yeah, well, don’t get too sentimental on me. Next thing I know, you’ll be asking to drive her."

Your eyes light up, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Oh, can I?"

The shift is subtle, classic Dean, slipping behind the wall the second things start feeling too real. But there’s still something lingering in the way he watches you

"Not a chance in hell."

"Come on, Dean!" you whine, stepping closer. "Just once! I won’t even go out of first gear."

"Nope," Dean says, popping the P with exaggerated finality. "This car’s got standards."

You pout, leaning against the Impala dramatically. "You’re no fun."

Dean raises an eyebrow, and walk’s round the car towards you: leaning in a little closer, his teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m plenty of fun. You just don’t meet the qualifications for the VIP package."

His voice drops slightly at the end, smooth and full of that effortless confidence he carries around like armor. It’s the kind of line he throws out without a second thought, but it lingers longer than you expect, heating the space between you just enough to make your pulse pick up. You tell yourself it’s just the closeness, the warmth of the garage air, and not the way his eyes flick over you like he’s enjoying your reaction.

"Wow," you say, tilting your head with a mock-offended scoff. "Now you’re just being mean."

Dean chuckles under his breath, shifting back a fraction but still well within arm’s reach. There’s something easy about the way he leans, like he knows exactly how to walk the line between playful and challenging.

"Mean?" he echoes, standing upright and planting his hands on his hips, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to be noticeable beneath the grease-smudged fabric of his shirt. His gaze locks onto yours with that familiar intensity, the one that’s half teasing and half something else you can never quite place. "You just called my car a sparky, duct-taped death trap. You’re lucky I let you breathe near her."

You know he’s joking, mostly. But there’s something about the way he says it, the protective edge creeping into his voice like he’s daring you to insult the Impala again. You’ve seen him put himself between her and danger more times than you can count.

You laugh, holding your hands up. "Okay, fine. I’ll leave your precious car alone." You step back, your grin still in place. "But if you get stuck in a ditch again, don’t call me to push."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "Like you could push anything heavier than a shopping cart."

His voice carries that familiar roughness, laced with amusement, the kind that makes it impossible to take him seriously, even when he’s laying the sarcasm on thick. You roll your eyes, pushing off the Impala with an exaggerated sigh.

"I’ll remember that next time you need me to help save your sorry butt," you shoot back, already heading toward the door.

It’s the kind of banter that feels second nature by now, the words rolling off your tongue as easily as breathing. But just as your hand brushes against the doorframe, something tugs at you to glance back.

Dean’s still there, leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed, watching you leave with a half-smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes follow you, not in a way that demands attention, but in that quiet, lingering way of someone who’s gotten used to having you around. Like maybe he notices more than he lets on.

Your grin softens almost involuntarily, the sharp edges of the teasing fading into something quieter. "Besides, you’d miss me too much”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but there’s no denying the way his eyes warm just a little. He doesn’t say anything, just gives a short, gruff nod like that’s answer enough.

And it is.

"Thanks, Dean”

Dean rolls his eyes, picking up his wrench again. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here”

You giggle lightly as you disappear down the hallway, your footsteps soft against the cold bunker floor, Dean’s eyes trail after you. He shakes his head with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Seat warmers," he mutters under his breath, glancing at the Impala like she might somehow agree with him.

The sound of Sam’s voice drifts faintly from the library, calling your name, probably to drag you back into research or help with whatever case he’s buried in.

Dean’s smile fades just slightly, not gone, but dimmed, like someone turned the dial down a notch.

His hand lingers on the Impala for another beat longer than necessary before he shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders as if to shake something off.

He ducks back under the hood, wrench in hand, and mutters under his breath, "All right, Winchester. Get a grip."

But even as he works, his thoughts are still trailing after you, following the soft echo of your laugh down the hall.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Please be nice it was my first one, any feedback would be appreciated ;)

*unshed tears shining in my eyes*

So beautiful and brutal at the same time😭

The Last Goodbye

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Warnings: Infidelity, major character death, emotional distress, pregnancy loss, grief, regret, angst

Word Count: 1,000+

Inspired by @writing-fanics

It began as a whisper of discomfort. A slight fatigue that settled in your bones, an ache that did not fade even after hours of rest. At first, you dismissed it. A lady of your station had little time to entertain sickness—there were balls to attend, guests to entertain, and a household to manage. Anthony, always busy with his responsibilities, hardly noticed.

You told yourself it was nothing.

But then, the fevers came.

They crept in during the night, leaving you shivering beneath layers of blankets, yet drenched in sweat. The coughing followed—deep, wracking fits that left you breathless, clutching your chest as if you could hold your very life in place.

Still, you told Anthony nothing. He had already been so distant. His late nights had become more frequent, his excuses less convincing. Parliament meetings. Affairs of the estate. And yet, his cravat smelled of perfume that was not yours.

So you suffered in silence.

-

The physician confirmed what you already feared.

Your condition had worsened. There was no cure, only time—time that you did not have.

Benedict was the first to notice. He saw the way your hands trembled when you lifted your tea, the way your complexion had lost its color. He sat beside you more often, watching, worrying. It was Benedict who sent for Anthony the first time you collapsed, body too weak to carry you forward.

But your husband had not come home that night.

When he arrived the next morning, his eyes were tired, but not from concern. His cravat was slightly undone, the buttons of his waistcoat not fully fastened. You had seen him leave in pristine condition—he had not slept in your bed.

“Where were you?” you asked, voice hoarse from the previous night’s coughing.

Anthony hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, before forcing a smile. “Matters of business, darling.”

Lies.

But you were too tired to fight.

-

You were mostly confined to your bed now.

The sickness had taken too much of you—your strength, your appetite, your breath. Each step was a battle, each word an effort. The physicians tried what they could, but their expressions told you the truth.

You were dying.

And Anthony still had not noticed.

He came home later and later, his excuses becoming nothing more than background noise. He did not see the hollows beneath your eyes, the way your hands trembled when you reached for him. He did not see the way Benedict looked at him—how dare you leave her like this?—or the way your ladies’ maids turned away, unable to hide their pity.

You wanted to tell him. To scream at him. To make him see you.

But what use was a battle when the war was already lost?

So, you smiled when he kissed your forehead. You forced yourself to laugh when he told you of his day. You pretended you did not smell her perfume lingering on his coat.

And at night, when he did not come home, you wept.

-

Anthony had finally noticed.

It was Benedict—of course, it was Benedict—who had forced him to look at you.

“She is dying, Anthony,” Benedict spat, gripping his elder brother by the collar. “And where have you been? With her?”

Anthony had scoffed at first, had shoved Benedict away with a roll of his eyes. “You are being ridiculous. She is—”

Then he had seen you.

You had been sleeping when he entered the room, your form barely more than a shadow beneath the sheets. Your skin, once so full of warmth and color, was ghostly pale. Your lips were dry, cracked from fever. Your breaths came shallow, labored, the rise and fall of your chest so faint it terrified him.

“Y/N…”

He had whispered your name, but you had not stirred.

For the first time in months, Anthony had sat beside you. He had taken your hand—too thin, too cold—between his own and felt his heart plummet.

How had he not seen it?

How had he let this happen?

That night, Anthony left for Sienna’s townhouse, but not for the reasons he once had.

He was going to end it.

But Sienna did not make it easy.

“So now you remember you have a wife?” she had scoffed, draping herself over the chaise, eyes dark with amusement. “Is that not what I’ve always been to you, Anthony? A distraction from your duties? And now, because guilt tugs at your heart, you come to rid yourself of me?”

Anthony had clenched his jaw. “I should never have come to you in the first place.”

Sienna’s laughter had been bitter, cruel. “And yet, you did. Over and over again. While your wife lay dying in your grand estate, you were in my bed.”

He had left without another word. But the damage was done.

-

Anthony rushed through the doors of your chamber, breathless, desperate.

“Where is she?” His voice was frantic, cracking under the weight of fear.

Benedict was still seated beside you, his expression unreadable as he lifted his gaze.

“She is gone.”

The words knocked the air from Anthony’s lungs. His eyes darted to the bed, to your still form beneath the blankets, your face peaceful, untouched by the pain that had consumed you for months.

“No,” he whispered. “No, please—please, my love, wake up.”

He was at your side in an instant, grasping at your hands, pressing frantic kisses to your fingers, your knuckles, your wrists—anywhere he could reach. But you were so cold.

“Y/N,” he choked out, tears falling freely now, his whole body trembling. “Please, I am here now. I—I was going to fix this. I was going to—” His voice broke. “I should have been here.”

Benedict stood, his face void of sympathy. “Yes,” he said simply. “You should have.”

Anthony let out a strangled sob, his forehead pressing against your still chest. He had failed you. He had abandoned you in your final days, had left you to suffer alone while he chased after foolish, meaningless desires.

And now, it was too late.

You would never hear his apologies.

You would never know that in the end, he had chosen you.

All you had known before you left this world was his absence.

And for the rest of his days, Anthony Bridgerton would carry that unbearable, unshakable grief.

-

The world felt like it had stopped. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of lavender still lingered, but it was stale, lifeless—just like the room, just like you.

Anthony’s hands trembled as he held yours, the warmth he had once taken for granted completely gone. You weren’t asleep. You weren’t waiting for him.

You were gone.

A strangled sob tore from his throat. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, willing his love into your lifeless fingers, hoping—praying—that it would bring you back. But there was nothing left. Only the sound of his own broken breaths and the weight of the silence pressing down on him.

This was his fault.

He had left you to suffer alone, blind to the pain in your eyes, deaf to the way your voice had weakened. He had been with Sienna while you lay here, waiting for him, needing him. And now, when he finally realized what he had done—when he had finally chosen you—you were already gone.

He had failed you.

Benedict stood quietly by the door, watching, his gaze unreadable. He had been here, Anthony realized bitterly. He had been the one to hold you as you slipped away. He had been the one to witness your last breath.

Not Anthony.

Never Anthony.

“I told her you would regret this,” Benedict finally said, voice hoarse with grief. His fists clenched at his sides. “I told her you would come crawling back too late.”

Anthony couldn’t even argue.

He deserved every ounce of venom in his brother’s voice.

A rustle of parchment broke the silence.

Benedict reached into his coat, pulling out a folded letter, sealed with wax. He stepped forward, shoving it into Anthony’s hands, his eyes burning with something between sorrow and rage.

“She wrote this for you,” Benedict said, barely holding himself together. “She told me to give it to you only after…” His voice caught, but he swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “After she was gone.”

Anthony could barely breathe as he looked at the letter. The edges were slightly crumpled, the ink slightly smudged—had she struggled to hold the pen? Had she been in pain while she wrote this?

With shaking fingers, he broke the seal.

My dearest Anthony,

If you are reading this, then it is already too late.

I wish I could have seen your face one last time. I wish I could have told you that I still love you, despite everything. But life is cruel, and time has run out for us.

I have known for some time now that I was not meant to stay in this world much longer. I felt it in the way my body betrayed me, in the way the pain settled into my bones, refusing to leave. I wanted to tell you, to beg you to stay, but I could not bring myself to do so. I knew your heart was elsewhere.

Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I wanted you to choose me on your own.

I wanted you to come home because you wanted to, not because you felt you had to.

But you never did.

And so, I made my peace with the silence.

But, my love, there is something I did not tell you—something I could not tell you.

I was with child.

Your child.

I found out only weeks before the sickness took hold of me. I had dreamed of telling you, of seeing your face light up with joy, of feeling your hand against my belly as our child grew. But I was afraid.

Afraid that you would not care.

Afraid that even this would not be enough to bring you home to me.

I wanted so badly for our child to know a father’s love, but as the weeks passed and my strength faded, I realized that they never would. I realized that I would never hold them, never hear their cries, never see them take their first breath.

I lost them before they ever had a chance to live.

And it broke me, Anthony.

It broke me in a way that nothing else ever could.

I know that you will carry guilt for this. I know that you will grieve. But I do not want my last words to be ones of anger or bitterness.

Despite it all, I loved you.

I loved you with every part of me, even as my heart shattered.

And I hope—no, I pray—that one day, you will learn to love again. That you will cherish what you once took for granted. That you will never let another love slip through your fingers as you did with me.

Goodbye, my love.

Yours, always,

Y/N

Anthony couldn’t see past his tears.

The letter crumpled in his grip, his hands shaking violently. A strangled, guttural cry tore from his chest, echoing through the room.

She had been pregnant.

With his child.

And he had never known.

He had left her alone to suffer, to mourn, to grieve the loss of their baby all by herself. She had gone to bed every night with the weight of their unborn child pressing against her ribs, knowing she would never hold them.

And he had been with Sienna.

Benedict turned away, unable to watch as Anthony broke completely.

He did not comfort him.

He did not tell him it was alright.

Because it wasn’t.

Because Anthony Bridgerton had done something no man should ever do—he had abandoned the love of his life in her time of need.

And now, he would have to live with it.

Forever.

#PERFECTLY MATCHED FREAK

this is what i hoped for in season 3 🥹

A pleasant surprise

Summary: Colin returns from his travels with more than just teas and stories.

Paring: Colin ‘my wife’ Bridgerton x Female Reader

—————-

Saying you were nervous was an absolute understatement. In fact the honest truth is that you were on the verge of a panic attack. You knew this meeting was inevitable, had known really ever since you laid eyes on him. But the prospect of shocking, nay disappointing, his entire family made you feel nauseous.

Colin’s hand gently gripping your thigh, stopping your legs nervous bounce, was the only thing keeping you grounded. You could see the grand houses of the ton out the carriage, feel it coming to a halt. It was time, you wanted to run. However the man beside you was enough reason to stay. Colin was the love of your life, and you his. Hopefully his family could see that.

The valet opened the carriage door and you took a deep breath. Colin alighted first, then giving you his hand to help you out. Bridgerton house was stunning, flowers drooping from vines that ran up the brick walls. The sweet smell of the flowering wisterias engulfing you. You gripped Colin’s hand as he led you straight in, not bothering to wait at the front door.

The grand entrance opened in front of you, and you could see it was just as beautiful as the exterior. The walls, painted a lovely shade of baby blue, hung portraits showcasing the happy family. You let go of Colin to examine a painting of him in his youth but was interrupted by a shriek.

“Colin, your home!” A young girl screamed with delight as she ran and wrapped him in a hug. ‘This must be Hycainth’ you thought smiling. The commotion caused a flurry of footsteps and soon a mass of people were descending into the foyer from all directions. Each gave Colin a spirited greeting ranging from tight hugs to affectionate forehead kisses. Last to arrive was a beautiful women who had to be Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, taking him in her arms and whispering how happy she was he was home. The closeness of the family brought a grin to your face.

And then suddenly you were spotted Hycainth and with a shout of “Who’s this?” all attention was directed to you.

“Family, I have an announcement.” Colin began, grabbing your hand in his. “This is my wife,” he declared introducing you by name.

“Your what?” One of the brothers, Anthony you presumed, muttered; the first to recovered from the shock.

“We met in Madrid while I was travelling”

“Madrid as in Spain? Does she even speak English. She probably just tricked you to marry into English money,” Anthony proclaimed, earning an elbow from his wife in the process.

Colin went to reply, but you gave him a gentle shake of your head.

“Viscount Bridgerton, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You are just like Colin describe,” you smirked, your polite words not matching with your tone of voice. “As you can see I do speak English, in fact I am from this country. Just outside of Bath to be exact. I too was doing some travelling when I met your brother in Madrid. My father, a Duke, was there on business and he asked me to accompany him. Colin and I met studying Spanish in a local language school, I wanted to understand the language so I could help my father negotiate his deals.”

“My apologies for my son, I believe he sometimes forgets he is not the only member of the family with some sense,” Violet said, a gentle smile gracing her face. “But may I asked what brought on marriage,”

“I knew Colin was feeling homesick, wanting to be nearer to his dear family yet my fathers business in Spain was not due to end for many months. We couldn’t bear the thought of being apart, and I didn’t want to be the reason Colin stayed away from his family.”

“She made the sacrifice to leave her family so I could be with mine,” Colin confirmed, pulling you in to his embrace. “I knew we were going to have to marry so we could travel together without scandal, and in all honesty I could not wait to call her my wife,”

“Oh sweethearts, congratulations” Violet muttered pulling you both into a hug. “But don’t think you’ll get out of having a celebration, there will be a ball thrown in your honour!”

One by one each family member came to greet you and give their congratulations.

Benedict gave you a giant hug followed by angrily whispering to his brother ‘How dare you leave me to face the ton’s mamas on my own, we had a pact’.

Eloise gave you a half smile, ‘I can’t say I see why you chose to marry my brother, clearly the imbecile is lacking in the upstairs department. However it would be nice to have another intelligent woman in the house, How would you feel about teaching me Spanish?’ You readily agreed.

Hycainth and Gregory both wanted to know if Colin and yourself had brought them anything from abroad, in which you winked conspiratorially as an answer.

Daphne and Kate both gave you warm hugs, and promised to get to know you more over tea once you settled.

Anthony was the final one to approach. He gave you an apologetic smile before muttering ‘I would be grateful if you could come help me with some documents in my study sometime. We have business in Spain and I admit that I know nothing of the language. Your insight would be a major asset to the family.

————-

Hope you all enjoyed! Honestly I just see this on brand for Colin. As if he didn’t fall in love with every female he crossed paths with. Basically I just picture him as young Bill in Mamma Mia

P.S. no surprise who greeted Colin with a forehead kiss xx

I love post canon fics where Snape survives, and then he finally meets up with Harry again and it’s like

Harry: I finally respect you as a person, and I am grateful for everything you have done. We could not have won without you and your sacrifices, so thank you.

Snape: …

Snape: Ew

Ah yes! the defining unit on deciding the mental issues of a person "vibes"

I like that one of the major plot points in Dexter is just that the police are a deeply flawed institution. So flawed that a cop can kidnap one child and condemn another to life in a mental hospital based on ‘vibes’.

Its soooooooo goooooooooddddd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

More Than Honour

Chapter 23: Threadbare Composure

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: They called it dinner. With candlelight and wine and the illusion of civility. But beneath the silver and silk sat something hungrier. A table of secrets. A room of witnesses. A game no one agreed to play— and everyone was losing anyway.

Anthony sat rigidly in his chair, hands folded too tightly over his napkin. Lucien was too quiet. Edwina too radiant. And you—too far away. Still laughing softly at something Hyacinth had said. Still occasionally turning toward Lucien like he was gravity.

Violet had nearly succeeded in shifting conversation toward something neutral—opera seasons, carriage redesigns, the weather in Bath—when Daphne, seated beside her husband, lifted her wine glass and gave her brother a look that could only be described as wicked.

“Well, since we’ve all touched on the subject of Anthony’s impressive... need for control,” she began, smooth as clotted cream, “did you know he once challenged Simon to a duel?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then—

Gregory gasped audibly.

Hyacinth knocked her spoon into her bowl.

Lady Mary made a startled noise into her wine glass.

Edwina blinked rapidly. “A duel?”

Colin groaned. “Not this story again.”

Colin dropped his spoon. Benedict leaned back, suddenly grinning.

“Oh, absolutely this story again,” Benedict said, leaning in with an almost reverent grin. “I had to physically stop him from marching Simon into the woods like a madman.”

Simon, calm as ever, lifted his glass with a small smile. “He was halfway through threatening my bloodline before Daphne even finished adjusting her hem.”

Anthony shot him a glare. “You laid your hands on my sister—”

“I kissed my fiancée,” Simon corrected, eyes twinkling. “You responded like an unhinged opera villain.”

Lucien, very casually cutting his meat, didn’t even look up. “That explains the dramatics. I did always sense you had a flair for duels, Bridgerton.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched. “At least I didn’t court my scandals publicly.”

“Oh no,” Lucien murmured, still not looking at him. “You just escorted yours into the woods and declared war.”

A collective snort erupted from Colin, Benedict, and Hyacinth.

You, despite yourself, let out a sharp laugh—and quickly masked it behind your wine.

Anthony’s gaze snapped to you.

You were already composed again. Almost.

“I do recall Daphne mentioning the incident,” you said mildly. “And something about you screaming something dramatic about honor while she was still smoothing her skirts?”

Eloise grinned. “He did. I heard about it from the butler before breakfast.”

Simon chuckled. “I believe his exact words were: ‘This family shall not be disgraced by a Duke with no intentions.’”

Benedict added helpfully, “And then he tripped over a tree root and tried to duel anyway.”

Hyacinth, delighted, leaned forward. “Did you use swords or pistols?”

Anthony, visibly exhausted, pressed his fingers to his temple. “Pistols.”

Lady Danbury, who had been silently sipping her wine through the entire affair, spoke for the first time. “I remember that morning. The ton nearly combusted. You know, if you’d fired a moment earlier, half the gossip circles would have had to rename the Bridgertons entirely.”

Colin mock-gasped. “The Bleedgertons.”

Lucien, shaking with silent laughter, raised his glass. “To duels poorly thought out, and reputations narrowly saved.”

Anthony ignored him, turning to Daphne with something that looked suspiciously like pleading. “You couldn’t have picked any other story?”

Daphne’s smile was sweet. “You chose to escalate. I chose to educate.”

Gregory, still wide-eyed, turned to Simon. “Would you have shot him?”

Simon looked contemplative. “Possibly in the leg. Nothing fatal.”

Lucien finally looked up, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “And would you have apologized, afterward?”

Simon met his gaze evenly. “Depends which leg.”

Even Kate cracked a reluctant laugh at that.

Anthony, thoroughly outnumbered and glaring daggers at everyone, turned to you—his last possible source of dignity.

But you only tilted your head with faux sweetness. “Well. I suppose this means you won’t be proposing a garden stroll tonight.”

Benedict choked on his wine.

Edwina blinked between the two of you, utterly baffled by the dynamic she could not name.

Anthony said nothing.

And Simon—ever the quiet disruptor—leaned back, swirling his drink.

“I’m beginning to enjoy family dinners,” he said.

Lucien, with barely veiled amusement, leaned forward. “So just to be clear…you threatened bodily harm because a man fell for your sister?” His gaze flicked to Anthony, eyes glinting. “Are we sure you have not scheduled my duel yet?”

Anthony stiffened.

You, ever so sweetly, patted Lucien’s arm. “If he has, I will stand between you and the bullet.”

Lucien turned to you with a grin. “Ah, my angel. Always dramatic.”

Colin snorted. “You are one to talk.”

And for the first time since soup had been served, you found yourself laughing out loud—with Lucien beside you, Anthony smoldering across the table, and the entire house two anecdotes away from burning to the ground.

The laughter from Daphne’s duel anecdote still lingered in the air like smoke — sharp, stinging, leaving behind the burnt edge of revelation. Anthony had gone quiet again. Simon had leaned back into his chair, smug and satisfied, while Benedict and Colin wore identical grins that said we’ve waited years to say this out loud.

You had barely touched your wine, fingers tracing the rim of the glass, eyes fixed somewhere past the flickering candlelight in front of you. You weren’t retreating. Not exactly. Just… breathing. Carefully.

Which is why you missed the glint in Eloise’s eye before she spoke.

“So, Lord Blackbourne,” she said, far too casually for anyone to believe she hadn’t planned it. “Why do you call Y/N angel, anyway?”

The fork you were holding paused mid-air.

Eloise continued, elbows unapologetically on the table as she leaned in toward him with narrowed curiosity. “You don’t use her name. Not even in passing. Just… angel. Repeatedly. Sounds intimate.”

Gregory immediately turned, alert. Hyacinth’s eyes sparkled. Colin snorted into his wine. Kate tilted her head.

Anthony… didn’t move.

You felt every eye shift to you—but you didn’t flinch.

Lucien didn’t flinch.

Instead, he set down his glass with a quiet ease, his gaze finding you immediately. Not with a smirk or a laugh. But with something quieter. Something that slowed the beat of your heart.

“When I first said it,” Lucien murmured, his voice like velvet brushing against the grain of the room’s tension, “it was meant as mischief.”

Your breath caught.

“The kind of name you give someone when you’re trying to disarm them,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours. “Because they’re looking at you like they know your game and won’t play it. Because their smile is lovely, but not soft. Because you say it once and expect it to land lightly.”

He leaned back slightly, almost contemplative now. The room around him faded — for you, and seemingly for him as well.

“But she didn’t flinch when I said it,” he added, softer now. “She didn’t blush, didn’t glare, didn’t fall for the bait. She just… smiled. This quiet, maddening little smile. Like I had no idea how deep I’d just sunk.”

Your throat went tight.

Lucien’s fingers lightly tapped against the stem of his glass, once, before stilling.

“And from that moment on, nothing else fit,” he finished simply. “Not her name. Not miss. Not any title. Just angel. Because she’s never been anything less than my undoing in disguise.”

Silence wrapped around the table, taut and humming.

Hyacinth let out a breathy “oh my God.”

Colin blinked rapidly. “Did anyone else feel that in their spine?”

Daphne pressed a hand over her heart. “Honestly, that might’ve been the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Simon raised a brow at Anthony, who hadn’t moved. His knuckles were white against the silver of his fork, and the muscle in his jaw had gone tight enough to crack.

You still hadn’t said anything.

Lucien turned to you now — just you — and, with the gentlest edge of a grin, added, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer I stop.”

It wasn’t cocky.

It wasn’t for show.

It was a question. A quiet one.

You didn’t look at anyone else. Just met his gaze and shook your head once, slow. “No. I don’t mind it.”

Lucien smiled.

Across the table, Anthony reached for his glass, slower this time. Measured. But his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a moment.

The tension still shimmered in the air like heat off stone, delicate and dangerous.

Lucien’s gaze hadn’t left yours. You held it, steady, a breath from something… more.

But Hyacinth, ever the chaos elemental in curls and silk, broke the moment with a sing-song curiosity that cut through the silence like a ribbon:

“But wait—when was the first time you said it?”

You blinked, startled. Across the table, Lucien’s mouth curved just slightly.

“Oh, I remember that,” Colin chimed in, already grinning. “It was that dinner. The one where I lost a bet to Benedict about whether or not Anthony would snap a butter knife in half.”

“I believe the final tally was… two,” Benedict added helpfully. “One bent beyond recognition. One thrown in the general direction of the fireplace.”

“I knew something was missing from the cutlery drawer the next morning,” Violet murmured, sipping her wine with the serene composure of a woman who has seen the apocalypse in cravat form.

Hyacinth leaned across Simon like a spy at court. “It was the night Lord Blackbourne flirted like the house was on fire and Y/N was the only woman worth saving.”

Lady Danbury arched a brow. “Sounds theatrical.”

Daphne chuckled. “It was art.”

“I wasn’t even there,” Simon said, “and I’ve heard the story at least three times. From three different sources. None of which included the same number of wine bottles or swooning incidents.”

“Oh, there was no swooning,” Colin said cheerfully. “Just Anthony pouring enough wine to drown a scandal.”

Anthony, seated across from Lucien and very much present, set down his glass with care. “I do hope the entertainment value outweighs the embellishments.”

“Funny,” Eloise said, swirling her wine, “I don’t remember needing to embellish. Lord Blackbourne served the tension. You roasted in it.”

Hyacinth squealed. “Yes! You were seething, Anthony. You tried so hard to look composed, but your fork nearly pierced the duck.”

Lucien, ever composed, didn’t gloat. Not quite. But the glint in his eye as he turned to you was unmistakable. “If memory serves,” he said softly, “you were the one who started the real fire.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “I might’ve poured the oil. You struck the match.”

Colin snorted. “And the rest of us? Roasted marshmallows.”

Gregory, wide-eyed, stage-whispered, “Didn’t someone say ‘turn about the garden’ and it was basically a marriage proposal in disguise?”

“I asked if she wanted to walk,” Lucien said innocently. “I never said how far.”

Eloise nearly fell off her chair laughing. “And she replied ‘Are you sure you can keep up?’ Like she hadn’t just murdered him in cold blood.”

Hyacinth pointed a dramatic finger across the table. “And then he smirked. Said he never has trouble keeping up. I nearly fainted.”

Daphne’s smile was knowing. “And Anthony—”

“I remember perfectly well,” Anthony cut in, voice low.

Silence descended, taut and immediate.

All eyes flicked to him.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. He just looked down at his plate, then up at Lucien. Then—you.

Kate, seated beside Edwina, watched it all. Closely. Like someone reading between lines only a few others could see. Her gaze lingered on Anthony’s tightened jaw. On your hand as it rested a little too still near your wine glass. On Lucien, who—despite all the revelry—wasn’t looking at anyone else but you.

Anthony exhaled, sharp and slow, then turned his attention to Edwina beside him, reaching for the wine to refill her glass.

“I’m afraid,” he said, his voice steady, “my family takes great pleasure in exaggerating past events.”

Edwina smiled, slightly confused. “I don’t remember it being so… theatrical.”

Kate’s brows twitched faintly.

“Exaggerated?” Colin laughed. “Anthony, you were seething. Daphne tried to change the subject and you looked at her like she’d insulted your lineage.”

Benedict grinned. “You were about to quote something dramatic. Then Blackbourne beat you to it. Poetry, wasn’t it?”

Lucien didn’t confirm or deny. But he turned to you, and with that quiet cadence of his, murmured just loud enough:

“There is pleasure in the pathless woods…”

Your lips parted. Your breath caught.

“…there is a rapture on the lonely shore…”

Hyacinth gasped. “He’s doing it again.”

Anthony reached for his wine.

Kate leaned in, eyes narrowed—sharp, calculating. “That was Byron, wasn’t it?” she asked lightly.

Lucien nodded. “Indeed. Quite a favorite of Lord Bridgerton’s, I hear.”

The corners of Kate’s mouth didn’t move, but something shifted behind her gaze. Slowly, she turned toward Anthony.

“Is it?” she asked.

Anthony said nothing.

Daphne leaned into the chaos like it was a chaise lounge. “To be fair, it’s one of the most romantic recitations I’ve ever heard. From either of them.”

Anthony’s fingers gripped the stem of his glass a little too tightly.

You felt it.

The pressure.

The attention.

The way Lucien hadn’t taken his eyes off you, even as he dropped words like embers.

The way Kate watched Anthony with rising suspicion.

The way Anthony looked at you like memory was a weight he couldn’t put down.

It was Colin who broke the tension.

“Well,” he said brightly, “if that dinner was a fire, then this one’s at least a slow roast.”

“And dessert hasn’t even arrived,” Eloise added gleefully.

Violet raised a brow at no one in particular. “Then heaven help us when it does.”

Across the table, Lady Danbury spoke again, her voice dry as brandy and twice as strong.

“I cannot believe I missed that dinner.”

Lucien smiled. “I’m sure this one will make up for it.”

He looked at you again. Not with amusement. Not with victory.

But with something quieter.

Like he saw all the cracks in the room—and only wanted to know if he could hold them together.

Anthony, from across the table, saw that look too.

And for now?

He said nothing.

Dessert hadn’t even been announced, yet Violet’s napkin already looked suspiciously like it had been squeezed within an inch of its life.

Which is when Benedict, with the kind of grin only a man too comfortable with fire could wear, leaned into the quiet.

“So,” he said, casually tearing a piece of bread in half. “Now that we’ve revisited the dinner that shall not be named… what say we play a game?”

Colin’s eyes gleamed. “Oh no. Is it time?”

Hyacinth sat up straighter. “I knew I wore the right earrings for scandal.”

Gregory whispered, “This better be the game with secrets.”

“It is,” Eloise said brightly. “And the adults haven’t ruined it yet.”

Lucien raised a brow. “What kind of game are we playing?”

Hyacinth clapped once, delighted. “It’s simple. We take turns going around the table and ask each person to describe the last scandalous thought they had during this meal.”

You blinked. “That’s not simple. That’s social warfare.”

“It’s Bridgerton dinner,” Eloise said. “Same thing.”

Violet opened her mouth—perhaps to object—but paused. Then sighed. “I am going to need a stronger wine.”

Simon leaned forward with a wolfish grin. “Shall I begin, or will you, Lord Blackbourne?”

Lucien didn’t flinch. “Ladies first.”

Eloise jumped in. “Perfect. I’ll start.” She turned to Simon. “What was the last improper thought you had at this table?”

Simon smirked. “I imagined throwing a bread roll at Anthony when he said ‘embroidered cushion’ with such confidence. Miss Sharma deserves better metaphors.”

The table erupted.

Anthony looked personally wounded.

Edwina blinked in confusion.

Kate nearly snorted her wine.

Lady Danbury murmured, “So do I. Heavens, it was dull.”

Benedict was wheezing. “Throw the whole metaphor out. Start again.”

Simon sat back, sipping his wine with the elegance of a man entirely unbothered.

Lucien grinned. “Well played.”

Colin leaned in next. “My turn.” He turned to you. “Tell us — what were you thinking when Lord Blackbourne quoted poetry to you a few minutes ago?”

You paused — dramatically. Eyes sweeping the table. Then you smiled, sweet and dangerous.

“I was wondering,” you said slowly, “whether it’s possible to melt silverware from sheer eye contact alone.”

Hyacinth gasped. “That’s the quote of the evening!”

Lucien leaned in. “You’re welcome to test that theory. Privately.”

Eloise groaned, “God, I hate how good that was.”

Anthony didn’t move. But you saw it.

The shift.

The flex in his jaw. The tight grip around his spoon. The flicker of heat that bloomed in his eyes before he blinked it away.

Kate saw it too. Her gaze narrowed.

You caught Kate watching you again—not with hostility, but precision. Like a seamstress deciding where the thread frays.

You looked away first. That unsettled you more than it should’ve.

“Alright,” Benedict said cheerfully, “my turn. Blackbourne. What scandalous thought crossed your mind during the soup course?”

Lucien, unhurried, locked eyes with you. “That if I were born less decent,” he said quietly, “I would have kissed her, right there, in front of every person here.”

Silence.

Not gasping silence.

Gutted silence.

The kind that trembled on the edge of danger.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t smirk.

You reached slowly for your wine glass, took a measured sip, and let the silence stretch long enough to be felt.

Then you smiled.

And the table tilted.

Hyacinth whispered, “I think I forgot how breathing works.”

Daphne, blinking hard, muttered, “Remind me to steal that line.”

Anthony…

Anthony looked like he was about to stand. His knuckles turned white against the table.

And Lucien — the devil wrapped in velvet and candlelight — finally glanced at him.

And smiled.

It was not a taunt. It was a challenge.

Simon leaned in toward Hyacinth. “Did you get that sketch?”

Hyacinth nodded solemnly. “Lucien with devil wings. Anthony with smoke coming out of his ears. I’ll add flames.”

Lady Danbury cackled. “I like him.”

Kate, meanwhile, was looking at Anthony.

“Anthony,” Benedict said brightly, like he hadn’t just dropped a match into a room filled with gas, “your turn.”

The words landed like thunder.

Every head turned.

Even Edwina blinked, gently surprised. “Oh, yes—Lord Bridgerton, what has been your most scandalous thought this evening?”

Anthony didn’t answer immediately.

Didn’t twitch.

Didn’t blink.

Just… stared at the wine in his glass like it had betrayed him for the final time.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, voice calm but low, “about restraint.”

Lucien let out the softest laugh, just enough to draw attention.

Anthony continued, tone measured. “How it’s a virtue. How it separates men from boys.”

Colin raised a brow. “So… nothing scandalous, then?”

Anthony glanced at him. “You’d be surprised what a man has to restrain when people won’t stop provoking him.”

A beat.

Lucien, swirling his wine, looked entirely relaxed. “Some of us provoke without meaning to, Bridgerton. It’s just the hazard of having charm.”

Anthony looked up, sharply.

Lucien didn’t even flinch. “You should try it sometime.”

“Oh,” Gregory whispered. “Oh, he’s going to die.”

Eloise leaned forward like she was front row at a play. “Do it again.”

But Kate—Kate—cut across the table like a knife.

“What exactly are we restraining, my lord?”

Everyone turned.

Anthony blinked.

Kate was watching him—not accusing, not angry.

Curious.

Anthony cleared his throat. “Decorum. Diplomacy.”

“Desire?” Lucien offered, oh-so-softly.

The word sliced through the air.

Hyacinth actually whooped.

Daphne’s hand went over her mouth.

Edwina let out a quiet, confused laugh.

“Lord Blackbourne,” she said, still trying, bless her, “you really do enjoy dramatics.”

Lucien didn’t answer.

He wasn’t looking at her.

He was still watching you.

Anthony finally turned back to his glass. “Restraint,” he repeated. “It’s useful. Especially when others forget theirs.”

You shifted in your seat, the weight of all their eyes grazing your skin like fingertips. Your breath felt heavier now—like the air had started playing tricks.

Lucien leaned closer, voice just for you.

“Are we talking about my restraint, darling?” he asked, tone velvet and velvet thorns.

 You turned slowly, your lashes low. “I think everyone’s restraint is hanging by a thread.”

“You seem fine,” he murmured.

“I’m not the one being fought over in metaphors.”

He grinned, and whispered—just loud enough for only the very worst people to hear—

“Oh, I’m not fighting for you in metaphors, angel. I’m fighting with teeth.”

Anthony stood.

No warning.

No sound but the scrape of chair legs and the unmistakable heat that poured off of him like a thunderstorm with too much pride.

“I believe I need air,” he said tightly.

Edwina startled, half-rising. “Oh—but the next course—”

 “I’ll return.”

But his eyes weren’t on Edwina.

They were on you.

Just for a second.

Long enough to say everything he wasn’t allowed to speak.

Then he was gone.

The room froze.

And then, finally—

Colin muttered, “Well. There goes the thread.”

Hyacinth threw her arms up. “Best dinner ever!”

Lady Danbury toasted the candlelight. “About bloody time.”

Kate, silent until now, lifted her wine and murmured—half to herself—“That wasn’t restraint. That was retreat.”

You didn’t move.

Lucien’s hand was still resting near yours, his posture utterly unshaken. His smile was soft now. Sharpness tucked away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking at you. “Did I… overstep?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Then you leaned in—close enough to make him hold his breath—and said quietly, sweetly:

“If this is your version of restraint, I’d love to see what losing control looks like.”

Lucien let out a breathless laugh, low and dark.

“Oh angel,” he whispered, “so would I.”

Across the table, Simon raised his wine glass toward Hyacinth.

She clinked her goblet with his and grinned.

There was a beat of stunned, simmering silence after Anthony exited.

The flicker of candlelight danced in the absence he left behind, a space at the table filled only by the tension he abandoned—and the heat of every gaze that followed.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

Spn Opinions That’ll Have Me Burned at the Stake Pt. 2: Electric Boogaloo

I’m back and bitchier than ever. For reference, here’s part 1.

• Season 5 wasn’t that great.

• D*stiel isn’t real, it’s a sucky ship, and that confession scene was just the writers pandering to the rabid deancas fans cause they knew they were the only ones still watching the show lol. And they left it ambiguous enough that they could still say it was meant platonically if they needed to.

• I hate how they watered down both angels and demons post-season 5ish.

• I liked Ruby 1.0 better than Ruby 2.0.

• I hate Honey!Cas. They just did that cause they didn’t know where to take his story from there, needed him out of the way, and thought it would be funny. It was insulting.

• Jack should’ve been played by an actual child so everyone’s abuse of him would resonate with the audience for what it was (casual fans are brain dead and need to be spoon fed).

• Victor Henrikson deserved more time on the show.

• I said it in the last post, but Alex is way more interesting than Claire and should’ve been given the lead role in the wayward sisters storyline instead.

• Dean is canonically straight and for Christ sake if you guys wanted bi rep, there’s about a thousand other characters that are strongly coded or implied to be bisexual (including Sam!) but y’all didn’t focus on them because it wasn’t actually about representation, it was about making it more plausible for your dumb fetishised gay ship to actually happen (spoiler: it didn’t).

• Season 3 and Season 6 were some of the best ones, you guys just don’t have any taste.

• Claire is not Castiel’s daughter and saying she is erases Jimmy and insults her, and even Cas himself acknowledged that on the show.

• Castiel is canonically NOT gay and Misha constantly saying he is is annoying and airheaded. He’s been attracted to women IN THE SHOW and he’s not even really male, so calling him a Gay Man is reductive and just plain wrong. Also, it’s veeery sus that- given how bi/pan folks are even more underrepresented than gay people- that one of the rare times where the bi/pan label actually fits a character BETTER in CANON……. the allies and monosexuals adamantly reject it. Hm.

• “Curing” vampires or werewolves or demons shouldn’t have been a thing.

• The Winchesters cause most of the bad shit that happens and then they just force supernatural beings to fix it for them- tell me again how they’re Super Special Heroes.

• It shouldn’t be possible to make angels human by removing their grace, because (unlike demons, werewolves, etc) they were never human to start with. If you drained me of all my blood, I wouldn’t magically transform into another species, I’d fucking die.

• Making Billie go crazy was dumb.

• Rowena was one of the most interesting and charismatic characters on the whole show- they just didn’t know what to do with her character.

• The archangels, Lilith, and Azazel should’ve been the biggest threats on the show. No other knights of hell, no god and his sister, no Cain, nothing like that. Having every villain just get progressively more overpowered made the show unbelievable and repetitive and annoying.

• The kernel sanders king of hell guy was hot.

• Dean is misogynistic as HELL, homophobic, likes racist porn, is a narcissist, pervs on teen girls, & thinks all non-human people should be exterminated… and that is all CANON.

• Most of John Winchester’s abuse is fanon.

• Fans portraying Cas as a smol bby who colours in colouring books and has a bee plushie is so fucking annoying.

• Instead of having so many gigantic cosmic storylines with god and his sister and alternate dimensions and even the angel and demon tablets, they should’ve just scrapped those and made the stein family and the bmol and the alpha vampire storylines way bigger than they were. Less cosmic stuff, more earth-based stuff.

• They ruined Lucifer’s character post-season 5. Before that, he was more sympathetic and reasonable than Michael. After, he was a spoiled child hurting people for fun.

• Everything from season 7 on is garbage. All of it. There’s bits of goodness here and there but overall seasons 7-15 are trash.

• How the fuck are there actual people who are deangirls and hate Sam?? The space where your brain should be is empty, I swear to god.

• If there was gonna be any lgbt rep in the Wayward Sisters group, it should’ve been Jody and Donna instead of Claire and Kaia. Those two were boring as hell and had zero chemistry or build-up, but Jody/Donna had plenty of chemistry and was very believable.

• Meg has the best and most realistic redemption arc of anyone on the show.

• Chuck was not likeable or charismatic enough to carry off as big of a villain arc as they gave him. Also that whole thing was stupid and WAY too Out There.

• All the angels should’ve been aroace. All the demons should’ve been pan.

• I stanned Cole so hard up until he changed his mind about hating Dean. That was disappointing.

• Sam went through the same shitty childhood Dean did (plus Bonus Abuse on top of it) and he didn’t turn out Like That.

• I cannot think of a single person that was asking for a spin-off about the Winchester family, like that has to be the most boring thing.