Avery’s TBR

English is not my native language and I haven’t written in over two months. Pls bear with me

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~9k (don't ask)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I'M ALIVE. And stealth dropping this patchwork piece. I was screaming at our tv screen after ep. 6 (haven't seen the new ones yet). This epsiode season needed fixing ASAP. (Is it far fetched and confusing? Perhaps. but at this point, fanfic Ben's less ooc than the canon one, right?)

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit.” 

Soldier Boy says her name. Always her name. 

But the face that’s meant to be before his inner eyes? The voice that’s still somewhere buried inside his messed up head? It’s not Clara. Not Liberty. Not Stormfront, or whatever the fuck they’d called her.

It’s yours.

And if even one shred of your shared memory was still untouched, he’d know it’s always been you. In all of them. 

None of this will make a lick of sense though, so let’s scrub back to how it all started.

Ever since Soldier Boy was defrosted, again, things were fucked up.

And it’s not just how, soon as he’s out of the fridge, he’s been sent to the fucking woodchipper thanks to a supe killing virus, which is apparently a thing now. Or how his asexual weirdo son’s only way of getting his dick wet is by bathing in tit-jizz. Or how everyone at Vought wants to crawl up said weirdo’s shithole, preaching he’s God.

It’s worse than that.

It’s inside his head.

He says "it" when muttering in front of the vanity mirror like he’s a soft pussy on fucking meth, but what he really means, is a voice. 

And here’s the thing; That voice isn’t actually talking. There’s no words, nothing he could argue with and shut down. 

But it’s there. 

Since he’s back. 

He knows it is - he can feel it hovering behind him, breathing next to his ear. It’s a rotting corpse in the trenches right behind his conscious mind. Right out of reach. Or else he would’ve throttled it by now. He’s tried that in his dreams; His fingers curl around the faceless figure, squeezing it until it gives in with that satisfying sound of a crushed egg. 

But the moment his eyes snap open? You are there again. 

And that was really starting to piss him off. Which said a lot, considering Soldier Boy’s lived through the whiff-and-snort sixties without his brain ever dribbling out of his fuckin’ ears. He’d snorted it all; cocaine, LSD, gasoline - you name it, it crossed his nose. Never did jack shit to him.

But this? 

He swears, he’s going to lose his fucking mind.

Which has led him to only one conclusion; this must be a farewell gift of the Reds. 

“Can Elmo tell you a secret?”

Now that voice is not coming from inside his head. Ben had the TV running some random bullshit show in the background, hoping it would drown out whatever he’s dealing with at the moment. So far, it has done nothing more than shift his annoyance – which he’ll take as a win. 

From his angle, he can see just enough of the TV screen to judge their stupid faces.

“Sure, little dude,” Andy Samberg beams with the enthusiasm of somebody whose ballsack’s being held hostage by a mousetrap. Ben sneers at the thought. “Secrets are healthy!” 

“Like how your balls’re in the pincers?” Ben barbs from the bathroom.

Andy leans down for the fuzzy orange puppet to whisper next to his ear. 

“Sometimes Elmo hears voices that tell Elmo things.”

“Well, is it the voice of Homelander?”

“No…”

Andy’s lips twitch into a tight smile. “Ooff, buddy. Looks like the Starlighters got into your head.” 

A laugh track erupts – the same moment doors slam open off screen, two Vought security guards storm on set.

“What the f–” The Elmo puppet gets violently yanked out of the frame as the puppeteer screams somewhere under the stage. “Wait, wait! I didn’t post that meme– Andy! Please– tell ‘em!”

Andy sucks in a breath and turns back to the camera with a shaky smile.

“Remember, kids! See something, say something! Even if it’s your best friend.”

“And you still don’t fuckin’ listen.”

How parents let their kids watch these whacko shows nowadays is beyond him. Back in his day, they at least had perky pin-up girls for their propaganda. He turns on the tab, splashes some water into his face. He thinks back of those perfect million-dollar legs of Betty Grable, and how they’d bounced on his shoulders when he’d railed her on the producer’s desk. Good fuckin’ times.

“Oi, you cunt. I said, you never fuckin’ listen to me.”

Ben’s grin dies.

The TV keeps spewing some happy kid’s show melody. Only that this time, the voice didn’t come from the television.

Ben’s face snaps up towards the mirror – then he freezes.

There’s a man standing behind him. 

He quickly turns to look over his shoulder just to be met with the golden towel rack on the wall. 

“You never loved ‘er,” you drawl in a thick British accent from behind him. Ben’s head turns back.

The guy’s still there, inside his mirror; Black hair, black trenchcoat, a Hawaiian shirt.

“Butcher?” his eyes go wide, his upper lip twitches. “You fucking bastard betrayed me–”

“Betray ya?” you cut him short, “And what about me? You completely forgot about me, didn’t ya?” 

“Get out of my fucking head,” Ben growls and swings his arm to smash the mirror. Butcher’s face shatters. 

It effectively makes him vanish, just for another figure to pop up on the opposite side.

“Ooh, but mon Petit Soldat, no can do. You need to pull your dick out of your ass and–” More glass crumbles beneath Soldier Boy’s knuckles. 

“–and stop fucking around with Clara.” This time Hughie pipes up from the upper corner of the still intact mirror.

“I’m not–” Ben clenches his teeth, the jaw muscle ticking under his beard when he sees that pussy’s face looking down at him, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.”

“Are you… sure?”

Hughie’s eyebrows do that thing like he knows something Ben doesn’t, and all it does is make him remember why he’s always wanted to punch that kid in the face. 

“Get. The fuck. Out,” Ben grits out. His fist smashes the spot where his knuckles would have connected with his nose. It explodes into more pieces. 

Silence. 

Ben huffs through his nose. Roughly combs the damp hair back and out of his face.

His eyes dart up into the last unscathed corner when he senses more movement.

It’s… a bird? In fact, it’s America’s mascot— his mascot; wearing the green helmet and all. There’s even the American Flag rising in slow motion behind the cracks. 

“I’m inside your head, Ben,” the eagle says in his own comic-voice, then its beak cracks wide open, blinding him with a row of very unnaturally shiny human teeth, “I must know.” 

Christ on a stake. He’s losing it.

Ben stormed out of the bathroom without even taking the rest of the mirror down. He scrambles for the phone, the cable one next to his bed – his hands are too shaky for the flimsy little pocket buzzer – he pauses. Looks down at his free hand hovering in the air. It’s unsteady.

The moment the call connects, Soldier Boy’s grip tightens around the handset.

“Get me a bowl full of cocaine. Pronto.”

If cocaine could still make him as high as any normal person, he’d be up in the fucking stratosphere right now, painting the sky white with his spunk. 

He had just gone through powder worth 200 grand like it’s nothing. Soldier Boy drops back into the couch with a satisfied groan. He lazily wipes the dust off his nose and beard, while his other hand fondles the bulge between his legs. It’s getting uncomfortably tight down there – just like he’d hoped. With his dick rock hard and his head buzzing to the sound of Colombia, he’d call his plan a success so far. 

Time to bust a nut.

While he lets Firecracker ride him, he allows his eyes to slide close, enjoying the blissful state of absolutely-fucking-nada filling his head. He doesn’t even bother to play his part. He just lets her bounce on his dick like a pathetic bunny in heat. 

After all, this works like a fucking charm. 

Until it doesn’t.

Once Firecracker rolls off him with a cry of ecstasy, Soldier Boy reaches for his joint and hums, feeling absolutely confident in his victory. 

“Oi, you done with lyin’ there like a dead nun?”

Soldier Boy’s irritation flares up.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean, huh?” He asks, annoyed. Clearly his focus is on the blunt he’d prepared on the bedside table, because if he’d spare the girl that just got him off a single glance, he’d see her confused look.

“What?” Firecracker questions. 

Soldier Boy turns to watch her slip under the covers next to him. The voice goes on.

“Now, why don’t you boot the girl and you and me can go back to our proper lil’ chinwag?”

Soldier Boy’s teeth grind down, the blunt snaps in half.

You are still there.

The elevator dings. He says a few words to Sister Sage, but doesn’t really listen.

The following days go by in a blur. He’s learned to endure and ignore you like a yapping dog from the neighbours. A very, very, annoying little Commie bitch-dog with a knack for doing his head in. 

Which he can’t kick. Or stomp. Or crush. Or throttle. Or–

Truth is, each minute feels like he’s getting closer to turning into one of those twitchy fucking flower people. Except that he doesn’t assfuck to the voice of Jimi Hendrix, and he hasn’t met God yet, either. And no, a meetup with his overgrown baby gravy does not qualify as a Godly intervention in his book, even if there seems to be no ceiling to how much of a wackjob he is.

At least he, unlike that asswipe, doesn't let any of that get to him. 

Sure, you’re still there. And yes, he hasn’t found a way yet to smother you for good. But he’s been through worse.

So, Soldier Boy strides out of the elevator, his chin held high, face as neutral as ever. 

If it wasn’t for his calm exterior, he’s convinced that Cleopatra Jones back there would be balls deep up in his business right now. Not that he’d give two fucks about Sister Sage and the way her eyes try to laser a hole into the back of his skull. To make that work, you’d need to be able to read his mind — tough luck, sister.

Although, the thought of letting her skinny-dip in his fucked up brain juice for just a minute, does put a leer on his face. 

That is, until it’s overwritten by a mildly annoyed frown.

Soldier Boy rubs the side of his palm against his temple. What’s that throbbing sensation inside his skull? A sudden jolt makes him stumble for a second and catch himself with his arm braced against the wall. 

The hell was that?

“Where’s that fucking powder...” he grumbles to himself, while emptying each of his pockets in vain. He digs his knuckles into his pounding forehead until the feeling fizzles out.

He’s pissed off at his own body. 

Soldier Boy doesn’t get ‘a headache’. He doesn’t even get a head-scratch. The strongest supe doesn’t get sick—

His dick’s pulsing. His hips stutter, hands grasping at flesh and bones. 

He knows this room. Or at least he thinks he does. The sheets smell familiar, the music’s too. But the details blur when he tries to grab them. Was this in New York? In Berlin? Why the fuck can’t he remember?

A pair of tits jiggle above him. He wants to grope them, bury his beard between them – no, wait.

He doesn’t have a beard yet. 

He wants to feel the smooth skin of his jaws under the touch of fingernails.

“Fuck– yes! That’s it!” He can’t make out the voice. But it sounds familiar, too. 

He feels the warm body arch beneath him, then go slack. He wraps an arm around it, rests his chin right above the tits. He lets his eyes trail over the curves and bumps, lets himself breathe it all in. He loves that familiar scent that’s clouding his mind. It made– it still makes him feel stupidly fuzzy inside. He can’t help it, even as he scoffs to his younger self at how much of a wuzzy he’s become in the arms of— 

Huh, the name’s escaped him.

A hand that has threaded into the back of his hair, draws his attention up. The fingers begin to comb his short strands. The tender touch makes his eyes flutter. 

“Mein Übermensch…” the voice coos. 

Uh-huh, he hears himself think, whatever the fuck makes you nut, but don’t stop what you’re doin’.

“You only love me, don’t you?” She asks. And damn, she’s demanding.

He recognizes her now. Clara. But he still can’t put together when this happened.

Meanwhile, his memory-self’s immediate response is Yes, only you.

Now that makes Ben halt the scene right there. 

Sure, alright. He’d fucked the nazi bitch two times. Two! They were both high as fuck and she had a nice pair of tits along with a superiority complex that somehow scratched his ego just the right way.

He scrubs the memory back, but it starts to slip him the more he tries to focus on it. At least the images do. The emotions on the other hand slap him in the face like the wet dick of Gary Busey — hard, fucking ugly and definitely out of place. 

Because the moment Clara’s face comes into view, his chest aches so fucking much. He can’t place the feeling. It’s as if he’s about to lose something real important to him.

Soldier Boy groans when he pushes off the hallway’s wall again. 

The images which had flashed across his inner eyes are gone the next moment. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but felt like so much more.

Where the hell did that just come from? Is this some kinda after-effect of my time in the freezer? Did the Commies fuck with my memories?

And how the fuck could I forget about Clara?

Ever since Soldier Boy’s regained a new piece of his past, he’s become obsessed with it. 

“It”, not being the voice in his head any longer –that one finally pissed off–, but Clara. 

There’s so much that irritates him about this whole new development. 

Him and Clara? Not just the fucking and the drinking and riding it out on the roof of the Ritz-Carlton, but more?

All he wants to do is shrug it off as some weird shit that’s happened between them while his head was stuffed with nose candy. He wants to ignore the thought that maybe, the Reds didn’t plant something new into his brain, but maybe, they’d ripped something open which he’d buried himself. Ben wants nothing but to ignore the way he gets yanked around by the inside of his chest whenever he recalls that new memory. At this point he’d even prefer you chewing off his ear over this sweet sticky crap he’s got to deal with now.

He hates that feeling. He’s not a pussy for Christ’s sake. In fact, he wouldn’t even know what to do with it when shoved down his throat. All of that fuzzy-buzzy crap, like staring at a picture with those longing eyes of a lovesick puppy – that’s for the weak and the ladies. 

As if to prove his point, Soldier Boy kicks a thick branch out of the dirt with a lot more force than needed. It cannonballs into the horizon.

With the victorious grunt of a caveman, he continues his path through the woods, taking point with his weirdo son glued to his ass.

Soldier Boy would have turned over every desk and tore apart every computer at Vought in search for more information about Clara. Anything that helps him get rid of this disgusting new feeling that’s been lodged within his ribs. But he couldn’t risk Homelander returning successfully from Fort Harmony. His annoying knuckle child becoming immortal is the least thing he’d need right now. 

The fact that they’re marching towards the place where everything began, is not really helping either. Even if Soldier Boy wouldn’t ever admit how just the large letters spelling out “Fort Harmony Medical Department” coming into view, winds him tighter than he already is.

A twig snaps under his boot. He exchanges some sarcastic quips with Homelander while they walk up to the building resting behind the trees, but in reality, his mind wanders elsewhere again. 

What really gets to him is the idea that there’s more of his past. So much more, that his body reacts to it against his own will. The feeling of her touch, her scent, her love – it’s strangely real, even for something he still denies. Clara. That name holds so much more weight now. So much more history he’s been robbed of, whether he likes it or not. And even if every fibre of his body fights his emotions tied to that memory, he cannot help but wonder; What else is he missing?

The idea has latched onto him like a tick. Taking hold of every thought.

He just has to know. 

As if reading his mind, Homelander suddenly points out that, “The other day, when Clara Vought’s name came up, I had the impression you knew her.” 

But unlike his son, Ben has no intention of sharing that new obsession with him.

Therefore, Soldier Boy once again answers with his standard phrase, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.” 

Still, Homelander yaps on. “You did? I guess we’re related in more ways than one.” Soldier Boy’s muscles coil up more with every word wasted between them. The thought of his own fucking son being anywhere close to Clara has no room in his mind. 

It does open a new question though. If she’s still alive then–

“Where is she?” 

Homelander glances back at him.

“Dead,” he answers flatly, “Suicide.” 

Soldier Boy stops dead in his tracks. She’s immortal like him. She has to be out there.

“Horseshit,” he growls, his eyes narrowing when Homelander just keeps walking. “She’d never off herself.”

“Yeah, well, she did,” he says simply. Soldier Boy’s shoulders tense up. That goddamn hook in his chest dragging his emotions into the open again. And with it, that tick spews new ideas into his system – he doesn’t even know where they’re coming from. New thoughts to latch onto. New hope. 

She must still be out there, right? Maybe Clara’s waiting for him, holding all the answers. The way he was waiting to be saved while the Reds fucking burned and prodded him. 

“Did you see a body?” he shouts after him, but is left with no answer.

Soldier Boy wants to go after him, wants to grip his shoulder and beat the truth out of that pathetic cape-sack. 

Instead, he staggers. 

He braces himself against a nearby tree, the pounding behind his eyes growing stronger. He slaps himself against the forehead. Then shakes his head, hoping it might rattle some cogs loose–

Music plays from a phonograph. Blue and red striped bedsheets are twisted around his legs. He’s leaned against the headrest.

“You know, I could get you some,” his young-self says while watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. A body shifts next to him. He can’t remember which girl it is that he’d hooked up with this time.

“Am I not perfect enough?” She answers in a distinctive accent. 

Right. Now he remembers. Immortal. She’s immortal like him  — Why the hell did you fuckin’ idiot even consider getting her V1? 

She hums something, and suddenly she’s rolled halfway onto his body to look down at him. 

“Huh?” Ben frowns up at the bright silhouette above him. It takes him a moment to make out her face, like a polaroid picture that’s still gaining colour and shape. 

“Thinking of your future, hm?”  she repeats. Once Ben’s eyes have focused, his frown deepens. 

“Clara?” he utters her name in slight confusion and if he wouldn’t know any better, he’d say the memory-Clara reacts to it. 

Ben stills. Was that just him now or him back then talking? 

Up until now, the room had felt warm and familiar. The music in the background, the sweetish scent of vanilla mixed with the musk of sex. It’s just like the first time; The emotional pull is there, he just cannot quite figure out why the visuals don’t match up in his head.

But now the room temperature just dropped. 

“Benjamin,” she says firmly, a hand snaking down between his legs to regain his attention. And she gets it, both of his versions’. He feels himself tense up in response – huh, that’s not the reaction he’d expected. For some reason, it doesn’t sit well with him that she’s pressed herself against him like that. Is this still part of the memory? He can’t tell anymore where this thing starts and where his present ends.

Clara doesn’t seem to mind either way cause she goes on with that special lilt of hers. “You’re the strongest Supe alive. You don’t get to deal with mortality.”

He doesn’t get how these memories work. One moment he’s a spectator, the next he’s shoved on set without a script or any idea what the fuck he’s even doing here.

“Perhaps,” Ben grunts nonchalantly and shrugs. He’s trying his damndest to ignore how his dick twitches between her slender fingers. Aren’t we supposed to fuck now? 

Clara finally closes her grip around him, after she’s lifted herself fully up to perch on his bare chest. “You’re not a man.” She commends, squeezing him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s not a fan of the way her lips curl – the fluttering thing in the pit of his stomach disagrees vehemently. “You’re the greatest expression of what humanity can offer.”

Soldier Boy stares back at her, brows pulled together. He may like the sound of that, but frankly speaking, she could dangle the sweetest pussy in front of his face right now and he’d still rather go for that bowl of white powder that’s waiting in his real-present-selves loft right now. This brain-scrambling nonsense was getting him nowhere – fine, on a second thought, maybe he’ll let her finish him off first. It’d be a shame to let a wet memory-dream-whatever-the -fuck this is, go to waste, right? – but then he’s done here. 

Just when he’d let a small groan form in the back of his throat, he almost chokes on it.

Clara’s face flickers. Like radio static. 

All of a sudden, a different voice cuts in – it’s out of sync with Clara’s still moving lips, and it’s distorted, fragile – but he can make some of it out.

“Listen—- don’t—- it’s me, Stargate–”

He blinks. And you’re gone. 

“Right,” he finally says, although he’s not sure anymore what the conversation was even about. Neither does he care.

His mind’s racing now. It’s grappling with his memory as it refuses to let the name click into place; Stargate. 

He repeats it. 

Notices a strange feeling beneath his skin when he does – like he’s high on some new fuckin’ drug – so he keeps doing it. Stargate, Stargate, Stargate.

As if the woman that’s straddling his chest can sense his shift of emotions, she suddenly leans down to catch his lips in a kiss. It breaks into his mind. The memory sinks its claws into him, turns hungry and wild and – off.

Soldier Boy’s already walking down the halls of Fort Harmony when he’s snapped back. Homelander’s talking next to him, apparently they are mid-argument. 

If only he knew what the fuck just happened.

Ben was convinced that regaining more of his memories would feel, I don’t know, good? That it would bring him the answers he was looking for. Maybe even give him a purpose in this modern world, where so far he’s just been made to feel like a really handsome relic.

It has done nothing more than confuse him even more.

First Clara. Then Stargate. Were you the thing the Commies had stuffed into his skull? The vault that keeps him from regaining his memories?

No. That doesn’t make any sense. (As if anything still made sense at this point.) The sound of your voice, of your name, it triggered something in him. He can’t quite grasp it, but it’s there. See? That’s why he hates this whole ‘touchy-feely’ crap. There’s nothing for him to work with. Just another hazy notion which he’d gladly trade for a grenade or a stroll through a minefield.

Unfortunately, Fort Harmony offers him neither.

After sending his annoying son to the time out, Soldier Boy’s roaming the ruins of the Medical Department, in search for the V1, and for answers. Mainly for answers. 

He’s digging through old papers, the dust swirling up into the air making him cough. 

Nothing. No V1, no clues. 

He curses – moves to the desk instead, where he yanks the drawers right out of their sockets. The wood clatters, its innards spilling across the cold floor. He steps over it, eyes scanning the papers.

There must at least be something about Stargate here. Anything - anything at all. Did he just make you up in his head? 

His boot kicks over another pile of Vought files. All he’s greeted with is the black and white picture of his old teammates. They seem to judge him even from the floor. He ignores it and moves to a different desk. 

If you’re a Supe old enough to show up in his early memories, then you must’ve been jabbed in this place.

Yet, there’s nothing. 

He swings his arm into the side of the table, flipping it over and into a row of lockers. 

“Fuck!” he shouts. His voice echoes off the cold walls. He turns on the spot, yells at nothing particular when a hint of desperation seeps through his voice. “C’mon, talk to me, damnit!”

Nothing.

“You’ve been riding my face for two fuckin’ weeks and now you just fuck off?!” 

Silence.

His hopes lie in the dust. The darkness swallows what’s left.

You’re not here anymore. Hell, maybe you never were.

CLINK.

His attention snaps to the open doorway. “Stargate?” he blurts, almost hopeful.

Only to be met with – who the fuck’s that guy? He stares at him, wide eyed. Then he sticks his tongue out before he makes a break for it. 

It takes Ben a moment to process what just happened. But his instincts kick in naturally and he gives chase.

His boots thunder down the hallways, down the stairs, further down into the lower level of the building. That midget is fast, he’s gotta hand it to him. Finally he’s got him cornered, skidding to a halt in front of the basement. 

His eyes widen slightly. His focus is drawn to a mangled body that’s merged with the wall, sprouting vines and ooze.

“My God. Quinn,” Ben mutters in disbelief.

He wanted to find the V1 and destroy it. Wanted to find you – Or at least a trace of your existence. Just enough proof that you were real.

But all he’s got to stumble upon is Quinn. That piece of shit.

You still looking for her? 

“The fuck’d you say?” Ben growls, but Quinn barely manages to twitch a bulging eye. The guy forgotten in the corner, Frenchie, squints, looking back and forth between the two. 

She’s not here. She never was.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Ben grits out between his clenched teeth. He wants to shout more, but a flash of searing pain splitting his skull in half, forces his eyes to squeeze shut.

He just blinked. But now the cool basement is gone. 

“What the fuck…”

Ben slowly turns his head, takes in the white walls and its soft shadows, the fairy lights hanging off the rack, the twisted sheets on the bed. He takes a slow step into the room, testing the floorboards – then halts, his eyes locking with those of a plush monkey. He slightly tilts his head, and for fucks sakes, there’s more of them on every surface, and they’re all staring back at him with their dead eyes.

“Ben..? Is that really you?” The soft voice has his focus shift to the end of the room. 

There she sits. Tied down to the chair in that skintight red suit, just like he’d last seen her. That same old wretched face. 

So, that’s what this is. Another memory. This is getting ridiculous. He knows this memory, nothing new to discover here – so he decides to snap out of it.

But he’s still here.

The fuck?

And of course, the unasked for details of that moment come crashing down on him now. Ben’s jaw tightens. As it seems, his body cannot tell the difference, because he’s not just remembering this, he’s reliving the moment.

“You killed me,” Crimson Countess accuses and gets him to look at her. 

Ben doesn’t move, knowing she’s right. Instead, a weight forms on his chest. The shit he keeps buried starts digging its way back up. Again.

“You said you hated me.” Ben’s hurt is thinly veiled when he speaks. 

“We all did,” she spits each word like venom. That makes Ben pause.

“So, I deserved to be tortured and pumped with poison for forty years like some fucking lab rat. Is that what you’re saying?” he asks, and he doesn’t even realize how pained he looks when voicing the million-dollar question. 

No – he doesn’t care. He has to know. He has to know whether he’s really “the greatest expression of what humanity can offer” or he’s just an asshole that deserves to rot in Hell. Probably both–

“Ben. Don’t listen to her.” 

Ben jolts. Because Crimson Countess’ red lips move, but no voice comes out, like she’s been muted. Hold on – this time, he recognizes the voice.

“Stargate?” he calls out your name. His head whirls around, but no one else is there. Then something moves in his peripheral vision. 

Slowly, one of the monkeys has its head turned to face him. 

“The fu–” Ben doesn’t even get to finish a curse, when another monkey slowly cranes its neck back. Followed by the ugly as sin one hanging off the rack. And another, and another. A wall full of plush monkeys with the aura of a creepy doll collection.

Ben takes a tentative step back. Each one of them adjusts their stitched beady eyes to keep them locked onto him. 

Then, the monkeys all begin to chatter one after the other, like a TV that’s switching channels. Every time ripping open another stitched mouth, sputtering stuffing as they throw chopped up words at him and expect him to catch them all.

“Remember-–” 

“This isn’t–” 

“She’s corrupting your–” 

“—and my face–” 

“Don’t give the–”

CRACK.

They – you – go silent all at once. 

Their fuzzy bodies begin buzzing on the spot just as the walls begin to shake. Ben has to steady himself for a moment, the back of his knees bumping into the bedframe behind him. When he looks up again, the stuffed animals are leaking something crimson from their eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Hey– keep talking to me!” he demands but is cut short as each one of them explodes into a puff of red glitter. 

Ben stands there. 

Glitter’s raining down on him. He’s muttering a hoarse, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” while he’s trying to scrub the panic out of his face. But apparently, he doesn’t get a break.

Something’s touching his foot.

“Fuck!” Ben shouts, and in a knee-jerk reaction spins around to stomp down on whatever’s latched onto his ankle. A sickening squelching crack echoes off the walls. But the sound wouldn’t be reason enough for him to suddenly go rigid. 

It’s when he recognizes the maimed body that’s crawled out from beneath the bed, now pinned beneath his boot. At least what’s left of it – it’s more of a lump of meat with stubs for what once were limbs and a few loose strands of black hair that stick to its skull.

Clara rolls her head on its own axis until her eyes meet his. Ben’s breath stops for a moment.

“You wouldn’t ever forget about us,” she says, and smiles. In every broken way, she curls her lips further than naturally possible, “right, Benjamin?”

Ben doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He can’t breathe anymore. 

“But–” 

Ben’s head snaps around as Crimson chimes in in a distorted voice, like she’s just joining a conversation. 

“Why did you burn me? You said you loved mmmeee—” the word stretches on, warbling in a slow, sickening way. 

Meanwhile Ben watches with a stony expression how Crimson Countess’ face begins to rip into long stripes, her skin peeling back to reveal a charcoal body beneath. Then, a white, blinding light floods the room. The silhouette of what was Crimson, then Clara, then Quinn – it’s all burning.

Ben doubles over when the darkness of the basement spits him out again. He’s clutching his knees, chest heaving, struggling for air.

“Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters between his labored breaths.

Once Ben looks up, he is met with the burnt remains of what once was Quinn’s mangled body fused with the wall. He killed him too.

Maybe that’s what’s happening to him. 

He’s the undertaker of his own grave. He’s planned his own burial alive without realizing it.

His entire past – his memories, his relationships, his purpose – it’s all crumbling to dust, piece by piece. Soon he’ll be the last one standing. Locked into this mess of a head of his.

You thought you wouldn’t die alone? Pathetic. 

The words echo off the cold walls. Then the voice fucking laughs. Maybe Quinn’s. Maybe yours. Hell, maybe his own. He can’t tell anymore – it doesn’t change anything.

He will die alone. If he can die at all, that is. 

And worst is, he fucking deserves it.

“Just do it already,” Ben husks out. But Homelander, who's back from his corner, doesn’t move, just hovers in the doorway. Ben’s shoulders hunch when he realizes how his words came out unusually broken and wet. He really is pathetic.

He’s still here.

Alive. Alone. Potato, fucking potato. 

Soldier Boy hasn’t slept since they’ve returned from Fort Harmony. The question, why he’s still here, is tearing him apart. And frankly, he has passed the point of trying to deny it, or at least he would, if anybody asked.

He still can’t get you out of his head. Although you’d stopped talking to him days ago. The only exception being when you’d possessed a collection of monkeys in his fucked up brain. He keeps replaying the words you’d said then, over and over. As if it will jumpstart a new thought, or trigger a new memory if he just tries hard enough. The bitter truth is, he still knows jack shit about you.

He thinks he should know. No, that’s not right. It’s more like… he feels something, like he should remember. Which, once again, is an odd thing to say when you’re as emotionally constipated as Soldier Boy.

Which is why he’d rather not risk opening that pandora’s box further.

So, suck it up and onwards it is. And thanks to Homelander, that path leads him across half of America to visit Los Angeles. He fucking hates Los Angeles. 

But it still beats the alternative.

If he knew, that by the end of his day, he was going to end up bombshell-throwing Seth Rogan and spilling baby oil to catch a speedster, he would’ve probably – actually, no. Soldier Boy would’ve absolutely picked Los Angeles over another fucking fieldtrip to monkey-memory-land.

And what’s more, he would’ve missed out on the old Soldier Boy comic he’s eyeing with a smug smirk right now. The fresh blood splatter tainting his comic self crimson, doesn’t bother him. In fact, it kinda adds to the Kraut-hunter flair. He chuckles to himself at the thought, pocketing it.

Just as he turns, a picture between the collection of Nazi plates catches his attention. He steps closer, brows furrowing. 

It’s Clara. At this point she’s haunting him wherever he goes.

Well. If he’d ever been looking for clues about her existence, he’d be holding the key in his hands now. 

Unfortunately, that’s not the thing that’s bothering him when looking at her. If he can trust anything of the recollection he has gained so far, or more like, the emotional package that came with it, Clara was special to him. He’s accepted that much by now. But all that happens when he turns the photo in his hand is, shouldn’t I – I don’t know – feel something? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

He sets the frame back down. Crosses his arms in front of his chest as he stares down at it.

The face of Clara flickers – Ben blinked. He missed how your face reflected in the frame’s glass, yelling his name. For just a split second. But his subconscious caught it.

And unbeknownst to Ben, it’s enough to complete the process.

Ben's head screams of pain.

All forty years of his time in the torture chamber combined tear through his skull at once.

Images flash before his inner eyes. He recognizes some of them; The music. "Whatever will be, will be" playing in the background. The bedsheets. The taste of smoke on his tongue. But others are new. A slender hand covering his. Wait - there's that familiar smell of vanilla again. A strand of hair that curls around his finger as he strokes it behind her ear.

For the first time, Ben sees the face of the woman his mind's trying to overwrite; You're gorgeous. Soft light in your hair. Eyes full of love, only for him. When you open your mouth to giggle, he recognizes it at once; Stargate. You're Stargate.

Ben tries to grip you tight. But the lighting bolt that's thundering inside his head tears right through your face. Breaking it to pieces like a mirror.

"Fuck!" Ben groans, his fingers flexing around the edge of the table - or maybe it's a counter - he can't tell anymore.

Something in him turns over hard. Sickening. He fights the feeling that drags itself back up his throat, forces himself to focus on where your face has been moments ago.

There it is again, that terrible ache, that fear, like he’s lost something important.

And now he understands.

Ben drops to his knees, he desperately tries to hold onto the fragments. He tries to remember your laugh. But Clara's voice answers instead. He tries to picture your warm eyes. But Clara smiles back at him instead. He tries glue them back together, form your face with them – but the more his fingers dig into the shards, the more they crumble. 

Your name slips through his fingers next.

The ache in his chest remains.

When the pain in his skull subsides, Ben's eyes refocus on his empty hands in his lap. His fingers still flex, like he was trying to grab for something. He frowns to himself, slightly disoriented. Then his head angles back, his gaze instinctively pulled to the picture frame he'd placed back on the table.

And suddenly, the grief inside his ribs twists into something more; Guilt.

Only now, his mind finally gives it a reason. Clara.

Soldier Boy’s always been an asshole. Deep down, he knows it.

And believe it or not, he regrets it. Not all of it, of course. But some.

Like how he'd disappointed the one person who'd always believed in him. Had loved him unconditionally. Why does he realize that just now?

It’s not fucking fair how decades later, he’s been given the idea that he’s not only been capable of being in love, but actually could have spent eternity with someone he loves. Only to get it yanked from his hands moments later, because he’s not fucking worth it and meant to end up alone.

Alone with a weirdo son he didn’t ask for. 

What’s it worth being more than a man, when you die the pathetic, lonely, and slow death of a forgotten and degraded war hero? 

Bombsight was aware of that. Unlike him. 

And yet, Ben can’t admit that he wished he had gotten the V1 earlier. Maybe had gotten himself someone like Clara. Gotten himself a life he always thought he wasn’t cut out for. 

But all of that regret's worth jack shit, because there's nothing left for him to fix. All he can do now, is do right by her. Just this once.

Soldier Boy blocks his fist — let’s it connect with his forearm. He swivels, grazes his knuckles across Bombsight’s face. 

Then goes for his throat. 

His chest. His guts. 

He drives him back towards the wall – this is almost too easy. 

Then Bombsight twists away just in time, turns, so his fist’s flying towards Ben’s face when his vision suddenly whites out, his skull feeling like it’s cracking open and –

Soft static crackles along the music of Doris Bay’s Que Sera, Sera. The needle jumps from the weight that’s being thrown around the room. The floor imitates a warground with broken wood, ripped clothes, torn pillows, and its feathers swirling through the white powder that’s scattered all over the place. Wood groans as it gets slammed against the wall, over and over. Grunting and the wet slap of skin against skin mix into the rhythm. 

And there you are. 

Your arms are spread out like an eagle, fingers twisted into the smooth fabric of the flag. 

Soldier Boy holds you up by your ass – one hand is enough to keep you in the air. And it gives him the opportunity to pin you to the wall behind his bed with his other, curled around your neck. He’s not putting any pressure on your throat though, how could he?

You look like a fucking Goddess.

“Isn’t this flag desecration?” you smirk down at him, at which Ben’s own grin widens. 

“Doll, I am fucking America,” he snorts. 

“Yeah, literally,” you laugh, then gasp as Ben drives his point home with another punishing roll of his hips. You wrap your legs around his waist, circle his shoulder and his chest with an arm each as you dig your fingers into his skin. Ben hisses – he wishes it was from pain, from feeling every inch of his skin breaking under your nails – he never carries away any marks from you, but he likes to imagine it anyway. At least he can mark you up. 

“Fuck– don’t stop–” you cry out right next to his ear where your forehead has dropped to. Like hell’s he going to stop. Not now, not ever.

“Ain’t stoppin’ till you’ve milked me dry,” he warns. His grip on your ass turns bruising, then moves it to the small of your back for better leverage. He pulls you in, meeting his every thrust as he fucks up into that tight little cunt of yours. 

He feels how your soft walls begin to flutter around his cock. He knows you’re close. And if that wasn’t telling enough, the state of the Old Glory on his wall would surely give it away. A satisfied grin spreads across his lips as he watches the way your head has dropped back against the wall, thudding with every snap of his hips. How your eyes rolled back under your eyelids. How you’re back to fisting the stars and stripes, how your moans begin to slip into desperate whines, and how the flag goes taut from how much you squirm and writhe.

Christ. Fucking you is divine.

You announce your orgasm with a shuddering cry, the flag protests under it but ultimately gives in as it rips from its hinges and drapes over your shoulders like a cape. Your cunt squeezes him with a vice grip, and it’s enough to make him follow you over the edge as he shoots his load up your walls. 

He sinks back to his knees, takes you down with him as he settles down on the mattress. 

“Look at my sweet girl,” he chuckles with a tilt of his head, his hand brushing the edge of the flag out of your face. “Takin’ down America like she fuckin’ owns it.” 

That quip earns him a giggle of yours. Christ, he'd kill just for that sound. He pulls you further into his lap by the small of your back, wanting to feel the tiny rumbles of your chest against his. 

His smooth chin rests against your sternum. The stormy green in his eyes never leaves you. “You’re fucking gorgeous. You know that?”

You roll your eyes at him, the way you always do when he compliments you – he remembers that detail now, too. Would you still react that snarky if he was to say that he really means it? That, sure, your body’s gorgeous, but it’s so much more than that. That, if he was any better with words, with feelings, he’d tell you?

You try to wiggle out of his lap, but Ben tuts and rolls you both over so you’re under him.

“Come here you cheeky lil’ minx,” Ben growls roughly, while his strong hands find purchase on the plush of your hips and his own slot back between your thighs with ease. Your fingers thread into the back of his short hair, yank at it as he pushes himself back into your still sticky heat without a warning and bottoms out.

Ben continues to fuck you through four more rounds. Until both of you have collapsed to your backs, you tapping out and Ben calling for a joint-break.

He presses the tip of the blunt to his lips, primes it with a few quick puffs until he takes a longer drag. He holds it for a moment, then blows out the smoke through his lips again. 

“You know, I could get you some,” he says while staring up at the ceiling where the smoke dissipates. He doesn’t need to look to feel your chest heave before a sigh.

“That’s not how it works.”

This time Ben rolls his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it? You’ve got a body somewhere, right? And you’re a fuckin’ supe.”

“This is me.” Your challenging tone drives his eyebrows together, and his head angles to glare down at you.

“Quit fuckin’ playin’ with my head, Stargate. You know what I meant,” he snaps, then pauses. 

His fingertips rub along the blunt for a couple of times before his frown softens and he passes you the joint as a peace offering. You don’t take it right away, but eventually, you do.

Soldier Boy takes it as his cue to go on. His free forefinger glides through a strand of your hair before he tenderly brushes it behind your ear. The tips of his fingers linger there. Like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can feel what touching your real skin would feel like. “I just–” he lets out a heavy breath through his nose. “I wish I could…”

“Fuck my real body?” You quip and blow a swirl of smoke into his face.

“Yeah. That too,” he snorts, breathes in some of the smoke that’s left your lungs. “We could also–,” he pauses to search for the right genuine words, while he looks down to your small hand covering his as it curves your hipbone, “We could, you know, grow not old together.” He winces inwardly at how that made him sound like a goddamn pantywaist. So he quickly adds; “Fucking’s definitely more fun without the toilet dippers and a cunt bucket, don’t ya think?” 

The silence that follows is killing him. After a beat, he dares to look up at you, but is met with sad eyes that he wishes he’d rather not seen.

“Ben…” you murmur, lips pressed into a tight line. “We have no idea where my body is.”

“So?” He frowns. “I‘ll find it. I’ll get you out.”

“– or when.”

Right. Then there’s that small but crucial detail. His jaw muscles work to form some kind of smart response, but ultimately he falls silent. Time’s relative for you. That’s a fact that he tends to ignore. Mainly because he can’t wrap his mind around it. How can you talk to him here, in this moment, and at the same time be stuck anywhere in time?

“Look…” You rub your thumb over his knuckles. The softness of your touch makes his defiant gaze snap back to you. “We got to be realistic about this… Chances are, that my body’s already dead.”

Well. That’s not how he’d planned this conversion to go. You always shut him down with that argument. And honestly? It pisses him off how gloomy you are about the whole future thing.

Without a word, you pass him the blunt back. He takes a longer drag than usual. Time passes without either of you adding anything.

Maybe… maybe if you knew how he felt, you’d change your mind.

Ben’s throat works. He clears it from the smoke, but still, nothing makes it past his lips. He looks away, fumbles for those three damn words that he cannot seem to get in line. When he finally meets your eyes again, his determined frown has given way to something uncharacteristic for Soldier Boy. An expression, that’s almost… soft. 

It’s not like he hasn’t thrown around those exact same words countless times before. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

It should be easy, right? But this is the moment he realizes that they’ve never held this much weight for him until now. And that kinda terrifies Ben.

Ben turns away, flicking the roach into the mug on the bedside table. While still looking the other way, he rasps out your name – gosh, your name is so perfect when it rolls off his tongue. So perfect and complete. He wants to taste it, savour it. Never let it go again. Then brand every sperm of his ballsack with your initials and let everyone know that they belong to this perfect fucking woman he can call his own. See? That’s how romantic he can get. 

Come on, you fuckin’ pussy. Just get it over with.

He forces his shoulders to angle back towards you. 

The way you stare up at him with those wide eyes, naked body stretched out beneath him, is actually not helping at all. Ben fully turns to his side, braces himself on his right arm to slowly snake his free hand up your side and watch you shiver from it. Or, maybe it will. He lets his mouth follow his hungry gaze as he kisses a path down the front of your neck, over your collarbone, till the valley between your breasts. 

“I just think,” he muses, “it’d be a shame for these perfect tits to go saggy,” he grins against your skin. 

You gasp, then want to smack his shoulder. But Ben catches your wrist first.

“I’m not fuckin’ done yet,” he grunts. This is it. The moment he has to get those three little pathetic words off his chest before they crush his ribs like nothing physical ever could.

“What I’m tryin’ to say is…” he mutters gruffly, before he goes to press his lips to the inside of your wrist. “I lo–”

I love you.

The words still echo in the back of his mind. So clear. So triumphant. He sees it all now. Your face, your voice, your name. 

How could he ever forget. How could he ever leave you behind?

Then the moment’s gone.

His mind resets.

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit. That I was the strongest Supe alive, the “ultimate expression” of what we could be.”

Ben pauses – Why the fuck did I say that?  His fingers twitch around the blue liquid for a moment. He frowns down at it, but the thought slips him before he can catch it. When he looks back up at his son, his muscles seem to relax by themselves. 

His mouth continues. “But she was wrong. She hadn’t met you yet.” 

Homelander frowns slightly, in disbelief. “But you hate me,” he mutters. 

Soldier Boy exhales heavily through his nose, as he conjures up the image of what his memory system has saved as yours.

“I love S–” his brow furrows. “–Clara more. And this is what she would want.”

Then –

Black.

A hook in your chest yanks you backwards with such force, that your eyes snap wide open - but your vision stays dark. 

Fuck, you feel dazed. Nauseous like hell. You want to throw up, but you wouldn’t even know what way to turn. Or how to turn. 

There’s noise. So much noise around you.

People are… talking. And… clapping? 

“Good job, sir.” 

“Thank you, thank you. But none of this would have worked without Mrs. Vought–” 

The voices sound distorted, drowned out like they’re inside a dome.

“This is it, meine Damen und Herren... Mark this day… Phase one of The Great Reset is complete.”   What’s that voice - why does it sound so familiar? Phase one?

“Wh- m- I?” Your tongue feels numb.

“Eye movement detected. Asset is regaining consciousness, sir.” A voice says somewhere behind you. 

“Wha- s- on?” Yeah, still numb. Everything feels numb, now that you try to make out where your body starts and where it ends. 

“Heart rate is increasing.” 

“Signs of disorientation.” 

“Put her back to sleep.”

“Wh- n-o, n-no-” You want to protest. To scream. To thrash. But your body is so far away. And now you’re sinking through the void below you, down, down, down…

“Start phase two.” 

The woman with the German accent announces somewhere far away, followed by more clapping. 

Until it’s all fading into black.

And the voice of Michael Jackson.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I wish I could say I'm officially back - but the writer's block and my irl still have me in a chokehold. Maybe this'll help me to overcome it... we'll see how it goes. How are you all doing?? I miss y'all so much. And I'm so so sorry if I didn't get to reply to your ask or comment yet. </3

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Your daughter was nine months old now, and somehow that felt both impossible and painfully obvious.

Impossible because it felt like you had only blinked since the day Dean had held her for the first time, his whole body trembling, eyes glassy and his face crumpled into something raw and awed as he stared at a part of him and you compacted into one tiny, perfect, human.

Painfully obvious because you could not remember the last time you had slept more than four consecutive hours since before you left hunting.

'Mom life' was well and truly underway.

It wasn’t soft-focus montages and glowing skin and peaceful mornings the way people liked to pretend in the movies. It was spit-up on the shoulder of your favourite shirt. It was crying at three in the morning because she was crying and you were exhausted and Dean was exhausted, and neither of you knew what else to try.

It was changing a diaper, only for her to immediately poop again with a look on her tiny face that felt almost smug. She was becoming her father’s double.

It was trying to shower while she shrieked from her bouncer outside the bathroom door because she had to be near you, Dean crouched in front of her, shaking her favourite stuffed bee like his life depended on it.

It was cold coffee. Burnt toast. Laundry you forgot in the washer for two days. Eating cereal out of a mug because all the bowls were dirty and neither of you had the energy to unload the dishwasher.

It was Dean standing in the kitchen at midnight, shirt rumpled, hair sticking up in all directions, bouncing your daughter against his chest while he warmed a bottle and mumbled, “I know, sweetheart. I know. Life’s hard when you’re tiny and unemployed.”

It was you crying because you felt like you were doing everything wrong, and Dean folding you into his arms before you could spiral too far, pressing his mouth to your temple and murmuring, “Hey. No. Don’t do that to yourself. She’s loved. She’s fed. She’s safe. That’s us doing it right.”

It was Dean, too tired to be charming and somehow more beautiful for it, lying beside you in bed with the baby asleep on his chest, one big hand cupped protectively over her back.

He had been amazing.

Not perfect. Neither of you had been perfect. There were snappy moments, stupid arguments over sterilised bottles and whose turn it was to sleep and whether Dean had actually restocked the wipes like he said he had.

But he was there.

Every day.

Every night.

There was no running off, no hunt to disappear into, no case to bury the fear beneath. Just Dean Winchester in the trenches of fatherhood, learning bottle temperatures and lullabies and which ridiculous face made your daughter giggle so hard she got hiccups.

He loved her with a devotion that almost hurt to witness.

And he loved you through every messy, fragile, overwhelmed version of yourself.

Which was why it took you a while to notice that somewhere along the way, Dean had stopped letting you love him back quite as freely.

At first, you blamed exhaustion.

It was easy to miss things when you barely knew what day it was.

You didn’t think much of it when he started changing quickly with his back to you, tugging his shirt off and replacing it with another before you’d even looked up from folding baby clothes.

You didn’t think much of it when he stopped walking around the room in just his boxers the way he always used to, shameless and sleep-warm and scratching lazily at his stomach.

You didn’t think much of it when he stopped pulling you into the shower with him on the rare mornings your daughter slept longer than expected.

Everything had changed. Of course some things felt different.

Your body had changed too. Your life had changed. Your routines were nonexistent. The two of you had gone from hunters with weapons hidden under motel mattresses to parents who could have a full-blown debate about which brand of nappy leaked less overnight.

Neither of you hunted anymore.

Not properly.

Not like before.

There were still phone calls. Research favours. The occasional weapon consult. Dean still helped younger hunters from the safety of the bunker, his voice gruff and confident over speakerphone while he paced with the baby strapped to his chest in a carrier.

But the running? The fighting? The adrenaline and motel coffee and gas station dinners eaten in the front seat of the Impala?

That life was gone.

And with it went the constant movement that had kept both of you lean and wired and running on fumes.

Now, meals were whatever was easiest. Frozen pizzas. Takeout. Leftover pasta eaten standing at the counter. Pie because, well, it's Dean and it's pie. Burgers because neither of you had the brain capacity to cook. Coffee because water felt too responsible.

Self-care had gone out the window somewhere around the first month, right alongside regular sleep, matching socks, and your ability to watch a movie without pausing it six times because you thought you heard your daughter cry.

So no, you didn’t notice at first.

Not until one evening when Dean thought you were asleep.

Your daughter had finally gone down after an hour of fighting it like sleep was an enemy combatant. You had collapsed into bed with your arm flung over your eyes, body heavy with that bone-deep tiredness that had become familiar.

Dean had gone to brush his teeth at the little sink nestled in the corner of the room. The layout of this place still baffled you.

You opened your eyes only because you heard him sigh.

Not the usual tired sigh. Not the dramatic huff he gave when your daughter threw her spoon on the floor for the fourth time.

This was quieter. Heavier.

You turned your head slightly and peered beneath your arm, you could see him standing in front of the mirror with his shirt lifted.

At first, your sleepy brain simply registered him.

Broad shoulders. Freckled skin. Bowed head. One hand braced on the sink, the other resting over his stomach.

Then your chest tightened.

Because his face wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tired in the usual way.

It was critical.

Sharp with something that looked far too much like shame.

He turned slightly to the side, looking at himself from another angle, his mouth pressing into a thin line. His hand moved over his middle, fingers sinking slightly into the softness there, and he exhaled through his nose like he was disappointed.

Your heart gave a painful little twist.

Dean had gained weight. Not drastically. Not in a way that made him any less Dean.

But his body had softened.

The hard lines carved from years of hunting had blurred at the edges. His stomach had a gentle curve now, a little belly that sat above the waistband of his sweatpants. His hips were softer. His waist had thickened. The muscle was still there in his arms, his shoulders, his thighs, but there was more give to him now. More warmth.

A 'dad bod'. Some would say.

But it was a body that had stayed home. A body that had rocked a crying baby at three in the morning. A body that had eaten whatever was fast because you needed him more than the gym did. A body that had finally stopped running long enough to be lived in.

You loved it.

God, you loved it.

But Dean clearly didn’t.

You watched him drop his shirt quickly, like even he couldn’t stand looking anymore. Then he leaned both hands on the sink and lowered his head.

And you knew.

You knew that look. You knew what it meant when Dean turned something inward and let it cut him quietly where no one else could see.

So you said nothing that night.

You waited.

Not because you wanted him to suffer, but because Dean Winchester could be skittish with vulnerability. Push too hard, too fast, and he’d deflect, make some crude joke, or kiss you until you forgot the question.

You noticed the way he avoided your hands when they drifted under his shirt. The way he shifted away with a joke when you tried to curl against his side in bed. The way he reached for hoodies more often. The way his smile went tight when one of his old shirts clung a little more than it used to.

And slowly, an idea formed.

It started with Sam and Eileen.

More specifically, it started with Eileen watching you nearly pour orange juice into your coffee mug while your daughter babbled happily from her high chair, tiny fists smearing mashed banana across the tray.

Eileen arched a brow. Sam, sitting beside her, looked between you and Dean with the cautious expression of a man assessing a live grenade.

“You two need a break,” he said.

Dean snorted from where he stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand while your daughter’s spoon sat tucked behind his ear for reasons none of you had questioned anymore.

“We’re fine.”

You stared blankly at the orange juice carton in your hand, then down at your coffee.

Eileen signed something sharply and Dean glanced over.

“Hey, I caught that.”

“She said you look like the before picture in a mattress commercial.” Sam translated, far too amused.

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Dean’s offended look lasted all of two seconds before your daughter squealed from her chair.

His face melted instantly.

“Yeah, I know,” he cooed, turning back to her. “Everyone’s mean to Daddy.”

Daddy.

The word still did something to you.

And not just because it was sweet.

Though it was. God, it was. There was something almost unbearable about hearing Dean call himself that, about watching the word settle into him more naturally every day, like fatherhood had found some hidden room inside him and filled it with light.

But it wasn’t only tenderness that pulled low in your stomach when you looked at him now.

It was the way he had eased into the role without ever really noticing he was doing it.

The way those hands — scarred, broad, steady from years of handling guns, knives, lock picks, and every weapon under the sun — had somehow become impossibly gentle around your daughter. Those same dexterous fingers that could take apart a shotgun blindfolded now tested bottle temperatures against the inside of his wrist, adjusted tiny sock cuffs, fastened poppers on sleep suits, and swept wisps of hair from her forehead with a care that made your chest ache.

It was the way his body had learned her. Her weight. Her moods. Her little tired sounds. The exact bounce that soothed her when she was fussy. The low rumble of his voice when he hummed Zeppelin under his breath because apparently your baby girl had inherited his taste in music before she could even talk.

It was the fierce protectiveness too.

That thing in him that had always been sharp, always been dangerous, but had changed shape the moment she came into the world. Dean had always protected the people he loved, but this was different. This was quieter until it wasn’t. This was him checking the locks twice without making a show of it. Standing between her stroller and a stranger who got a little too close in town. Sleeping lighter than he ever had on hunts, waking at the smallest sound from the crib.

It was the look in his eyes when he held her.

Like the world could burn itself down outside the bunker doors and he would still be there, one arm around his baby girl, daring anything in creation to try and take her from him.

That should have made you soft.

And it did. It made you ache with love for him.

But it also made him hotter than he had any right to be.

Dean, exhausted and rumpled, with banana on his shirt and your daughter’s spoon tucked behind his ear, calling himself Daddy in that rough, casual voice like he had no idea what it did to you.

Like he didn’t know the sight of him settling into fatherhood, strong hands gone gentle, battle instincts turned domestic, all that fierce Winchester devotion focused on one tiny girl, made heat bloom low in your belly even when you were sleep-deprived, unwashed, and currently holding orange juice over your coffee like your brain had left the building.

Maybe especially then.

Because this was Dean in a way you’d never had him before.

Not the hunter.

Not the soldier.

Not the man who had spent his whole life ready to die for everyone else.

This was Dean as a father.

And God help you, it made you want him all over again.

Sam cleared his throat, snapping you violently back to the kitchen, where you were still standing there with the orange juice carton hovering over your mug and, apparently, a very inappropriate expression on your face.

You quickly set the carton down.

“Seriously. Eileen and I can take for the night.” Sam continued.

You looked up too quickly. “A whole night?”

Eileen smiled at you and nodded. “You need it,” she said aloud, then signed, “Both of you.”

Dean opened his mouth, probably to argue, but you saw the hesitation.

Not because either of you thought Sam and Eileen were incapable. They always helped when they could.

And God, did they help.

When they were home, they would take your daughter so you could shower without hallucinating from exhaustion and Dean could do the much needed nappy run.

Eileen could calm your daughter with a patience that made you want to cry. She even cooked for you sometimes. Ran laundry, whilst Sam watched over the baby to let you and Dean nap for an hour like two corpses in a bed.

But they weren’t always here.

They had their own lives now too.

That had been the whole point of getting out, hadn’t it? Not just for you and Dean, but for all of you. Sam and Eileen had spent enough years chained to apocalypses and demon deals and whatever fresh horror crawled out of the dark. They deserved road trips that didn’t end in grave desecration. They deserved lazy weekends, hotel rooms without fake FBI badges, little towns they passed through because they wanted to and not because something was eating people.

So sometimes they travelled.

Sometimes they were gone for a week. Sometimes two. Sometimes they checked in with photos from some scenic overlook or roadside diner, and you were happy for them, genuinely, painfully happy, while standing in the bunker kitchen at two in the morning with dried spit-up on your shirt and a baby who had decided sleep was a personal insult.

But beneath the hesitation, there was something else.

A flicker of longing.

Not for freedom from your daughter. Never that.

Just for one night where the two of you could remember you were still people. Still lovers. Still Dean and you beneath the titles Mom and Dad.

One uninterrupted night.

Your hand found Dean’s lower back as you stepped beside him at the stove, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. “Maybe we do,” you said softly.

Dean looked down at you. And for a moment, his expression was unreadable.

Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter. “Okay.”

So you planned it.

Not a huge thing. Not some extravagant, impossible evening. You knew better than to aim for perfection now.

A little Italian restaurant in town. The one with warm yellow lights in the windows, red-checkered tablecloths, and bread baskets that smelled like garlic and heaven.

Then a hotel.

A nice one.

Not a motel with questionable stains and a vending machine that only sold off-brand chips. A proper hotel with clean sheets, thick curtains, a bathtub big enough for two, and a bed neither of you had to share with a baby monitor, laundry pile, or half-assembled crib toy.

You didn’t tell Dean about the hotel.

That part was a surprise.

By the time the evening rolled round, leaving your daughter felt both thrilling and devastating.

She was perfectly fine, you told yourself. Better than fine, actually.

She was sitting on Sam’s hip, one tiny hand fisted in his hair while Dean ran through the 'must haves' check list. Miracle hovered nearby like a furry bodyguard, tail wagging with great seriousness.

“You remember where the extra diapers are?”

Sam gave him a flat look. “Yes.”

“The teething gel?”

“Yes.”

“The little purple blanket, not the pink one, because she knows the difference.”

“Dean.”

“And if she does the cough thing after her bottle, don’t panic, just sit her up and pat her back—”

“Dean.”

He stopped.

Sam’s expression softened. “We’ve got her.”

You kissed your daughter’s warm cheek, breathing in the clean, powdery sweetness of her skin until your chest ached. “Be good, okay?”

Dean looked down, swallowing around something.

Your daughter chose that moment to slap both hands against Sam’s cheeks and babble loudly.

Dean laughed, but it came out thick.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “No parties. No boys. No summoning demons. And if Uncle Sammy tries to give you kale as a snack, you scream until he gives you something better.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Get out.”

Eileen gave you a knowing smirk and signed, “Go have some fun.”

And then Dean’s hand slipped into yours. Warm. Familiar. Steady. And for the first time in months, the two of you walked out of the bunker without a diaper bag, without spit-up on your shoulder, without listening for a cry that wasn’t coming.

The outside air felt strange.

Too open.

Too quiet.

Dean drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, thumb moving absently over your bare thigh.

You had worn a dress.

An actual dress.

Not leggings. Not one of Dean’s old shirts. Not something chosen based on how easily it could survive bodily fluids.

A dress.

Soft, dark, flattering in a way that made you feel like yourself and not just a half-feral creature living on coffee and lullabies.

Dean had stared when you came out of the bedroom. His eyes had dragged over you slowly, his mouth parting just slightly before he caught himself and cleared his throat.

“You look…” His voice had gone rough. “Damn, sweetheart.”

That alone had made the whole night worth it.

But at the restaurant, under the warm glow of hanging lights, with Dean sitting across from you in a dark button-down that stretched beautifully over his shoulders and arms, you realised how badly you had missed him.

Not Dad Dean.

Not the man passing you wipes at two in the morning while your daughter screamed the roof down.

Just the man who still looked at you like you were trouble and home all at once.

He also ate like he hadn’t had a real meal in months, which was probably accurate. He groaned around the first bite of lasagne, eyes rolling back dramatically enough that you kicked him under the table.

“Careful,” you teased, trying not to laugh as Dean closed his eyes around another bite like he was having a religious experience. “People are watching.”

“Let ’em,” he mumbled, absolutely shameless as he dragged another piece of garlic bread through the sauce. “I’d marry this lasagna.”

You arched a brow. “Wow. Good to know where I stand.”

Dean glanced up, caught the challenge in your expression, and smirked around his fork. “Baby, you’re in a whole different category.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” He leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Lasagna gets one evening of my undivided attention. You got the rest of my life. Also my car keys,” he added. “And the good side of the bed. Which, honestly, is huge for me.”

You laughed incredulously. “I had your child.”

“And I gave you the good side of the bed for most of the third trimester,” he shot back, pointing his fork at you like that settled everything. “Some would say we’re even.”

You sat back in your seat, folded your arms and mockingly scowled.

He held your gaze for all of two seconds before his grin cracked wide.

"C'mon, i'm kidding. We both know you've got me wrapped around your little finger." He huffed and shook his head like that bothered him.

You hummed and conceded with a cheeky smile on your lips. “Smart answer.”

"Still might give the lasagne a second date, though.” He mumbled around another bite.

“Dean!” You smacked his arm in jest.

“What? It’s got layers. I respect that in a partner.”

You laughed then, unable to help it, and his grin widened like that had been the whole point.

For a while, it was easy.

You talked about nothing and everything. Your daughter’s new habit of growling at mashed peas. Sam’s tragic attempt at assembling a baby walker last week. Eileen teaching her signs already, even though most of them currently looked like enthusiastic flailing.

Dean told you about a young hunter who had called him for advice on a ghoul case, and how weird it felt to be the guy on the phone instead of the one digging up graves.

“You miss it?” you asked quietly.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers around his glass of soda, thumb tracing the condensation.

“Hunting?” He thought about it. “Sometimes. In little pieces. The road. The music. The…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Feeling useful, maybe.”

Your heart pinched. “You are useful.”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know. Diaper genie ain’t gonna empty itself.”

“Dean.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

You reached across the table, palm up. After a second, he placed his hand in yours.

“You are the reason I survived those first few months,” you said softly. “You know that, right?”

His jaw shifted.

You squeezed his hand. “You took care of me. You took care of her. You still do.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb moving back and forth over your knuckles.

“Just feels like…” He stopped, huffed a humourless little laugh, and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“No. Tell me.”

“Nah.”

“Dean.”

His eyes flicked up. There was a warning in them, but not an angry one. A frightened one.

You softened. “Baby.”

His shoulders dropped slightly and he looked away, toward the window where the streetlights reflected against the glass.

“Just feels like I don’t recognise myself sometimes,” he admitted, so quietly you almost missed it. “Used to be able to take a beating from a vamp and still run three miles if I had to. Now I get winded carrying the car seat up the stairs.”

You said nothing, letting him find the rest.

His mouth tightened.

“And I know it’s stupid. I know I’m not twenty-five anymore. I know things are different.” He gave a rough little shrug. “But I saw myself in the mirror the other night and just thought… hell. When did that happen?”

Your throat tightened.

He still wouldn’t look at you.

“I let myself go,” he muttered.

“No,” you said immediately.

He let out a breath. “Sweetheart—”

“No.” Your voice was firmer this time. “You didn’t let yourself go. You stayed.”

That made him look at you.

You swallowed, emotion pressing hard against your ribs. “You stayed with me. With her. You stopped running yourself into the ground chasing monsters and started building a life. That body you’re so busy judging? That’s the body that carried our daughter around the kitchen for hours because she wouldn’t sleep unless she heard your heartbeat.”

Dean’s face shifted.

You kept going because now that you had started, you couldn’t stop.

“That’s the body that slept on the floor beside the crib every night when she had colic. That’s the body that wrapped around me every time I thought I was failing.”

His eyes had gone glassy, though he blinked quickly, trying to hide it.

You squeezed his hand again.

“I love your body,” you said. “Every version of it. But this one?” Your gaze dropped briefly, deliberately, over his chest, his stomach, the breadth of him. “This one is my favourite.”

Dean stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that.

So, naturally, he deflected.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice rough, one brow lifting. “You into the dad bod now?”

You smiled slowly.

“Oh, Baby,” you said, letting your thumb drag over his knuckles. “You have no idea.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

Heat, yes. But uncertainty too.

You wanted to kiss it away. Wanted to take him apart slowly enough that he had no room left to doubt you.

Luckily, you had a hotel room waiting.

When dinner ended, Dean reached for the keys out of habit, and you plucked them from his hand.

“Uh, you planning on stealing my car?”

“Maybe.” You shrugged coyly, walking around to the drivers side.

His eyes narrowed. “Wait. Where are we going?”

You only smiled and gave him a wink before you slid into the divers seat.

The room was beautiful.

Not extravagant, but warm and clean, with soft lamps, thick curtains, a king-sized bed, and a bathroom with white tile and a deep tub that made you immediately think of Dean’s sore shoulders and your own aching feet.

He set the overnight bag, you'd secretly packed, down near the dresser, glancing around with a low whistle.

“Damn. We’ve come a long way from mouldy carpets and vibrating beds.”

You hummed, stepping behind him. “Kind of nostalgic, though.”

Dean snorted. “For the vibrating beds?”

“For motel rooms. Road trips. You trying to seduce me while Sam was ten feet away pretending not to hear.”

His grin flashed, but faded slightly when your hands slid around his waist.

You felt it. The way his stomach tensed beneath your palms. The way he inhaled and held it.

Your heart squeezed. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and held him gently.

“Don’t do that,” you whispered.

“Do what?”

“Brace like I’m about to be disappointed.”

His breath left him in a slow, uneven stream.

You kissed the back of his shirt.

“I’m not.”

Dean’s hands covered yours where they rested over his middle, but he didn’t pull them away. You kissed his spine through the fabric, then his shoulder blade, then stepped around to face him.

His eyes were darker now. Guarded, but wanting.

You reached for the buttons of his shirt. “Can I?”

For a second, he looked almost startled by the question.

Then his face softened.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, baby.”

You undid them slowly. One by one.

The room seemed to quiet around you, the distant sound of traffic muffled by the windows, the warm lamplight turning his skin golden as each inch of him was revealed.

Freckles. Scars. Softness. Strength.

Dean watched your face like he was searching for the moment your expression would change.

It didn’t.

If anything, you felt yourself ache more. By the time his shirt hung open, your mouth had gone dry.

His chest was still broad, dusted with freckles, solid beneath your palms when you pushed the fabric from his shoulders. His arms were still strong, still capable of making you feel weightless when he wrapped them around you. But beneath the familiar planes was that new softness you loved so much — the gentle curve of his stomach, the slight give at his waist, the warmth of a body no longer sharpened by survival alone.

You touched him there first.

Dean’s eyes fluttered. Just enough to betray him.

You flattened your palms over his chest and slid them down his abdomen slowly.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered.

He huffed, but it came out broken. “That’s my line.”

“Not tonight.”

His hands flexed at his sides as you leaned in and kissed his chest. Once. Twice. Then lower.

Dean sucked in a breath when your lips brushed the soft swell of his stomach.

“Sweetheart…”

You looked up at him. His face was flushed. Vulnerable, but hungry.

You kissed him again, right there, and felt him shudder.

“I love this,” you murmured against his skin. “I love touching you.”

His hand came up, fingers threading into your hair as he gently urged you to stand.

For a second, he looked like he might crack wide open.

Then he kissed you.

And it was not gentle.

It was desperate, bruising, full of months of exhaustion and restraint and all the things he had been too afraid to ask for. His hands gripped your face, your waist, your hips, like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most. You moaned into his mouth, and the sound seemed to snap something in him.

He backed you toward the bed, but you stopped him with a hand on his chest.

His brows pulled together. “You okay?”

You smiled coyly and then you pushed him.

Dean landed on the mattress with a soft grunt, eyes widening as you climbed over him.

“Oh,” he said, voice dropping. “Okay.”

You straddled his thighs, smoothing your hands up his stomach and chest, watching the way his breath hitched under your touch.

“You spent months making me feel like I was the sexiest woman alive when I was pregnant,” you said, leaning down to kiss his jaw. “When I was swollen and tired and crying because my ankles looked weird.”

His lips twitched. “They did look kinda weird.”

You bit his earlobe and he groaned.

“You worshipped every inch of me,” you continued, dragging your mouth down his throat. “You made me feel wanted every single day.”

“You were wanted every single day.”

“So are you.”

Dean went still beneath you and you lifted your head and looked at him.

“So are you,” you repeated. “Every inch of you.”

His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs stroking over the fabric of your dress as you kissed down his neck. Then his chest. His stomach. The soft skin above his waistband.

Dean’s head tipped back, his throat working as you took your time with him, letting your hands roam everywhere he had tried to hide. You kissed every scar, every freckle, every place his body had changed. You worshipped him with the same reverence he had given you.

By the time you reached his belt, his breathing was ragged.

“Baby,” he rasped, hand tightening in your hair. “You keep doing that and this night’s gonna get real short.”

You smiled against his skin. “Good thing we’ve got all night then.”

He let out a wrecked little laugh that turned into a groan when you opened his belt.

There was nothing hurried about it. That was the best part.

No baby crying from the next room. No monitor crackling. No whispered, frantic, half-dressed moment stolen between naps and laundry.

Just time.

You took your time undressing him, and you made him watch you love it.

His jeans came off first, pushed down his thighs with deliberate care, your palms dragging over warm skin, over muscle still there beneath the softness, over the body that had carried so much for so long. His hands trembled slightly when he reached for the hem of your dress, and you lifted your arms, letting him pull it over your head.

The look on his face when he saw you nearly made your knees weak.

Not because you felt flawless. You didn’t.

Your body had changed too. Your stomach was softer. Your hips were wider. There were stretch marks on your skin now, faint silver lines that caught in the lamplight. Your breasts were different. You were different.

But Dean looked at you like you were holy.

“God,” he breathed.

You smiled, heart aching. “Still?”

His eyes snapped to yours, fierce and immediate. “Always.”

Then his hands were on you, warm and reverent, pulling you down against him. The feeling of him beneath you punched the air from your lungs.

Warm. Solid. Soft where you wanted him soft, strong where you needed him strong. His skin pressed against yours, his thighs thick beneath you, his arms firm around your back as his fingers found the clasp of your bra.

It came undone with a practiced flick and you let it fall away, tossing it blindly to the side.

The way he looked at you made heat bloom low in your belly — not just hunger, though there was plenty of that, but wonder. Pure, open wonder, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have you like this.

And then you leaned back down and kissed him slowly this time. Deeply. Letting the hunger simmer instead of burn too fast.

Dean groaned into your mouth when you rolled your hips, the warmth of your core running against his length, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to make you gasp.

“Missed you,” he murmured, lips dragging along your jaw. “Missed this.”

Your eyes fluttered. “Me too.”

“Not the quick stuff,” he said, mouth finding the sensitive place beneath your ear. “Not the ‘baby’s asleep, hurry up’ stuff.”

A breathless laugh slipped out of you. “That stuff has its place.”

“Hell yeah, it does.” His teeth grazed your throat, and you felt his smile against your skin. “But this…”

His hands slid down your back, over your ass, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. When he looked up at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips parted, face flushed and open in a way that made your pulse stumble.

“This is better.”

You kissed him again, then shifted lower.

His breath caught as your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers brushing over the waistband of his boxers before you tugged them down. Dean lifted his hips to help you, impatient even now, kicking them off one foot with a clumsy little movement that would’ve made you laugh if your hand hadn’t closed around him a second later.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head falling back against the pillows.

You stroked him slowly, watching pleasure soften his face, watching the insecurity loosen its claws inch by inch. His mouth fell open. His brow furrowed. That harsh, critical tension you’d seen in him earlier began to melt beneath your touch.

“You like me touching you?” you whispered.

His laugh was breathless and ruined. “That a real question?”

You tightened your hand slightly and his mouth fell open.

“Words, Winchester.”

His eyes flashed up to yours, dark and heated.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, sweetheart. I love you touching me.”

You leaned down, brushing your lips over his. “Good.”

When you finally sank down onto him, both of you went silent.

It had been so long since you’d done this without rushing. So long since you’d had the space to feel every inch, every stretch, every breath. So long since your bodies had been allowed to take their time remembering each other.

Dean’s hands flew to your hips, not forcing, just anchoring. His face twisted with pleasure as you took him slowly, inch by inch, letting yourself adjust, letting him feel how much you wanted every bit of him.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, forehead dropping to his.

His voice was rough against your mouth. “You okay?”

You nodded, breath shaking. “More than okay.”

He kissed you then, swallowing your soft moan as you settled fully against him.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You just stayed there, joined and breathing, your body wrapped around his while his hands stroked up and down your back like he was trying to memorise this version of you too.

Then you moved. Slowly at first. A gentle roll of your hips that made his grip tighten.

Dean groaned, low and deep, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His stomach pressed soft and warm against you every time you moved, and the intimacy of it made you dizzy. There was no distance. No hiding. No sharp edges.

Just him.

All of him.

You braced your hands on his chest and rode him with slow, deliberate movements, watching him unravel beneath you. The pleasure built in layers — the stretch of him inside you, the drag of your body against his, the heat of his hands, the broken way he looked at you like you were taking him apart and putting him back together all at once.

His eyes moved over your face. Your body. Then lower, to where you were joined, and his jaw clenched hard.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Look at you.”

You smiled, breathless. “Look at you.”

That made his cheeks flush darker and you leaned down, pressing kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you whispered, breath ragged.

He made a strained sound, half protest, half pleasure.

“You are,” you insisted, moving a little harder now, enough to make both of you gasp. “You’re gorgeous. Sexy. Mine.”

His eyes darkened at that. “Yours?” he growled.

You clenched around him deliberately and Dean cursed, both hands grabbing your hips, holding on rather than guiding.

“All yours,” he said, voice wrecked. “Yeah. Fuck, baby, I’m yours.”

The pace changed then. Not rushed, exactly, but deeper. Needier.

Dean sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against him. The change in angle made you cry out, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you close and thrust up into you.

There was something overwhelming about it.

His softness. His strength. His mouth at your neck, your collarbone, your breast. His hands everywhere, greedy now, confident again because you had given that back to him.

“Feel so good,” he groaned against your skin. “God, I love you. Love you so damn much.”

You held his face and kissed him hard.

“I love you too.”

His forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing raggedly into the little space between your mouths.

The pleasure built slowly, then all at once. A deep, rolling heat low in your belly. The kind you hadn’t had time for in months. The kind that came from being touched everywhere, wanted everywhere, known everywhere.

Dean knew it too. He always did.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and coaxing as one hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found your clit, circling with steady, practiced pressure that made your thighs tremble around him. “I’ve got you. Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

You whimpered his name, and his mouth found yours just as you broke, swallowing the sound as pleasure spilled through you in hot, shaking waves. You clung to him through it, body fluttering around his, every nerve lit up and trembling.

Dean followed seconds later, his whole body going tense beneath you, arms locking around your waist as he groaned into your shoulder and spilled his seed deep inside you.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breath. The soft tick of the hotel clock. The distant hush of traffic beyond the window. The warm press of his body under yours.

Your body melted against his, boneless and trembling, and Dean held you like he had no intention of ever letting go.

Eventually, he fell back against the pillows, taking you with him and you landed on his chest with a breathless laugh.

He chuckled too, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head while the other rested heavily on your lower back.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Then Dean, because he was Dean, said, “So… just to clarify…”

You hummed sleepily into his chest, too warm and satisfied to lift your head properly. His fingers traced lazy circles over your spine.

“You’re officially pro dad bod?”

You lifted your head then, and looked at him incredulously.

His smile was teasing, but his eyes were softer. Still a little uncertain. Still needing the answer and your heart twisted.

So you shifted down his body, pressing a kiss to his chest, then his stomach and Dean’s breath caught.

You rested your cheek there, over the soft warmth of him, and wrapped your arms around his waist.

“I’m pro you,” you said. “Always.”

His hand stilled in your hair and when you looked up, his eyes were glazed.

He tried to hide it with a smile, but you crawled back up and kissed him gently, softer now, all tenderness and afterglow.

Dean cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Guess I needed that,” he admitted quietly.

“I know.”

He kissed you again, slow and grateful. Relishing in the reconnection of something he thought might never be the same again.

Later, you would take a bath together in the deep hotel tub, Dean wedged behind you with his knees bent awkwardly because he was still too broad for luxury plumbing.

You would laugh, sinking back against him while the warm water lapped at your skin and steam fogged the mirror. His arms would wrap around you from behind, hands gliding over your body beneath the water, soaping up your skin with a lazy kind of devotion that made your eyes flutter closed.

For a while, it would stay soft. His mouth at your temple. Your fingers trailing along his forearm. His chest warm against your back.

Then his hand would drift lower.

Because he could.

Because there was time.

Because after months of rushed touches and interrupted moments, Dean seemed determined to make up for every second you’d both lost.

He’d stroke you slowly beneath the water, lips brushing your ear while you melted back against him, your breath catching, your body turning loose and pliant in his arms as his fingers dipped inside your warm heat. You’d come once on his fingers, shaking against his chest while he murmured praise into your damp skin.

Then the softness would sharpen.

The water would slosh over the edge of the tub as he bent you forward, one arm locked around your waist, his body covering yours from behind. He’d press into you in one deep, thrust, fucking you hard and fast until you'd come again with his name breaking in your throat.

He’d follow right after, holding you tight as he spilled into you with a rough, helpless sound.

Afterwards, you’d both stare at the bathroom floor. At the towels. At the water everywhere. And Dean would clear his throat.

“You think they charge extra for flooding?”

And you’d laugh so hard your forehead would drop against the side of the tub.

Once you'd cleaned up, the two of you would order dessert from room service and eat tiramisu, wearing nothing but robes and smug smiles with one spoon between you as you watched whatever shitty movie cable had to offer.

Eventually, you would call Sam to check on the baby, only for him to send a photo of your daughter asleep on Eileen’s chest, Miracle curled protectively at their feet.

Dean would stare at the photo for a full minute, soft-eyed and quiet. Then he would set the phone aside, pull you back into his arms, and kiss you long and deep before he’d shift between your thighs, watching your face the whole time as he slid back into you.

This time would be different again.

Sleepier. Softer. No performance. No urgency.

Just Dean moving inside you with his forehead pressed to yours, his body warm and heavy, his breath mingling with yours as the pleasure built in lazy, golden waves.

And then you would sleep soundly through the night for the first time in almost a year. Your leg hooked over his, your hand resting over his heart.

And Dean would smile and cover it with his own, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one. Like i said, i may have gotten a little carried away 😅but, eh, it's been a while since i've completed a fic at all, so i'll take it. But i want to also thank y'all for sticking around and being supportive regardless. Let me know your thoughts. 💭

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Consciousness came back wrong.

It wasn’t all at once. It wasn’t clean. It seeped in, slow and thick, like you were dragging yourself through syrup. The first thing that hit you wasn’t pain. It was the smell. Sickenly sweet. Saccharine. It clung to the inside of your nose and coated the back of your throat, heavy enough that you could practically taste it. And for a moment, your mind blanked on it before it clicked and you placed it.

Incense. The same incense from Professor Whitaker’s office.

Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but you forced them open anyway. The world swam into focus slowly, a thick haze of smoke permeating through the air. You inhaled too sharply and immediately regretted it. Your head throbbed, pain radiating from behind your eyes like something was trying to crack its way out of your skull. You squeezed your eyes shut again on instinct, one hand coming up to press against your temple.

It was a bad idea. The movement pulled at everything. Your shoulders ached first, a soreness that radiated outward like bruises you couldn’t see. You realized, after a moment, that you were lying on the ground. It was cold and unforgiving, and you laid for there a second longer, taking shallow breaths through your nose as you let your brain catch up.

You flexed your fingers against the floor, feeling the rough texture against your skin as you finally pushed yourself into an upright position. The world tilted, and your stomach lurched as dizziness rolled through you. Black spots flickered at the edges of your vision, and you paused, halfway up, forcing yourself to breathe through it.

“Okay,” you muttered, voice hoarse. “Okay…” You took a mental inventory of yourself. Everything felt intact. And better yet, none of your limbs were bound. You sat up the rest of the way, slow and unsteady as the world around you stabilized in pieces around you.

“Easy there.” A voice cut through the quiet, smooth as glass and equally as sharp. You froze. Footsteps echoed in the open space, and you turned to face the professor. “Not quite as durable without your Grace there, are you, little birdie?” You frowned, watching him approach you without a care in the world.

“What did you do to me?” you asked, the words scraping against your dry throat. Your mind was still fuzzy, thoughts sluggish as they tried to push through to the forefront of your mind. Professor Whitaker smiled, something cold and calculated that didn’t reach his eyes. He paced around you in a lazy circle, and you watched him carefully, taking note of the high ceilings and exposed beams of the vast, empty space. A warehouse, you mentally noted.

“Clipped your wings.” He gestured vaguely to several censers hanging from the rafters above you. Smoke curled out from them, drifting down in thin tendrils that seemed to reach for you. “A special blend. Did you know that the connection between an angel and their vessel hangs in a very precise balance? And if you interfere with that balance at all,” he mimicked an explosion with his hands, “everything just desynchronizes?”

“I am stable in this vessel,” you said, ignoring the way your legs threatened to buckle beneath you. A second voice laughed from somewhere behind you, lower and rougher.

“Stable,” it mocked. “That’s cute.” You turned, watching two more figures stop out of the shadows, both of them wearing bodies like ill-fitting suits and eyes as black as their warped souls. Your pulse stuttered. An entire army of demons was no threat to you, before. But now? Three of them were more than enough to overpower you.

“Caged little bird,” Whitaker sneered, the other two demons moving to flank him. You squared your shoulders and lifted your chin defiantly, doing your best to project the self-assurance you had held in your angelic form. He didn’t buy it. “Heaven’s got you locked up real tight, you know that?”

“Not tight enough that I can’t smite you.” You grit your teeth, fingers curling into fists so tight that your nails bit into your palms.

“How would you know?” he laughed, and you bristled at the disrespect. It wouldn’t even take a fraction of your Grace to reduce him to ashes. “You don’t even have enough Grace to fly.” One of the demons behind Whitaker smirked and circled you slowly, keeping a careful distance. But not careful enough. The incense still had you reeling, and if you had known what being drunk was like, then you might’ve compared it to that. It didn’t change the fact that you were a soldier of Heaven, though, with or without your Grace.

You lunged for the demon closest to you, dropping your shoulder and driving it into his midsection. He grunted in surprise, stumbling backwards as your momentum carried both of you to the ground. You landed on top of him, immediately drawing back your fist and driving it into his face. The impact sent pain shooting through your knuckles, but adrenaline dulled the sensation. It was slopped and uncoordinated, and the incense was clearly working against you. You could feel it in the half-second delay between thought and movement. In the way the room around you wouldn’t hold still.

The demon under you barely flinched before he reached up and grabbed your wrist when you went for another punch. He twisted, and pain flared up your arm, sharp and immediate. Hands grabbed your shoulders from behind, yanking you off of him with brutal efficiency. The second demon flung you across the room like you weighed nothing, and your body hit the ground hard, concrete knocking the breath out of you.

You rolled to the side before her follow up kick could land, pushing yourself back to your feet. Your head was swimming. The incense was throwing off your timing and balance – just enough to matter when the deck was already stacked against you. You adjusted. You had to.

Whitaker’s lackeys came at you together, not in the coordinated way that soldiers would’ve, but in a messy, overlapping kind of way. The brunette woman went high while the kid you punched went low. You blocked the first blow, your forearm catching her swing, but the second one landed, sweeping your legs out from under you. You dropped, and when your wings didn’t catch you, your hands did. Your elbow snapped back as you twisted, catching the kid in the jaw. He grunted, more surprised than hurt, but it bought you a precious second to get your feet under you again. You reset, putting distance between yourself and them and breathing heavier now.

Clearly, they had no intentions of fighting fair. You rolled your shoulder and shifted your stance. It was subtle. Lower. Looser. Leaning just a little more into the physical instinct your vessel held rather than the clean hits and straight lines of your angelic training. When the brunette lunged at you again, you didn’t meet her head-on. You let her think you would. At the last second, you faltered – just a fraction – feigning like the dizziness got to you. She took the bait and overcommitted. You pivoted instead of blocking, stepping inside of her reach and driving your head forward. Your forehead cracked against her nose. Hard. There was a wet, satisfying crunch.

She stumbled back, cursing as her hands flew to her face. You didn’t let her recover. You grabbed for her jacket and yanked her forward, driving your knee up into her ribs. Once. Twice. Her breath left her in a rush, and you would’ve gone for a third hit if you hadn’t caught a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye. You shoved her sideways, straight into her companion. They crashed into each other, granting you a precious moment to scan your surroundings for anything that might help you. The smoke hung thick in the air, making it hard to focus. Your head pounded with each heartbeat, and your limbs felt heavier with every passing second.

You pressed what little little advantage you had and moved in again, faster and less coordinated than before. You swung, not for precision but for distraction, forcing the kid to block high. Which was exactly when you drove your heel into his foot. Hard. He yelped, and you followed it up with a sharp elbow to his throat. He choked and staggered backwards, and you stood tall, staring him down as you reached inward, begging for your innate being to recognize an enemy as old as time and answer with fire.

You could picture your Grace stirring within you, could imagine your wings flaring out behind you in all their glory. You reached for that light. That power that had once flowed through you like a living current. Nothing responded. Just the same hollow space that had plagued you for your entire experience on Earth. A hand fisted in your hair, yanking you backwards hard enough to snap your head up.

“Look at that,” the brunette demon laughed. “This birdie forgot how to fly.” You didn’t try to pull away. Instead, you went with it, letting the motion carry you just enough to let her think she had you before you kicked backwards into her knee.

“Flight isn’t necessary to reach a worm on the ground.” There was a sharp pop, and she snarled audibly, grip tightening reflexively. You twisted your body, using her hold to anchor yourself as you slammed your elbow back into her ribs, driving the air from her lungs. Her grip loosened, and you ripped free, taking pride in seeing her doubled over with blood dripping from her broken nose. Even if the pain wasn’t significant for her, the satisfaction of being able to fight back was worth something.

The kid was back in it, and he grabbed for you, reaching for your arm. Your jacket. Anything he could get. You struggled as his fingers found purchase, and in an instant, he slammed you into the ground. Your head cracked against the concrete, and stars exploded across your vision. For a brief moment, everything went white. You reached out blindly, hand searching for something – anything – that might help. Your fingers found a loose chunk of concrete, and you gripped it tightly.

“That all you got?” the kid taunted, standing over you. His foot came down on your wrist, grinding bone against concrete until your fingers went numb and the makeshift weapon was released. A foot slammed into your ribs. A sharp kick to the stomach left you gasping, curling in on yourself as pain blossomed across your side. A hand was in your hair again, dragging you up just long enough for a punch to land across your jaw. You were shoved back to the ground, arms barely catching yourself. You moved to push yourself up, but a boot caught your brow, sending you sprawling across the ground.

You spat blood on the concrete. Someone grabbed the back of your jacket and hauled you upright. Your feet barely found purchase on the ground before you were shoved forward right into Whitaker. He caught you easily, his fingers digging into your arm just enough to hurt. You looked at him, watching the way his eyes dragged over your face. You could only imagine how you might’ve looked. Bloody, swollen, breathing just a little too quickly.

“We’re done playing here,” Whitaker said. “It’s time to start talking.”

“Let go.” You jerked against his hold, but his grasp on you didn’t budge. Instead, he turned, keeping one hand on your upper arm like an admonished child, and dragged you behind him. You planted your feet, resisting even as your strength faltered.

“Move,” he growled. You didn’t. For all of half a second. Whitaker sighed and let go of your arm. Something shifted before you could take advantage of the moment. Heavy, invisible pressure pressed in on you from all sides, crushing down on your shoulders and forcing your knees to buckle. You gasped as you were driven down, your body betraying you beneath the weight of the force. He flicked his wrist and tossed you through the air.

You landed with a heavy thud, groaning slightly as you moved to push yourself up. A sharp whoosh met your ears, and you looked up just in time to watch a perfect ring of fire ignite around you, cutting you off in every direction. Your breath caught, and you jerked back instinctively, feeling your Grace quiver beneath its bindings in response to the holy flames. The air shimmered with the heat, and you did your best to tamp down your nerves.

“Let’s not pretend you don’t understand the situation,” Whitaker said calmly. “What are you doing here?” You glared at him defiantly.

“Getting kidnapped apparently.”

“Before that.”

“Went for a candy bar.” Whitaker scowled, annoyed.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” He moved closer to the edge of the flames, orange light dancing across his features. “Tell us about Heaven’s movements.”

“You tell me. Or is all of this,” you gestured to the array and the warehouse, “just a hunch?” 

“We already know it’s at a tipping point.” Whitaker’s smile widened, and something about it made your skin crawl. He paced slowly around the edge of the holy fire, each step deliberate as he kept his gaze fixed on you. “Tell us when Heaven will fall.”

That got you. You knit your brow together in confusion.

“Fall?” There was a beat of silence. You pressed. “That’s already happened.” 

“History has a tendency to repeat itself.” Whitaker’s smile grew sharper. “Bigger and better every time.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Falling.” You searched his face, looking for a bluff to call. You only found smug certainty. A knowing look that made your insides twist. “Every angel. Not just some this time.”

You scowled, your mind churning through his words slower than you would’ve liked. A mass fall of angels? It sounded impossible. Catastrophic. The kind of event that would shake the very foundations of creation. 

“That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it?” Whitaker raised an eyebrow at you. “Lucifer was just the beginning of this downward spiral, and now? Heaven’s bracing for impact. So really, the biggest question is: if it’s all hands on deck, why have you jumped ship early?”

You didn’t answer him. Couldn’t answer him. Because all of your thoughts had turned inwards. Hidden. Bound. Placed. Heaven didn’t misplace its own. They didn’t lose track of their soldiers. They didn’t forget. So if you were here – Graceless and human – then it couldn’t have been by accident.

“I wouldn’t abandon my position.”

“No... you wouldn’t,” he agreed. “You don’t veil something unless you intend to hide it. And you don’t place it directly in the path of a major event unless–” 

Unless it was meant to interfere. Your pulse thundered in your ears, leaning back as much as the circle would allow like you were considering his words. Unless it was meant to be a shield. A deterrent. A failsafe. Your mind bounced between the new possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last.

“So, get rid of me and ensure that this fall happens?”

“If we were interested in ‘getting rid of you,’ you’d be dead. But we found you first, so we get to use you before Heaven does.”

Your gaze dropped to the lines that had been carved into the concrete around your prison. They criss-crossed over each other, layered in tight, deliberate geometry. Not just one sigil, though. Dozens of them. To any normal, human eye, they would’ve appeared messy and nonsensical. But not to yours. Not every symbol in the array made sense to you, but you recognized pieces of it. Your stomach dropped lower and lower with each one you picked out.

You shifted slightly, ignoring the way your ribs protested and turned just enough to trace some of the other lines beyond the flames with your eyes. They fed inwards towards your position, but there were sigils that repeated over and over again directed away from you. Your breath caught, following the path of them to find anchor points in each of the cardinal directions. It looked like they had taken several components from various spells and crammed them together in some makeshift, all-purpose array.

Broken circles with directional runes to suggest movement between planes. Stabilization glyphs meant to withstand vast amounts of power. Celestial script forced into demonic structure. Power channels. A focal point that all led back to you.

Your thoughts raced, snapping together faster now. Heaven bracing. Demons moving early. A fall. Being placed precisely where you needed to be.

“You’re trying to tear Heaven open,” you said, voice low. “And I’m your battering ram.” His silence was all the answer you needed.

The array thrummed beneath you, not just underfoot but through your bones, as if it hungered for every scrap of what you were. The ground seemed to breathe, sending a shiver trough you that you felt down to your marrow. The sigils lining the circle didn’t flare with fire or spark with light. Instead, they constricted, coiling tight around you like a snake around its prey.

A crushing pressure unfurled at the base of your spine, a cold razor-edged force worming its way upwards through your ribs until it nestled in your chest. Your lungs seized. Your breath stuttered. And somewhere inside you, a silent mechanism clicked into place. The circle responded with gravity that tugged at your soul.

Your Grace roared awake, the fiercest response you’d felt since Castiel. It flinched at first, recoiling in a flash of shock and fury before slamming against the metaphysical chains that bound it. Then, in a sudden lull, it froze. A gasp ripped from your throat as invisible hooks sank into those links, wrenching tight until every part of you felt strained. Your spine snapped straight, as though the pull were physical. The sigils around you seemed to ignite with an ember-like glow as the carved paths began to draw.

Your Grace convulsed, wild and instinctive and angry. It thundered outwards, assaulting its restraints, and the array seized it, and you, in one brutal embrace. Panic bloomed behind your eyes as realization set in. It wasn’t just reaching for your Grace. It wanted every scrap of Grace it could find.

Pain tore through your ribs as the two forces threatened to tear you apart atom by atom. One ripping outwards, the other tightening inwards. You hung between them as veins of burning energy snaked away from your form. Your Grace thrashed and shuddered against its bonds, snarling for release, but every spike of resistance only served to feel the array’s appetite.

“You hold more power over Heaven than you realize.”

White licked at the edges of your vision. Your head tipped forward under the next wave of agony that threatened to tear you apart from the inside out. Deep inside your chest, something brittle snapped. A fracture like shattered glass. In your mind’s eyes, you saw hairline cracks spidering across the celestial chains, tendrils of celestial energy leaking through like blood from a wound.

The array heaved, dragging both your trickling Grace and the splintering shackles along with it. You tried to breathe, but your lungs collapsed beneath the weight of ravenous hunger. Your Grace bucked again, harder and more violent, shattering another piece of the binding.

“If there were any other way, know that I would take it instead.”

The release was instant. Power flooded through the break. The sensation was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. Not as an angel. Not as a human. It was both an exquisite relief and excruciating pain as your Grace surged through the gap in its chains, raw power coursing through pathways long dormant.

Your back arched, fingers curling against the concrete as your vessel shuddered as it struggled to contain what was breaking through. For a moment, the world dissolved into pure sensation. The light that coursed through you was blinding. Burning. Beautiful.

It wasn’t the full restoration of your Grace. Just a trickle. Barely even that. But it was enough to ignite every nerve ending in your vessel. The holy fire surrounding you flickered and wavered, the flames dancing erratically as your power rippled outward. It was liquid lightning, both familiar and foreign all at once. This wasn’t the controlled precision you remembered wielding as an angel. This was wild, untamed energy flowing through cracks in its prison. Seeking any outlet it could find.

Your power ripped through the array, your Grace meeting the hungry sigils with a force that neither you nor the demons had anticipated. Your consciousness expanded beyond your vessel, heightened senses flooding back in fragments. Not the full spectrum of angelic perception, but enough to see the true faces of the demons beneath. They were grotesque, writing shadows of what they once were, their true forms corrupted and mutilated beyond recognition. All you could see was the twisting darkness. They scrambled backwards as the concrete beneath you split, fissures radiating outward from your kneeling form.

A crack tore through the ring of fire, and in an instant, you were free.

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1. Bedside Manners

2. Favorite Little Nurse **

3. Personal Medical Team **

3.5. Dedicated Caregiver

“I can’t just sit around doing nothing, scared shitless.” He remembers the fear he saw earlier when you shook your head, declining the rifle he offered, but he doesn’t hear it now. “I’m totally useless here anyway. Got that Stormtrooper aim.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He looks at Jody. Her jacket’s on, she’s waiting, her decision already made. “Let’s go.” 

Sam moves fast, you move faster. You zip past Jody and when your truck is already in gear, passenger doors open wide, waiting, he decides he’s impressed. You've slid the back window of the cab all the way open, so when Jody climbs into the jump seat behind you, she can rest the barrel of her rifle out of it. You floor the gas and the door swings closed behind Sam almost before he’s even fully inside. 

You drive so differently from how Dean does. Sure, you both seem basically one with your vehicles, and God knows Dean’s taken that car to the limit more times than Sam can count, but Dean pushes. Like everything he does. He can drive with the force of his will alone, when the need arises, and the world lays down in front of him. One never ending stretch of blacktop at his disposal. 

You drive like it’s a reflex, inherent to your body. Fast. Fearless. Pure instinct. Your face is intent, intense, but the rest of you is so relaxed it’s eerie. There's a threshold at around eighty where the engine pushes back, resists you. Sam feels it. You mutter something he can’t hear as you palm the wheel, easing up just enough to tilt the truck around another corner, keeping it tight, gunning the engine into another few blocks of straightaway. You glance past him, no, at him, grin and go a little faster. 

It seems the road is at your disposal tonight, too, like it would be for Dean if it were him behind the wheel. You run stop signs, red lights, it doesn't matter. The Sheriff of Sioux Falls has a rifle on your six and everyone in town is either dead or hiding, anyway. The cab fills with the sound of rushing wind, the Ranger's engine, the creak and groan of its body as you dance on the edge of what it can give you. 

You plot your route by rote. He bets you’ve lived here most, if not all, of your life. Sam pictures you learning to drive on these streets, riding bikes on them before that. He squints, doesn’t quite smile. It’s funny how these wistful musings hit him just before he runs into the thick of things. Little moments of insight before the adrenaline, the cortisol and, usually, the blood.

You're getting close now and he has to stop thinking about where you learned to drive like this or whether your features are soft, striking, or both. There’s work to do. He cocks his pistol, tucks it into the back of his jeans, pumps the rifle so it's ready too. 

“Open the doors as soon as you can see the yard.” Jody is out of the jump seat, coiled like a spring. Both passenger doors swing open as you careen past the gate of the salvage yard, the darkness yawns into the dim light of the cab’s interior.

You brake hard and crank the wheel, Sam’s insides lurch with the force of it. The Ranger skids up alongside the house, as close as you can get them without driving up the steps. He and Jody spill out onto the gravel, half-door of the cab slamming shut. Sam's still hangs open, creaks on its hinge when you yell at them to go.

The dead are a swarm of fever, memory and decay. You reverse, the door swinging as you use the body of the truck to cover them as best you can. Something thuds and crunches, wet and squelching, beneath your tires. 

Sam thinks he sees you reaching across the bench to pull the door shut as he reaches the house. He hopes you thought to close the window behind you, just in case. He realizes, even though you said you couldn’t aim for shit, they never wound up giving you a gun. 

Bobby’s house is an all out shooting gallery and Sam’s reflexes kick in. He goes to work. Blood and brain matter spray a path to Bobby and his brother. He doesn’t think of you again until it’s over. 

You have a gash on your forehead, you hit it on the steering wheel at some point, it doesn’t really hurt but you let Sam splash whiskey over and dab it with a cleanish looking rag. You're trembling a little, your blood vessels blown too wide, your body overloaded with that good ol’ fight or flight response. 

Bodies are piling up in the bed of your truck. You and Jody haul them out of the yard while Sam and Dean drag out the ones from the house. When you try to go inside yourself, Dean blocks your way with a rough hand on your shoulder, shaking his head and giving you a little shove back into the darkness. 

“Look, I know him. Kinda.” You protest. “I just wanna check–” 

“Well I know him for real.” Dean counters, and when his arms cross over his chest he looks impenetrable. Domineering. “And I’m saying he doesn’t want you to.” 

You rummage around the yard for a tarp, find another body, someone you recognize. The concavity of your fourth grade teacher’s skull, blown out into the dirt, makes you fold over your knees. You hope nobody can hear it when you start puking your guts out.

You feel crazy for being here but it’s your own damn fault. You move too fast, don’t think enough about anything. Reckless. Impulsive. It gets you into all sorts of trouble. The worst part, you don’t realize it until your brain catches up and your body revolts against you. You’re shaking by the time you’re down to dry heaves, kicking gravel and junkyard dirt over your sick and wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve. You stop short when you see Sam not far off, pretending he wasn’t watching you retch. You grab an ankle and start dragging, looking sheepish when he comes to help you.   

“You ok?” Sam asks, once you think you’ve found all the bodies. You’re doing a final lap with him to make sure nothing, no one, was missed. It feels like he’s studying you, cataloguing you. It makes you twitchy.

“Sure.” You shrug, heading back to your truck, Sam trailing behind. Someone else, probably Dean, has tarped the bodies and secured your tailgate already. The yard is empty, it’s time to go. You nod towards the house, the light is on in the kitchen. “Is he?”

“Yeah.” Sam doesn’t sound sure, a shadow draws over his face. He brings his big hands up to scrub it away. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.” You both just sit, watching the house, until you coax the Ranger back to life. He brings his attention back to you, spreading himself out across the seat, fitting his long legs wherever he can. “You said you know him?” 

“Mhm. Yeah, he found a new box for the Ranger a couple years back. Hooked me up with a couple beaters when I was a kid.” Christ, he doesn’t want to hear your life story, but you’re still nodding, remembering. You fuss with the mirrors, you don’t need to see the tarpaulin shrouded cairn behind you. “I work at the hospital.” This is the real reason you wanted to go inside and check on him, this cranky old guy you grab coffee for sometimes when you see him waiting on your floor. PT, OT, they’re always running late. Surgeons are the worst for it. “He’s been around a lot since his accident. Nice guy, I like him.” 

There’s only the sound of your tires crunching over gravel as you pull out of the yard and onto the street. 

“You’re sure you’re talking about Bobby Singer?” It startles you, head snapping up to fix him with a puzzled look. A wry smile greets you, it lights up Sam’s eyes with a playfulness that might be inappropriate. “Nice guy isn’t exactly the term I’d use for him.” 

You blink, and then snort. You feel your whole body relax. “Fair, but whatever. Nobody wants to be nice, anyway.” You turn a little so you can see him better while still watching the road. “He shoots straight and makes me laugh. I think that’s better.” 

“Yeah. It is.” His cheeks dimple and it’s almost bashful, the way he looks away for a moment. “I get why. You’ve got a good laugh.” 

You flush from your chest up to your ears and you have to forcibly snap your mouth shut. It’s suddenly a million degrees inside your truck. Your hands aren’t working and you fumble the crank on the door, rolling down your window in staccato. Cool air fills your lungs. It calms you, but you have to change the subject. “So is this, like, your whole deal?” 

“Yeah, kinda.” Sam does a piss poor job of hiding the fact that he’s laughing at you when gesture to the bed of the truck and then at him in general. You can’t blame him, for how awkward you’re being. “This was actually a pretty easy day at the office. Relatively speaking.”  

“Woof.” In this moment, you cannot imagine a more fucked up day, week, than this one. Nobody should have to live this horror day in and day out. “You’d sound like someone who should think about changing gigs.” 

“God, I wish.” His tone makes you go soft, tilting your head to really look at him for the first time. It’s like you’re trying to see, just from his face, what he’d do instead. You wonder if he’d just live here. Work at the salvage yard, maybe even take it over. Then the three of them, him, his brother, and old man Singer, could all just chill. You’re probably being way too intense because he fidgets for a while, rests his chin on the back of the bench so he’s not looking right at you. “It’s more of a calling than a job.” 

“Like fate?” He nods but that’s all you get. Dawn is edging its way up on the horizon. “Dude, block the number.”  

“It’s not that kind of call.” 

You finally kill the engine, parking the Ranger up on a clearing in the back forty of the cemetery, and Sam can’t get out fast enough. Something about how you look at him sucks up the air around you, even with the windows open. His strides are long, circling to the back of your Ranger, the tarp crinkling as he pulls it free. 

He starts pulling out the scavenged wood, pressure treated or half rotting, it’ll smell like shit when it burns. You’re following him like a little shadow, a busted pallet in one hand. The corner of his mouth twitches and he moves to show you what to do with it. 

“We want bigger stuff on the bottom, so it’ll burn hot for long enough, then we’ll stack more vertically around…everyone.” 

“Half cabin, half teepee kinda thing.” It’s really cute, the way your face scrunches up as you think about this, somehow confident and unsure at the same time. “Right? Like six-by-eight, six-by-ten if we have the wood for it?” 

“Yeah. You got it.” An incredulous little laugh escapes him. It’s not crazy to think you might know how to build a bonfire. You seem like the type to go to bush parties but, then, how would he know? You’re both sweating lightly by the time the base is stacked up to your knees. 

“You good?” There’s a pair of work gloves you’re tugging on and you’re standing ramrod straight next to him, he can feel the tension coming off you in waves. “I’m sorry. Normally we wrap them first, like a shroud, but...” It’s not much by way of an apology for what comes next. It’s not exactly an explanation either.

“I know.” There’s almost no colour left in your eyes and they’re wide, glassy, and your face has gone pale. You’re in shock, he’s sure of it. “There’s too many of ‘em for that, huh?” 

Burning bodies isn’t exactly a chatty sort of chore when he does it with Dean, but you somehow make the quiet feel unnatural. It's calculated. Mechanical. It concerns him. What if you had someone close to you come back? Like Jody did. Like Bobby did. He can’t imagine grieving someone you’d already lost once, especially not while doing this besides.  

A pang of something sharp, deep, nauseating twists in his gut as he thinks about Dean coming back from Hell. Sam doesn’t think he’d have survived if it was like this, fleeting and corrupted. It feels perverse. 

The thought of it knots his stomach up with guilt, so he sends you to the stand of trees nearby to collect kindling. You bring back pine and cedar, sticky with sap, that pops and crackles in the flames. You even find some fatwood, brought back in a separate bundle you tie up in your shirt. 

Now that the grim part of your task is finished, Sam lets himself notice how good you look stripped down to a tank top. Sitting on the tailgate of your truck, holding your chin in both hands, sticky, dirty and smelling of conifers, you look human again. Relief washes over him and he leans himself up next to you, closer than he needs to be but not as close as he wants. 

His skin itches, the space between you polarized, magnetic. He’s sure you feel it too because suddenly you’re scooting over, leaning in, letting his sturdiness support you. He slips his arm around your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip, to pull you closer still. Sam folds himself around you. 

Your cheek is warm, the smell of your sweat mixed with pine tar suddenly pervasive, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. You could track his heart rate with how close your lips are, softly parted just over his hammering carotid. It makes him shiver. 

For a moment he worries that he’s pressing you into him, that he’s taking advantage. Maybe you don’t want this type of comfort. Blunted teeth graze along the angle of his jaw, moving with tantalizing slowness, your hand curls at the nape of his neck and tangles in his hair. Maybe you’re fine with this, after all. 

You are making space for him, thighs wide and welcoming, knees bracketing his hips to bring him closer. He’s not thinking about anything else now, only your touch, your smell, your parted lips panting hot breath across his. Then you kiss him and his mind’s reduced to nothing but more, more, more. 

The pads of his fingers leave divots in your hips, drag up your neck to cup your jaw. Sam is enveloping you and you are letting him, gladly even. Catching your bottom lip between his, drawing it into the damp heat beyond, grazing his teeth across it. It pulls your body taut, like a readied bowstring, his fingers at the draw. God, he’s missed this feeling.

The last person he fucked was Ruby, a fever dream defined by it’s wrongness. He buried himself in the depravity she offered because it felt so good. Good to be wanted. Good to have purpose. To have anything after the last vestige of his life was, literally, torn to shreds. Delirium, delusion. Sam should have known better.

Now he knows the difference though. He thinks. He hopes. It’s not enough to just feel good. He wants, needs desperately, to be good. Damn the cost.

He’s pretty sure you are good, but it’s hard to tell when you keep straining to offer more of your neck to him. Sure, everything about you feels good and, since nothing about you has proven to be hateful or cruel, it feels safe to chase that while he figures things out. You’re not too sweet, too nice, either, which he likes. He likes the way you’re pressing his mouth against you, too. Like an offering of flesh. You taste salty and astringent on his tongue. He wants to devour you. 

Yeah, you are good. The longer you’re in his arms the more he knows it. Nobody wants to be nice, anyway. He could reassure you that the way you’re pulling at him, like you’re trying to claw your way inside his body, is anything but nice. It’s needy, desperate. Maybe he’ll let you in, hollow himself out, carve a space just for you. Take your goodness with him everywhere until he becomes good himself.  

“Not here.” You’re fisting his hair, pulling him away from you, tilting his head to take him. He knows he’s flushed, can feel his chest heave as he sucks in air, and just your eyes on him sends another wave of molten desire through him. “Gonna have to pressure wash this thing before I can fuck anyone in it again.”  

Your legs are a vice around his waist and you hoist yourself up into his arms, climbing him. Like this, he barely has to hold you, can carry you easily with one arm. “You’re so fucking sexy.” 

You’ve got his shirt up over his head, trying to pull it off him while his arm is still wrapped around you, leaving him to blindly fumble for the handle of the door. The giggle that escapes you as he emerges from beneath the fabric is intoxicating, bubbling out of you like a shaken up soda, no, champagne. It sounds like a celebration. 

He pulls his one arm free of his sleeve, reaching up to palm your face, looking up in wonder at the mirth there. He doesn’t want you to stop laughing, it makes him feel like you are pouring light inside him, but they way you sober under his gaze, lip colourless between your teeth and legs tight around his waist, feels just as good. You are so beautiful and your body and your eyes and the roll of your hips are all telling him you want him. 

He tosses you onto the seat, too frantic to be gentle. Knees wide, pressed up on your elbow, one palm resting open on your inner thigh, you don’t seem to mind. You stretch your hand out to him, skimming along his side as he drapes his body over yours. 

There is a slick and sticky secret between your thighs, it whispers to him as he curls his long, thick digits into you. He wants to know all of them, your secrets. Perfect little sounds you’re making just for him. When your eyes start fluttering in the same rhythm as the depths of your core, you almost look surprised. Eyebrows draw up, mouth dropping open, one hushed, high note escaping you. The most precious sound of all. 

Sam. 

He realizes that, until then, he wasn’t sure you even knew his name. 

Sam’s wrist is the only thing tethering you to the earth. He has tuned your body to resonate at some mystic, arcane frequency. The tips of his fingers have transported you to otherworldly planes and your delirium suggests that this magic might be his true calling. Anyone who can make you feel like this shouldn’t be wasted on the dead and damned.

White, creamy arousal coats his fingers when he pulls them free, glistening webs of it connecting his knuckles even when he spreads them apart. You are mesmerized. His tongue flashes across his lip, but you take his wrist first, hiding those fingers in the warm wet cavern of your mouth. 

Tasting yourself on someone else’s fingers is a sensual delicacy you're reluctant to share. Sam has a salty bitterness to him that compliments your essence, earthy, sweet, slightly sour. Savoring the way he fucks his fingers into your mouth, you're rewarded with a groan as you swallow around them, amplifying the deepening, aching, emptiness inside you. 

“Need you.” It’s barely coherent with your mouth full but Sam seems to understand, rutting down into you as he slips his fingers from between your lips. His mouth hangs open and you crane your neck up to capture it with yours, sweeping your tongue over his before falling back to the bench.

“Wanna ride you.” You’d think you cast a spell on him, the way his eyes glaze over. Enchanted or just dazed, it allows you to press him back up so he sits sprawling across the passenger seat. Transfixed, he stares at you as you start to wiggle out of your pants. It’s awkward, you fumble to unlace your sneakers and you nearly fall over, laughing at yourself as you reach for him.

The spell breaks. Sam springs to life again, catching you before you slide off the seat and into the steering column. He drags you, still tangled in your clothes, into his lap. His chest is hot, firm, and you get an intimate moment with his tattoo when you land against him. 

He grins as he helps finish undressing you, right up until he’s pressing your naked ass against the rough denim covering his hardness. The buckle of his belt is hard and cold against you and you squirm against him so you can free him of it. 

Sam’s only letting out stuttering little pants and you can’t tell whether he’s trying to keep his eyes on or off you. He’s trying to control himself. His restraint, as much as the thought of him abandoning it, is so intoxicating you have to ask again. You sound sultry, seductive even to your own ears. It surprises you. 

“Let me ride you, Sam.” 

“Fuck. I’ll let you do anything to me.”

He helps you, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. He shoves everything down around his ankles as you steady yourself in his shoulders and straddle him. It gives him an eyeful of your tits, and he has to tip you forward so he can catch one of them with his mouth.

When you finally get to look at him, he is breathtaking. Not just his penis, which rests thick and heavy above a patch of dark curls, but all of him. His abs ripple as he flexes, making his cock jump, drawn to your pussy instinctively. 

You reach down to wrap your fist around him, squeezing first, then stroking, delighting in the feel of his skin. His hands are callused, rough against your skin, but his cock feels like velvet. You tell him so, whispering it like a secret against the shell of his ear. 

“You like that?” It’s ragged, deeper than before. His voice breaks into a guttural moan when you twist your wrist as you continue to work his shaft. He drags himself away, hands falling to your hips, head dropping back to look at you. “Go on. Take me for a ride.” 

Another tide of arousal collects between your lips, smearing his tip as you circle your clit with it. Nestling his length between your folds, you start to move over him, base to tip and back, until you’ve coated him in enough of your desire to glide along him easily, rolling your hips so his tip barely catches at your entrance. You can smell your cunt, can hear it too, and you hope he can smell and hear the exact same thing. You hope it drives him crazy. 

He almost snarls, grabbing hold of you the next time you tease him with your slit, snapping his hips up. Everything stops. Planets halt their orbits, the entire universe contracts, or maybe it’s just you, around the feeling of impossible fullness inside you as he starts to rock you down on him. Your pussy is becoming a singularity, it contains multitudes, transcends space and time.

You’re sure that it’s Sam splitting you open with such agonizing slowness, but then you realize that he’s busy with the rest of your body, running his hands over every inch of skin he can reach, and still your slow descent continues. You choke on your own laughter as you realize, of course, it isn’t him at all. 

He looks at you, curious, but you just sink your hips down a little further. Something between a chuckle and a gasp escapes you and, even though you feel like your soul might leave your body at any moment, you loop your arms around his neck, grinning dopily. Your nose wrinkles as he brushes his against yours, sharing in your playfulness. When you kiss him through your smile, you can feel that he’s smiling too. 

“You feel like heaven.”

The tenderness of it, that he’s making you feel celestial while telling you you’re divine, makes you want to cling to him. Your chest tightens, your pussy does too. Your legs spread wider across his lap, your thighs almost meeting his. Oh yeah, you’re definitely the one doing that, the stretch of him is too perfect not to chase. 

You are holding onto his shoulders but your eyes flutter and roll back so you don’t see the way he’s looking at you now completely still in his lap, save for how you’re clenching and unclenching around him. You try to relax, breathing deeply, and take his face in your hands, press your mouth to his again.

“I can feel you everywhere, Sam.” He flexes inside you when you say his name, groans into your mouth. His hips beneath yours press up, searching for friction, for more. You grind down, deliciously slow, refuse to give it to him. Not yet. 

This is one of those once in a lifetime fucks, you don’t want to waste it. 

Sam is so hard he can’t tell pleasure from pain, buried to the hilt inside you. Your tongue sliding against his, hands tangled in his hair, pulling on it just right. The need for you to start moving makes him feel like his life is at stake but he remembers the way you asked him, so sincerely, to let you ride him. Finding out what that’s like, well, he needs it more than anything. 

“I know you drive like a maniac.” Every cell in his body wants but isn’t being allowed to have, screams in protest when you forget yourself, start to actually fuck him and then, catching yourself, still your hips against him once more. Maybe he can goad you into it, giving him relief. “Thought you’d fuck the same way.” 

“I’m getting to it.” There’s no way you aren’t as good as his body is telling him, because it feels like you’re looking into all the horrible nooks and crannies of his soul and he’s not seeing disappointment on your face. You don’t look disgusted or afraid at all, in fact you look quite the opposite. “You just feel so good, Sam. Fill me up better than anything.” 

The sound he makes when you lift your hips and glide back down is pornographic, it’s almost embarrassing. He would do it over and over just to feel you grip him tighter whenever you hear it. He means to say your name but it just comes out an incoherent, wanting groan.  

“Never gonna feel this full again, Sam, I know it. Wanna make it last forever.” You’re leaning back, a panorama of flesh stretched out in his lap, watching his reaction to you from under your lashes. “Make it a fuck to remember.” 

It breaks him. 

”Remember. How could I forget?” It’s so cliche he’s sure it sounds like as much of a lie to you as it does to him, but he thinks he means it. He takes a fistful of your ass in each hand, kneading the perfectly soft firmness there as he pulls you off him. You whine in protest, helpless, or at least pretending to be. He buries his length inside you again, buries his nose behind your ear, grunting as he starts to find a rhythm. “You think I’d forget this pussy, so tight, dripping all over me?” He tugs at your earlobe with his teeth. “The way you’re teasing me, shit, you’re gonna drive me crazy.” 

Your body locks down around him. He keeps his strokes slow, deliberate. 

“C’mon, Sam. Big, strong guy like you?” Feinted admiration barely tries to conceal the challenge in your tone. “You can take it. Aren’t you some kind of hero or something?” 

It takes him by surprise, what it does when he hears you say that. Sam pulls you down on him hard, his pained grunt harmonizing with the sharp cry he punches out of you. His back arches, face twisting into a grimace, his grip steely on your hips, caught between holding you still or fucking you with abandon. 

“That it, Sam?” You grab hold of his shoulders to steady yourself and study him. It feels dangerous. His hold on you goes slack, you keep the slow, deep rhythm he’s set on your own. “You a hero?” 

Yes! God. Yes. He wants to be. He’s been trying to claim that mantle his whole life, not that he could ever earn it now. Not after everything. Even Dean’s said as much, in not so many words.  

“You were pretty brave back there. Impressive.” His body loves what you’re saying, that’s abundantly clear from how he’s starting to stutter under you. He can’t let you keep saying it, though, he hasn’t earned it. Nothing he does is heroism. It’s penance. “I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?” 

“No.” It's so strangled and desperate it makes you freeze, he tries to maintain the rhythm you had found, still rolling his hips up into yours. “Fuck, no way. I’m not.” He can’t even say it. Your hands go to his face, yours fraught with deep lines of concern. “Don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.” He can’t believe what he’s saying, blinking up at you stupidly as he holds out this broken piece of himself for you to see, to hold. “If you knew even half the things I’ve done.” 

“Sam.” His heart almost stops but he can feel yours thundering away against his chest, your whole body pressed against him. Your faces almost touch and he can’t escape the raw intensity of your gaze. He assumes it’s pitying, that’s what he feels for himself, but then you whisper, just for him. “You’re a hero to me.” 

When you start to move again you stay close enough that he can feel your nipples graze his chest. He’s still shaking his head, even when it drops onto the back of the seat. You grind on him slowly, deliberately, punctuating everything you’re saying with this hot, wet, ecstasy. 

“You fight monsters. Fuck. You save people. You’re one of the good guys.” God, why does it feel so fucking good to hear you say that? He fights against it but knows he’ll tuck that away for long and lonely nights. “I feel so safe with you. So wet. So full.” 

You’re riding him faster now, gasping from the effort, from the pleasure. He doesn’t want to move, let alone breathe, for fear you’ll stop what you’re doing. 

“Of course you deserve. Ngh. Everything.” He wants to believe you so badly, wants to live in the world of your truth instead of his. “Sam. Ah, Sam.” You’re leaning in to kiss him like you really, really mean it. He palms your ass, bucking up into you, almost convinced. He’s punching your breath out of you, leaving you incoherent. “Fuck. You’re. Mmh. Her-oh.”

You said he saves people, but you’ve got it backwards. It feels like you’re saving him. He fucks into you as if that’s all it takes to make it true. You keep dripping goodness all over him, making him feel things that are dangerous for a guy like him to feel.

Dean would laugh at him, then again maybe he wouldn’t, thinking he could find salvation in the sacrament between your thighs. So, he stops thinking altogether. Surrenders to the wet sound of your cunt getting pounded, your whimpers, his grunts. It sounds like fucking in the best way possible and he can feel himself getting close just listening to it. 

“Christ, you feel so good.” He is lost, stuttering, you take the wheel and ride him. You ride him like he’s part of your body, not just inside it. You’re chasing pleasure, wringing it out of him so you can soak it up yourself. Your ass slaps against his thighs. Your whines are sharp, high notes. 

“God you’re sexy.” There’s barely space between you for his fingers to find your clit, try to coax you to a finish with him. The white of euphoria entreats on his vision, trying to force his eyes closed. He resists, still watching you. “Wanna watch you come again.” 

The faces you are making are exquisite, the way you’re fucking each other ripples through your whole body, making your ass and tits dance for him. He tries desperately to hold on, fighting tooth and nail to just stay here on the edge long enough for you to come again.  

“Come for me.” You’re panting, he barely hears it until you say it again, like a carnal incantation. “Come for me, Sam. I wanna feel all of you inside me. Fill me up. Be my hero.” 

He doesn’t hear the rest. His body wants and you are letting him have, telling him to take. 

He does, and it feels like it lasts forever because you just keep riding him.    

You’re in a fugue state, so close to the edge when Sam goes over it first. His spendings already leaking out of you, white, almost frothing around the base of him from how you’re riding him now. It's frantic, you’ve smeared it everywhere, even feeling it working its way between your ass cheeks. You look down your body, lean back so you can see your hips snapping back and forth through all that Sam. 

The high whine that comes out of you is so needy, it electrifies him. His mouth is on your nipple, your hand over his squeezing and kneading at your breast. His fingers are still working your clit for you, harder and faster now, more urgent. Everything goes white, your body pulling apart before it clamps down, hard. The only thing you’re aware of are the fingers stroking you through the pulsating wave of pleasure that consumes you.  

You’re boneless after, and he cradles you against him, mumbling something into your hair. It’s the gentlest he’s been since you’ve met him and you don’t want to rush this part, either. 

He might just be the human embodiment of safety. You weren’t lying about that, about any of it. Fucktalk doesn’t need to be hollow bullshit if you do it right. You sigh into him, nuzzling closer, and it occurs to you that there must be others just like you, who’ve sought comfort in him. It might make someone else feel cheap, maybe jealous, but somehow it makes you feel better that he’s been out there. Not just saving lives, but tending to them. What a gift he has. No, is.

There is a moment, fleeting, where you imagine him again with Dean and Bobby, just scrappers. No shrouded bodies, no funeral pyres, no whatever else makes up the worse days they face. On the other side of everything, thinking about all the other people who’ve felt as safe with him as you do now, you think you understand why that could never happen. 

“You know, I think I get it.” You rest a hand on his chest, close to that tattoo. You wonder what it means. “The calling. Fate, whatever.” 

“Yeah?”

“I think so.” You press a little kiss over his heart and he drops one to the top of your head. “Must be hard, though. Lonely.” 

“It can be.” It feels indulgent to think maybe he’s as reluctant to let you go as you are to pull away. “I’m not lonely right now, if it means anything.” 

“It does. Thank you.” If you could burrow inside of him at this moment, you would. “You make me feel safe.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but he holds you tighter for a little while, his face still pressed to the crown of your head. You can feel it, even in his arms, that your worlds are drifting apart again, the night’s bizarre convergence coming to an end.

You’re both dressed, having cleaned yourselves up as best you can, lingering in the last vestiges of afterglow. Sam seems relaxed, unguarded, and his smile is bright and genuine when he looks at you. 

“God, you’re sexy.” Your shoulders shake and your tits bounce a little under your shirt as you laugh. You hadn’t bothered to put your bra back on and Sam keeps looking down, which is funny. You didn’t notice him paying so much attention to them before. “You good?”

“How am I supposed to answer that?” You ask. There’s still corpses you can see burning away not twenty feet past your truck, and even the out of body orgasms you just had can’t wipe away the messed up shit you’ve seen and done in the past 24-48 hours. 

“Honestly, I guess.” Sam shrugs, and you worry that something is starting to close off in his face. 

“This was good.” You’re still craving his touch, offer a light, barely-there caress. He’s smiling that bashful smile again. “Bucket list kinda stuff.”

He startles you with a kiss, so chaste and earnest it makes you feel gooey. 

“Really, really good.” He whispers against your lips, and then drops back onto the seat. “And everything else?”  

“Well, you might’ve ruined me for other men.” You wink at him, reach out for a fleeting squeeze of his thigh. “So, y’know, thanks for that.”

“Sorry.” But he isn’t, and neither are you. It’s like your bodies are repolarizing, sometimes still drawing close but now also feeling pushed apart with equal strength. It’s bittersweet. “And everything else?” 

“You taking my statement, officer?” Why does he keep asking? The bodies are still burning. People will be going home, cleaning up gore from their houses. They will be grieving, for many a repeat performance. “I dunno. I’ll probably repress it all, write it off as some fucked up nightmare. Aren’t you the expert?” You look to him for something, maybe guidance? “You tell me.” 

“I guess a lot of people do that.” He sighs, shrugs, stretches as much as he can in the small space and tucks his hands behind his head. “Therapy’s probably healthy, but I don’t know how well it works when you’re dealing with literal demons.” You chuckle and he gives you a wry smile. “I’ve never really tried it so I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s it?” You nod, biting your thumbnail, a nervous habit. He reaches out and pulls your hand into his, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Those are my options?” 

“Sometimes we fuck up and the monsters come back and kill everyone.” It’s a dark joke, and you’re sure it's not untrue, but you throw your head back and laugh. “Some people become hunters. That’s what we do.” It feels like he’s deciding whether to tell you something real. “Don’t do that. Please. It’s not a very nice life.”  

“I bet.” How can you convey the softness he makes you feel you can’t bring yourself to even reach over and squeeze his hand. “Nice is boring anyway. Right?” You look at him again, trying to really see him one more time before this is over, and his brows are drawn together, furrowing deeply with concern. It’s clear as day what he wants to tell you, that he would take nice and boring in a heartbeat. “I won’t, ok. You don’t have to worry about me, I’ll figure it out.”

“Okay.” 

“What about you?” You both retreat a little further to the opposite sides of the cab, hyper aware of the space growing between you.  

“What about me?” He drums his hands on his thighs, thinks about it for a second. It seems as though everything he says now has to be so carefully considered. You suppose there’s so much of himself he can’t share. It makes sense. “Dean and I are working on something.” He sounds weary, resigned. “Big. It’s…” 

“Scary?” You offer when he doesn’t say anything more. He nods. You’re not sure if he’s unwilling or unable to meet your gaze. Whatever he’s sharing with you feels precious and rare, it feels imperative that it matters to someone. You decide it will matter to you. 

“You’ll take care of it.” But you can’t know that, not really, and it sounds cheesy, so awfully banal, it makes you cringe. “That’s what heroes do.” You wince down at your hands. He must think you’re so naive. “I believe in you.” 

“That makes one of us.” You wish you could hear him laugh for real again instead of this haunted chuckle.

“So, I’ll believe for both of us.” 

The honk of a horn startles both of you into the present. Part of you hopes Sam will steal another chaste little kiss, but he just gives you a nod before popping open the door and unfolding himself into the sunlight. He waves at Dean and walks around to slam your tailgate closed for you. He doesn’t even look back, focused on his work and his brother.  

You feel a pang of emptiness. It’s not a bad feeling, just the kind that lets you know something good is coming to an end. You stay in your truck for a moment, letting yourself feel it, then letting it go. 

You do a quick walkaround to make sure you haven’t left anything, you find your jacket and your work gloves, toss them behind your seat. You don’t bother keeping your shirt when you find it, caked in resin, and toss it into the fire. Sam is talking to Dean and Jody in a furtive kind of way. It feels weird as hell to just stand there, waiting for them to be done but you’re not about to join the conversation either. 

How do you say goodbye to someone after all of this, anyway? Maybe you’re not supposed to. 

You haul yourself into your truck, taking more time than you need to readjust the seat, check the dash, and eventually you fire up the ignition. You look out the back to see the three of them have turned, Dean’s hand held up in parting. Jody gives you a nod, you’ll see her around. 

You smile, wave back and holler a weak thanks at them. It’s half hearted. Sam’s got a stunned look on his face, and you regret that now you’ve made this your goodbye forever. You wonder if you’ll see him again. If you’ll remember each other. Is this his life, just fleeting comforts and shitty, awkward goodbyes? It makes you so sad you can’t quite look at him and you drop your gaze to your dash. You don’t think of yourself as a coward, but when you shift into drive and ease on the gas, it feels a bit like running away. 

You stop when you hear your name, look up to see him jog to close the short distance, and then he’s leaning in through your window. You shift into park but don’t turn the engine off. 

“Hey.” He must be rocking on his heels or something because it feels like you’re swaying inside your truck. 

“Hi.” He’s just looking at you, and you decide to wait him out. You catch a glimpse of Dean and Jody in your rearview, very obviously watching. 

“Thank you.” He says at last, and it catches you off guard. 

“For the lift? Not a problem.” You joke and he smiles, laughing a little. “You owe me a twin for gas.”

“Not for that.” He leans in like he’s telling you a secret. “For what you said.“ He picks at something on your sleeve, like he wants an excuse to touch you. “All of it. It doesn’t even matter if—”

“If I meant it?” You cut him off, lean into your small conspiracy. “It does, and I did. Every word.” 

The kiss is less chaste than the last one, his tongue slipping over yours, your teeth catching his lip and then letting it go. He grins at you, stealing one more. “God, you’re sexy.”  

“You keep saying that.” You sit up, wink at him, shift back into drive. You kiss him a final time, not having the words for a real goodbye. He steps back, smiles for real and you feel better about this than you would have just driving away with a half hearted wave. 

The junkyard is on your way home and you idle for a minute by the gate. You hope, every once in a while, Sam gets to sit on that porch, have a cold one with his brother and that crotchety old drunk. 

You hope it’s peaceful.

Sam is back in Sioux Falls. He is making a decision. That he can say Yes and still beat the devil. 

Sam is terrified. This year has beaten him and, while courage is in short supply, his strength of will is almost non-existent.

This feels like his last chance to really be good again, if he ever was before.

He thinks of you, asking him to be your hero. Thanking him for making you feel safe. 

He wants to do that again, even if you’ll never know about it. 

He wishes he could see you again, wrap himself in the goodness of you and tell you he doesn’t believe he can pull it off. 

He wants to hear you say it again, “I’ll believe for both of us.”

Along with the temperature of the room dropping in an instant, your heart sinks to your stomach, heavy and aching beneath your taut skin. You can’t swallow, can’t breathe, and worst of all: You can’t take back what you just said.

The accusation is an ugly, cruel thing that hangs between the two of you like a death sentence. It occupies the entire space, the tiny room feeling even more cramped now.

Dean stares at you, frozen. His eyes are wide, still filled with that rage from before. Something else flickers in the green, though. Shock. Shame. Hurt. You’re not sure it’s not just your own guilt you see looking back at you.

He waits, every second of silence more dreadful than the last. His brows are still furrowed, his jaw is still clenched, but his chest is no longer heaving; he’s no longer huffing and puffing. Even his shouting ceased, booming voice no longer echoing through the room. Now, you almost wish it still did. You’d prefer the loud yelling over this awful quiet. Over the aftermath of something shattering, and knowing whatever you say or do, you’ll cut yourself trying to pick up the pieces.

“Say that again?” Dean breaks the silence, and despite lowering his voice to a normal volume for the first time in this whole thing, it makes you flinch and tense. It makes you want to duck away and disappear.

Outbursts, you can deal with — or so you thought, but maybe if you did, you wouldn’t have slipped up like that. Either way, it’s the simmering anger, the tension that reeks of actual hatred, that you don’t know how to respond to. No amount of fights between the two of you could’ve prepared you for this. You’ve never had Dean look at you like that, like he’s genuinely appalled by you, downright disgusted.

Struggling to find the right response, your mouth goes slack, closes again, opens a second time, but no words come out.

“Go on… say it,” Dean urges, almost hissing at you, and you actually feel like his glare is a snake curling dangerously around your throat, daring you to repeat your mistake.

“Dean, I— I didn’t mean… I’m—”

“Oh, what? Now you’re all stuttering, try’na take it back? ‘S not how it works, sunshine. You said it with your whole fucking chest before. Can’t be that hard, just do it again,” Dean interrupts your stammering, almost in mocking fashion, were it not for each word ringing louder in your ears. He’s close to shouting again, but this anger is different. It’s controlled, vibrating, purposeful. “Say it!”

It knocks the air out of your lungs, tears brimming in your eyes as you bite your tongue. You know what you said is unfair. Untrue, actually, you were just frustrated, lashing out, trying to hit where you knew it would hurt without thinking it through. It’s no secret that John Winchester is a sore topic for the hunter, how many years he spent chasing after the shadow of an idol that kept neglecting him.

Comparing Dean to his dad is nothing short of evil. You know that. You knew it when you did it. Why did you do it?

You don’t even see him that way. You see none of the similarities between him and his father, which you’re well aware he’s worked so hard to work through. His biggest insecurities are either somewhat accepted and reclaimed or buried deep down and hidden away, only to be unjustly unraveled by you.

And for what? Just to put your foot down?

“Look, I just… I’m sorry,” you try again, pathetically, with your mouth trembling and your voice shaking as your adrenaline deflates.

“You’re sorry,” Dean echoes dryly with a nod that feels downright condescending. “Well, in that case, everything’s just peachy, right?”

There’s a crack in his voice, one that strikes you with the force of a punch to the gut. He attempts to cover it up by clearing his throat, by wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, by taking a step away from you and towards the door. The latter alarms you, prompting you to reach out frantically.

Dean brushes you off, clearly not wanting to talk, let alone be near you right now. You can’t really blame him, but he at least owes you a shot at clearing things up.

Grabbing him by his sleeve anyway, you plead for him to listen to you: “Wait! You can’t just run off like that.”

“Watch me,” Dean scoffs, swatting your hand away — a little rougher this time, still not quite violent, but bordering on a warning: Don’t touch me.

“Dean, please. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it, I swear,” you try again, staying in place as you watch him walk to the door. It’s like he’s not even registering what you’re saying, either not listening or not caring. You don’t know which is worse. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Where’re you going?”

Dean pauses briefly, his hand resting on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around to look at you. His tense shoulders and his back draped in roughened flannel are the only things greeting you.

“Pulling a John Winchester and getting the hell outta here,” he shrugs sarcastically.

The joke doesn’t land, not with the venom laced in his tone. But it’s not supposed to. It’s supposed to stab you instead. And it does, right in the heart, making you feel stupid. The next blow is the door banging shut behind Dean, another hit being the heavy steps of his boots disappearing down the hallway. When a few moments later you distantly hear the creak of the main entrance, you know it’s the final nail in the coffin that you built.

You haven’t heard from Dean since.

The familiar roar of Baby’s engine leaving the Bunker’s garage is the last thing you remember. At first, you wait in your room, sigh deeply as you sit down on the edge of the bed, and foolishly hope he’ll come back soon.

He doesn’t.

You twirl your thumbs and rub your temples until the hope of soon turns into a later, which gets replaced by an eventually, and then vanishes entirely. The night is lonely and cold, with sleep unable to find you. You pace around the Bunker, avoiding the main hall like you’re afraid of Dean’s return, or rather, the lack thereof. But you still linger close, not wanting to miss out on it entirely, should he actually walk back inside.

He doesn’t.

In the morning hours, you stare at your phone, wondering if you should call or text him, before you realize he probably won’t respond to either approach. What would you even say? Another deep sigh leaves you as you set your phone down and instead stare at the two cups of coffee you’ve made. Old habit or wishful thinking? Either way, both remain untouched and turn cold.

Around noon, footsteps interrupt your thoughts, and you wince at the sound of them until you realize they’re Sam’s. He walks into the kitchen, heading straight to the fridge. Passing by the table, he greets you with an awkward nod. The elephant in the room has Dean’s name written all over it, your recent fight not having gone unnoticed by Sam.

“You okay?”

You don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t this. You already braced yourself for some scolding, or maybe a lecture, at the very least, you thought he’d ask what happened between you and his brother.

Blinking up at him, you shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you mutter, knowing fully well you haven’t slept all night and haven’t eaten all day and entirely look the part. The way Sam’s eyes briefly flicker down on you, then back up, confirms as much. He fetches two cans of soda from the fridge, kicks it shut, and sits down with you.

“Give it some time,” he murmurs, tossing you the soda like it’s a Band-Aid for your inner conflict. Instead of taking a sip, you just fiddle with the clasp on the lid, fingers tracing the rim. Sam leans back in his chair, and you know the gesture means he’s willing to listen. However, you don’t know whether you deserve that offer, nor where to start.

“Just, uh— I guess I just wish I knew if he’s… alive. You know?” The words barely make it across your lips, and you cringe at the sound of them. Your choice of wording is off, but you know Dean’s probably not okay, so you settle for hoping he’s not dead in a ditch. “He just stormed off, and I- I’m... I can’t reach him.”

Sam lifts his chin, then tilts his head, almost as if he’s surprised, which throws you off even more. “Have you tried reaching him?”

Like a child caught with a hand in a cookie jar, you avert your gaze. Shameful heat warms your face at your obvious lie. You haven’t, but only because you fear it’ll make things worse. You know it.

“Don’t wanna,” you admit meekly.

“You don’t wanna talk to him?” Sam presses, and for a moment, you hate him for asking these uncomfortable questions, as right as they may be.

“No. I mean, yes, I do. I don’t know, doesn’t matter,” you groan. Your nails dig into the can, the aluminum giving under the pressure, just enough to leave a small dent. Nothing you can smooth over again. Just damage done by your hand, left for you to stare at. “He doesn’t wanna talk to me.”

Without looking at him, you can tell Sam is refraining from rolling his eyes and sighing. To him, this must look like a silly falling out straight out of a young adult romcom. You wish it were that easy. 

“Like I said, give it some time,” Sam says then, still earnest, still comforting. “He’ll come back around.”

You nearly snort, but it sounds more like you’re just clicking your tongue. Of course, your logic tells you he’s right. At the very least, he won’t abandon this place forever; he has to get back here eventually, if only for Sam and less so for you. But then you remember the iciness in his glare, the disappointment etched onto his forehead, like he’s already given up. Suddenly, you’re not so sure anymore that he’d even look in your general direction once he’s back.

“How do you know? And don’t give me any of that ‘he always does’ crap. I messed up, Sam, like seriously messed—”

“He texted me,” the younger Winchester explains.

Your motions stop, as does your heart for a beat. Your eyes dart up as you stare at him in disbelief.

“He said he needed to clear his head for a bit,” he elaborates with a nod, and already guessing you won’t believe him, he pulls out his phone and shows you.

At first, your heart flutters back to life. At the fact that Dean is in fact still alive, and seems less livid than you feared. The fact that your brains somehow still work in tandem, using the same shitty humor to cope. And at the fact that amidst it all, he still cares.

Until sadness washes over you again. Dean really doesn’t want to talk to you — otherwise he would’ve texted you instead of Sam, right? — and he has every right to be upset, but he still cares. It almost breaks you. In every sense, Dean’s a better person than John ever was, and with you feeling like a great ass right now, he’s a better person than you could ever be.

Before you can dwell on it further, Sam takes his phone back, puts it back in his pocket, and occupies his hand with his soda instead. “Besides,” he starts, offering you a small smile. “The guy’s a damn sap for you, so whatever you said about messing up, he can’t stay mad at you for long.”

Despite the teasing undertones, you feel like you can breathe a little bit easier again.

Come night, you’re getting anxious again. It’s perfectly understandable that Dean wants his space, yet you’re selfish enough to crave forgiveness. You don’t even want it handed to you on a silver platter. You’ll drop to your knees and beg for it, if necessary. If anything, you just want to apologize.

And you want to see him again.

It hasn’t been a full 24 hours without him, but you’re antsy like the actual main character of a teenie drama. With all kidding aside, each minute is torturous. 

What if he changed his mind after all? What if he ditched this place for good, ditched you for good? You’re overthinking, fully aware of it, but the possibility whispers mean things into your mind, sending your thoughts spiraling.

You and Dean fight often and loudly. You clash sometimes, his stubbornness and your temper a dangerous combination. But more often than not, you make a great team. You appreciate the way he grounds you; he claims to love your passion. Always says feisty is sexy, earning himself half a giggle and half a pout.

Fuck, you miss him. 

Not wanting to drag this out further, you throw all reason out the window and dial his number. It’s probably unwise to disturb the peace he seeks right now, but you silently pray to at least hear his voicemail.

To your surprise, there’s a muffled buzz emitting from outside your door. Holding your breath, you turn to it. It doesn’t budge, but the ringing noise stops. Instead, a familiar drawl fills your ear.

“Hey,” Dean speaks, both through the door and through the phone.

How long has he been standing there? Mulling over what happened, his thoughts spiraling as he prepares himself for a reunion, like it could be a vampire’s nest. The only thing separating you is a wooden door, but it stands between you like a wall to hide behind. It’s both endearing and saddening to think about.

“Hey,” you reply softly.

There’s an awkward pause, him clearing his throat. “Can I, uh… Can I come in?”

You almost chuckle, but opt for a tongue-in-cheek smile instead while he can’t see. “Unless this is one of those cheesy YA romcom moments, I don’t see what’s stopping you,” you half-tease.

“Ugh, did Sam—?”

“Get in here already,” you sigh — the first gentle sigh of today, one of relief, one accompanied by an even wider smile.

The door creaks open, revealing Dean, his phone still pressed to his ear. He looks calmer than the last time you’ve seen him, obviously. Albeit, with the anger subsided, he looks tired, almost weary.

As his eyes meet yours, you realize his words are failing him. You need none. Having him here is enough for now. Hanging up the call, you make a beeline towards him, your arms wrapping around him before you can second-guess yourself. Dean staggers, if only for a second, then his arms circle around your middle all the same.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck like it’s second nature, inhales your scent like it soothes his frayed nerves. You mimic his actions, pressing your face into his hair and thinking you could cry.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, words muffled by the fabric of your shirt.

“Whoa, hold on,” you breathe, overwhelmed. Your attempt at pulling back remains futile; Dean’s grip on you is like iron. “You’re stealing my line, cowboy.”

He gives nothing but a weak hum in return, all gloom and brooding in your arms. You gently rub his back and press a chaste kiss to the side of his head.

“Let’s sit,” you suggest, to which he almost protests, but he allows you to intertwine your fingers with his and guide him towards the edge of the bed.

The two of you sit down together, stiff and avoiding each other’s gaze, but still holding onto one another.

“I’m sorry,” you go first, carefully squeezing Dean’s hand. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You see Dean’s jaw tick from the corner of your eye. He gently tugs at your hand, places it in his lap, and brushes his thumb over your knuckles. The touch is tender, careful, hesitant. When you dare to look at him, his gaze is fixated on your hand in his first, then he stares straight ahead at the wall in front of you.

“You were right,” he chokes out at last, not in accusatory fashion, not even angrily. Just matter-of-factly, so much so that it makes your stomach churn all over again.

You pull your leg under yourself, turn so you’re facing him without releasing his hand. In fact, you place your other one on top of it, leaning closer. “No, Dean,” you insist. “It’s not true, you’re not him. I only said it in the heat of the moment, I wasn’t even thinking clearly.”

Dean still isn’t looking at you as he lets his words wash over you. However, he shakes his head, lets his shoulders slump ever so slightly. “But you had a point,” he replies.

“Dean—”

“No, please. Let me say this,” he sighs, takes a deep but shaky breath, and once again lets his eyes fall to his lap, watching you hold onto him like he deserves it. “Sometimes… Heck, a lot of times, I get angry. Not sure why. It even reminds me of him, you know, which makes me even angrier and—” He pauses, scoffs, eyelashes fluttering at the feeling of your grip tightening around his fingers. “I hate it. It scares me. But that’s my burden to bear, and I’m trying to make peace with it. What I can’t take is the thought of ever treating you like my old man treated me. It kills me.”

In that moment, a young boy sits before you, impressionable and eager to please. Eager to be just like his heroic dad, a real tough fighter who can do no wrong. Years of learning and adapting to John’s actual moods, however, have worn him down, have thinned him out.

One of your hands comes up to brush over the edge of his jaw, to caress his cheekbone, to let him lean into your palm.

“You’re nothing like John. You’ve never treated me like that,” you reassure him again. “It wasn’t fair what he dumped on you, and it wasn’t fair of me to pick at it. I promise you, Dean, I didn’t mean it. I am so sorry.”

He exhales softly, nods once, then finally looks at you.

“Just goes to show how well you know my weak spots,” Dean huffs, the hint of a crooked smile curling his lips.

Dean Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1)

@ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles @artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy @blueriver-shifting @bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl @cassieriddle713 @castielscaplan @charliesangel6 @chronic-fangirl-222 @conceepp @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @dragonfly92 @edajcheel @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @hot-and-confused @idfcidjit-central @jackles010378 @jensensswthrt @jey1ls @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @lessons-of-red @lunaleah @lyarr24 @madelinessss @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @mahi-wayy @malindacath @marvellousbrattigan @mayushkabar @mccartneyqp @midnight--raine

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~3,8k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I tried something different with this narrative. I hope it makes sense and you guys enjoy it. :D

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"Emotions aren't clean or sleek. They don't follow straight lines or any artistic rules. Sometimes they're bold and other times hidden in details - but mostly it's all just messy and chaotic. Just like life."

That's why sketches are never finished.

The field notes are going well, until the clouds grow fat and decide to send you scampering for your RV at the end of the campsite.

You stumble inside. The door clicks shut behind you, keeping the splattering rain from ruining your papers taped to the walls and canvas stacked against the window. From under your jacket, you pull out a large notebook, shielded from the cloudburst. Some droplets of your sleeve land on the pile of creature studies as you add the saved booklet to your other things.

You take off your jacket, hang it over the stool to dry, rub your arms to warm up, dial the heater higher, and set the coffee to brew.

The small space hums to life around you.

Fresh coffee beans, acrylic paint and something sweet colour the air. As you move around your RV - changing into something dry and comfortable, rubbing a towel over your damp hair - you hear your family dog's familiar whine behind you.

It's faint - an echo at the back of your mind.

When you turn, there's Milo. Tail wagging, ears perked. His nose is nudging at the closest object, the way he always used to beg for your attention.

You sigh, a small smile tugging at your lips, and blink the ghost of a memory away.

Moments later, something clatters to the floor.

The coffee mug had tipped over the edge of the counter. Its contents seep into your bags and boxes you've got stored beneath the kitchen counter. Crap.

You grab the kitchen towel. Scramble for it - try to save as much as you can before it's drowned in coffee.

As you pull out one box after the other into the narrow corridor, one of them catches your attention. You wipe its lid clean. Pull it back into the low light and slowly lower to your knees.

You begin rifling through it - stop, when your fingers brush the edge of a worn, brown booklet.

Something has you hesitate. Fingertips hovering around its cover.

Then you feel the cold press of a wet nose nudging the back of your hand. It's Milo. He's sat next to you, his doe-eyes looking up to meet yours.

He whines softly. Just once, before his gaze drops to your lap.

Your attention shifts back to the sketchbook in your hands.

Finally, you sink to the floor, elbows propped up on your knees. You open it. Hold your breath without realizing it.

The rain drums against the roof.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

The light inside your space is warm. Safe. Like a lighthouse in a storm.

You remember the day you wanted to start that sketchbook.

But once again didn't.

You weren't in the mood to create. You were in the mood to tear things down.

It was the same sound in your ears as the rain rushed down the roof and tapped against the window of your old attic.

From your window, you watch a sliver of pink disappear behind the horizon, the sunset swallowed by the torrential rain. A Subtle, earthy scent lingers in the air. The light of the lamp, which hangs from the beam overhead, paints your attic in a serene filter of amber.

The mattress wobbles beneath your feet, snapping your focus back to the postcard you're trying to fit into the gap on the sloped wall beside your bed. In your other hand is the Polaroid of your ex - you in his arms, in front of a Ferris wheel. You take its pin. Use it to fill the new space with the postcard featuring an RV parked at the foot of a mountain with your grandpa leaning against it and Milo sitting at his boots as always.

Your gaze wanders and lands on the cardboard box on your desk. Sticking out are a flask, an old leather leash and a simple, carved, wooden eagle. But your eyes are drawn to the key-chain hanging around its neck, holding a car key.

It's been taunting you for weeks. Yet you can't get yourself to stow your dream away.

One minute you're grateful for the safety and comfort of your family home - the next you wish you could just hop into your grandpa's camper and hit the road with no destination in mind.

Safety. Freedom. One has always outweighed the other.

You sigh.

The Polaroid crumples up in your palm. You toss it across the room against the rim of your bin. It bounces back. Lands on a pile of more.

As much as you hate your ex, he was right about one thing;

You don't know where to go with your life.

A loud bark of Milo has you snap out of your thoughts. You look around the room, follow the familiar whines to the dormer window. Moments later, a jar with old paint-water slips off the windowsill and its contents sink into the cracks of your floorboard. You hop off your bed - almost stumble when there's a crash on the roof above the same instant.

At the window, you press your cheek flat against the cold glass, trying to get a glimpse at what could've caused the ruckus.

There are a lot of critters which like to take the path across your roof, especially in the late evening. It's probably the neighbour's cat. Or the local family of raccoons, or pigeons fighting for a dry spot under the chimney's raincap.

What you didn't expect was a six feet-something guy hanging off the edge of your dormer roof.

You blink. Then your inhale catches in your throat.

His fingers cling to the slippery tiles, his boots swiping below in an attempt to find some ground. Without thinking, you yank the window open.

"Take my hand!" you scream against the noise of rain drumming on terracotta tiles.

You lean over the edge of your windowsill. Extend a hand to him, helping him climb the remaining tiles until his boot finds purchase on your sill. He hurls himself up, slips - you lose your balance. Your hands tighten around each other when you tumble backwards, pulling him along as you're sent crashing into the wooden floorboards.

"Son of a-!!" he exclaims, but his curse is cut off by a grunt as his jaw hits your sternum and you yelp before you're buried under his weight.

The water sprays into the attic through the open window, billowing curtains send the cups and brushes off your canvas stand with the force of a whip - the papers scattered across your room fluttering like a flock of birds trapped under your roof.

When the wooden beam above you comes back into view, it takes you a moment to catch up with what just happened.

However, you don't get any time to think about it.

Something's on top of you.

Or rather, someone.

His large frame blocks the only light in your room. The drenched leather jacket of his seeps through your clothes as it sits heavy between you, the weight of his body hovering only inches above yours.

Neither of you move. Your head bracketed by his forearms, trapping you between them.

He looks down at you - you stare up at him.

He's so close, you can feel his breath on your lips. Noses almost touching. When his chest heaves, it briefly brushes yours. You hitch on your inhale, fingers twitching around something - and you just notice then that they're still joined with his next to your head.

It all feels way too intimate for a stranger.

Seconds feel like they're going by in slow-motion.

His eyes are wide as they hold onto yours. Mesmerizing. Honeyed moss in the shade.

Oh - how his mouth parts. Just a tiny gap between those perfectly plump lips.

His hair looks dark from being soaked and plastered to his forehead.

You catch how his gaze flickers down to your lips, just for a split second, before they return to your eyes. He swallows.

"Hey," he breathes. The timbre of his voice has your heart stumble.

"H-hi?" you stammer back.

He gives a small smirk.

A single drop of water rolls down the slope of his arched brow, follows the bridge of his sprinkled nose until it collects at the tip.

Then drops.

You gasp, eyes scrunched up - the moment shatters - the water splatters onto your cheek and some of it blurs your vision.

You try to blink it away.

Although - Maybe I should just keep them closed. Hold a little longer onto the moment.

You're convinced he's gone now. Convinced you must've just stumbled and hit your head. It's a manifestation of your vivid imagination, like -

"You okay, gorgeous?"

Holy shit.

He's real.

The open sketchbook is propped up on your knees. Your eyes are drifting across the first page, fingertips carefully trailing the corners of the drawings you'd glued there subsequently.

The edge of one of them catches on your nail; It's an ink drawing of a magpie, surrounded by pine needles and cones.

You like to study the birds. They often bounced the top branches of the pine tree across of your window. A rich evergreen, mixed with hues of teal and an experimental dash of burgundy fill the page. The watercolours bleed through the black contours of your linework - then fade out before they complete the drawing.

You smile to yourself. Reach over your shoulder to tug the blanket off your bed and over your shoulders - eyes closing for a moment.

A draft licks at your feet and has your exposed thighs shiver and clamp together, right after the window slowly creaks open, then closes with a soft click.

For three days, your attic's window has been a portal to sex.

Well, not quite. Not just sex. It's where adventure comes climbing through.

One thing led to another. And it just... happened.

You helped him get dried off. An accidental touch here. Another there. Lingering eyes. Leaning in - closer... closer.... a feather light trace of his fingertip, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. Charming whispers of his between drumming rain and rolling thunder. Sweet giggles of yours in the night. Compliments you'd never been told before. And now...

Now it's; Three knocks. Every night. No warnings - of course not.

Magic comes in the unexpected.

And with him? In the form of good laughs, unbelievable stories, and sex.

God, the sex is definitely an adventure.

The rustling of your papers stops. Warmth settles again between the familiar smells of your attic. Old wood and books, fresh paint and tea.

Discarded boots hit the floorboards somewhere behind you, before silent steps draw closer, like a predator sneaking up on their prey. He circles around the crooked canvas stand, sidesteps a half-empty coffee mug on a cardboard box labelled "TO BE SORTED", slightly ducks under the wooden beam, beelines past some toppled-over art and comic books, foot nudging aside a Game Cube controller on the fuzzy rug, before carefully stepping over an unfinished painting lying on the floor.

The skin on your back prickles when warm lips press a kiss to the slope of your neck. It's become a familiar welcome, teasing and quickly followed by another kiss further up. You chuckle his name. Roll your shoulder under his chin - it's the side of your hand that hovers, brush poised over the page.

"Hold on," you mutter, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you try to keep your concentration.

"Whatcha doin', art girl?" he asks smoothly against your soft skin. Another kiss.

"Wanna get this done first," you reply. You still haven't picked a fourth colour for the shading.

Dean "uh-huh's" next to your ear, but his hands go on nonetheless.

They find your shoulders, heavy and hot as he slowly lets them wander down the side of your arms first, then trails inwards where they wrap around your upper waist, his thumbs and index splaying right beneath the swell of your breasts.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he coaxes, and presses another kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear, "'m hungry."

He pushes them up, lightly begins to massage them through your hoodie.

"Dean - wait-" you giggle and squirm between his flexing biceps.

"Can't." Dean nips the exposed skin of your neck lightly. His large palms begin to knead your tits. He manages a small gasp of yours as he rolls your perked pebbles under his thumbs, then squeezes them less patiently.

"Gimmi, like, ten minutes - dude - I can't paint like this!"

His forehead drops to your shoulder and he whines. "Ten minutes? You want me starvin' to death?" He sounds so dramatic. Like a cat next to its empty bowl.

You fight for the tip of your brush to reach the watercolour palette, when he tugs you back in your chair, pinning you against his chest. He curls around you, lips moving over your front.

"How long've you been stalling again, huh?" he mutters into your collarbone.

"I'm not stalling. I want to get this damn thing to look good." You jerk your shoulder and his head rolls off it. His eyebrows furrow.

"You kiddin'? It looks awesome," he says confused.

Now your brows furrow. "Please. The colour composition is just -" you wiggle an arm free to wave a frustrated hand at it, "- eugh." That makes his usual smirk drop.

"Bullshit. You're just gonna make it look worse," Dean objects, sounding convinced.

You look up at him, your mouth opening in protest at the thought that he's only saying this to make you pliant - but a squeal comes out instead. Dean has his arms tightly locked around you. His face is nuzzling your neck.

It makes arguing difficult. And he knows it.

"Dean," you say, trying to sound firm despite the hitch in your voice. You don't need to see him to know that he has that shit-eating grin spread across his face.

"Know what?" he drawls, nudging your elbow aside and reaching over you to pluck the sketchbook from under your fumbling hands, "That's enough paint, Pollock."

"But-" you don't get to finish.

Next thing you know, Dean's hauling you off the chair, carrying you over to your bed in two long strides. He drops you on the mattress. It wobbles beneath you when he joins you and you start play-fighting like teenagers. But you quickly give in.

Dean keeps you there until the colours are dried, and the sheets are soaked.

Below the colours, there's a rough charcoal drawing of a pair of hands. Knuckles bent, like they're in action. Grasping at something.

Its lines are sharp. Coarse. Pefectly capturing its calloused fingers. In quick, curved strokes you recognize his two chunky silver rings, touching between the ring- and middle finger of his right hand.

Dean's hands.

His black elephant hair bracelets are broad lines around one wrist, and slightly smudged is a blocky square on his other - his wrist watch.

You can't help but pull on your lower lip when you stare at it.

Even though the drawing is far from perfect, warmth begins to spread in your body. Your skin prickles. Its messy shading mirrors the energy of the moment before it was created.

Each of its powerful lines elicits a phantom-touch.

The veins in his arms pop when he flexes them.

Cool silver's sliding down your back, then sinking into the plush of your ass when his fingers twitch around you.

Every grip, firm. Palms hot, heavy.

Bunching.

Squeezing.

Pushing your back into the mattress.

Lifting you off the bed and pulling you back down. Always onto himself, rocking up into that tight heat of yours without any restraint.

His movements are always hungry.

Always passionate.

Dean pulls sounds from you that has you roll back your eyes and bite your lips while his blunt fingernails sink into your hips and leave crescent marks for the next morning. It's the only proof that this was real - and not some impossibly delicious dream.

Your jaw goes slack when his chunky rings press into your hips with every drag of his grip. Pulling you back to meet him every time his cock disappears inside you.

"Goddamn - you feel so good..."

Thrust.

"...taking me so well..."

Thrust.

"...that's it, sweetheart..."

Dean rasps out words of praise between every roll of his pelvis. When your legs begin to shake, he pats your hip. His voice close to a coaxing murmur. "C'mon baby, you can give me one more... yeah?"

You nod.

Dean hooks your knees over his shoulders. One, then the other. Then slips a strong hand under you, fingers splayed at the small of your back to cant your hips for him. He pulls all the way out, pauses -

"You like me taking you apart night after night?" he asks with a smug smirk and you can only grin and barely nod again. Hell yeah you do. Whatever you two had going - you hoped it would never end.

Then his necklace swings forward again until the black cord goes taut and he's fully buried inside you - knocks the air out of your lungs - before it slaps back against his bare chest. You shudder. Clench around him as he keeps pushing deeper.

Dean's jaw tightens. A low hiss escapes him from the way you react.

He repeats the action. Greedy for more. The pendant swaying between you in the rhythm of your entangled bodies. Mattress squeaking, bed frame rattling.

"Damn right. My little secret," he groans down at you with a hint of pride to it.

"Pshhh -" you giggle and Dean's smirk only widens. His green eyes glint mischievously as he leans in to mutter against your kiss-swollen lips. "What's up, sweetheart?" - his free hand moves between your bodies, finding your sensitive clit - "Afraid your parents might hear ya gettin' wrecked?" Your hips jerk, walls fluttering around him.

In retaliation, you're threading your fingers through his long strands of hair. Feel them damp and thick, curling around your knuckles before he pushes back into you - bottoms out - they slip your grip, whimpering his name - then twist your fingers around his locks to drag them back again.

Dean hisses. Dives down to catch your lips in a messy kiss.

It's all breathless groaning, hot breaths, tongues tangling, and threads of spit that connect you even as he pulls back just enough to watch your face when you unravel beneath him for the third time.

Wedged in between the pieces of glued in paper, are a series of doodles. You remember adding them later. As space fillers, or mind dumps.

You remember how your pen danced across the page.

Keywords, patterns, shapes - the mindless ones. Circling around seemingly random thoughts as you’re huddled up in your sheets with your bare skin still flushed and hair tussled.

They're little things that remind you of him. Still do.

Coarse pine wood in the rain. Beer soaked moss. Old bonfire smoke clinging to an oversized, aged leather jacket.

Cocky. Handsome. Flirty. Intense, exhilarating, intoxicating.

And you're... well.

Boring.

You glance over the edge of your page, the side of your thumb absent-mindedly spinning the chunky ring on your index finger. You deliberately keep the motion of your wrist going.

The sound of pencil scratching the paper fills the space, but your focus is elsewhere. You catch a nice view of Dean tugging his jeans over his perfect ass. Watch him slinging his belt, bare shoulder blades working as he wiggles his broad shoulders into his shirt, before adjusting his odd looking pendant above it.

He's just so... fucking gorgeous.

You're nothing alike him.

You're not adventurous. You're not free like he is. You're stuck in a eight-to-five you hate. Still living at your parents' house. Still retreating into this little world under the roof the moment you get home. Creating stories you can only play out in your mind - dream of places you can only ever visit on paper.

And yet, for some reason, he keeps showing up.

Always needy, always horny.

Every evening, he climbs the lower roofs and sneaks in through your dormer window like some thief, careful not to alert your parents.

He's become that stray dog, swinging by whenever he's close and he's hungry, craving either food or affection (especially affection), who then wanders off again by morning, doing God knows what.

While your thoughts wander, you find yourself doodling a no sign with the ghost "Mooglie" curling around the diagonal slash. You like to believe that he works some cool Ghostbusters gig - this sounds crazy without context.

Yesterday, when you'd asked him what he was doing on your roof, he'd chuckled "Would you believe me if I told you a ghost bit me in the ass?".

Of course your imagination ran with that.

Or maybe - you grab the eraser, rub the lines away to add a pair of brass knuckles to the ghost's stick-hands - maybe he goes to cage fights? Every time he shows up, he carries new bruises above old scars like they're badges.

One thing is for sure: there's nothing regular about the man with eyes like an old pine tree in a summer sunset.

You've stopped asking questions.

Figured it's easier this way. Makes things more interesting. Less complicated. No strings attached and all that - or however that saying goes.

Dean makes you laugh. He makes you feel good, feel wanted. Even if it's just for a couple of hours. And he's the only thing that keeps you from drowning in self-pity after the messy breakup with your ex.

Hah, if he knew I got this handsome bastard between my legs. You lick your lips, grin to yourself. Guess what, Steve? He knows where to suck to make me come.

Asshole can go crawl back to Susie's tits for all you care.

Your hand stills, tip hovering over paper. Teeth worrying your lower lip, you watch him slip into his boots. He turns halfway in the soft light of your bedside lamp, looking for something while ruffling his long strands of hair back.

"Looking for this?" You hold up your hand and wiggle your fingers. He smirks when he sees his jewellery on you.

"You lil' thief. Don't go stealin' my stuff," he tries to sound annoyed but his face betrays him. "I ain't ready to put a ring on you yet." With his calloused fingertips he pulls the silver ring over your knuckle before sliding it back over his own where it clinks against its companion part. He looks up at you once more, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

And with that he disappears out the window.

That guy is a puzzle to you.

Dean Winchester: A flashy album cover with its borders sealed.

You've learned to enjoy the artwork as long as it lasts.

But sometimes, you wish you could get a glimpse of what's on that vinyl.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES The day after I posted the masterlist to this, everything went sideways irl. Hopefully it didn't show in my writing, cause the amount of editing I had to do was crazyy lol. And I've still got a lot more to do with the other parts... So please bear with me. 🥲

Thank you all for your support, comments / reblogs / likes - I appreciate you guys a lot. ♡ And I am sorry for being mia for so long. I miss you all so much!

Dean Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @zepskies @maddie0101 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @my-stories-vault

@waynes-multiverse @jc-winchester @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @livya99 @youdontknowe @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny

@alixxhere @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @hobby27

@boobsbeesbongos @bowahdean @icreatemyownharem-blog @uniqueeamber @ralilda @biancalinkas @westendgirlsworld @foxyjwls007 @soullessambs @deanspinsterwitch

@fuckingdamnitdean @star-yawnznn @s0uz4s @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester

Mark Meachum Masterlist (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@waynes-multiverse @hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @jackles010378 @nancymcl @spnaquakindgdom @bettystonewell

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989 @siampie @masked-lost-girl

@spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @globetrotter28

@cookiechipdough @winchesterwild78 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

@mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @kiddieclaws @gabavaldman

“Dean give me that!” you said, trying to reach for it but he blocked you.

“What this?” he teased as you swiped once more, your fingers barely grazing his hand.

“It’s not funny!” you grunted, your cheeks on fire. Dean didn’t seem to notice; he was enjoying your embarrassment too much.

“Oh come on don’t be embarrassed. It’s fine, I get it, you know everyone needs a little release now and then,” he laughed, turning to get out of your way. But you weren’t even registering him now, you were serious. It wasn’t funny. The embarrassment of someone, especially Dean, seeing that made you want the ground to swallow you up.

“Give it!” you grunted as you thumped him, toppling him onto the bed. He kept it buried underneath him as you straddled his back, trying to swipe your hands under the solidness of his torso.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he said, flipping you with one roll. He landed on his back, stashing the toy beneath you as you scrambled to get over him again. But his hands caught yours, holding you tight enough by the wrists that they just flapped, swiping at his face which only made him laugh harder.

“You want, it back that bad huh? Wow, didn’t have you down as a toy kinda girl,” he teased. You weren’t listening. You were sure you looked a state now. Your hair was all over and you had a sheen of sweat from how frantic you’d been and you were sure that your cheeks were near the colour of the offending object, hidden underneath him.

“Dean give it,” you said, and then, in one last ditch attempt you shifted your knee in a way that made him drop your hands on instinct, his own hovering over his crown jewels as you fell, hand swooping underneath his back so you could fish it out. It was a dirty move, dirtier still if you’d actually gone through with it but you weren’t at that stage just yet. Once it was safely in your grasp you scrambled off him, scowling as you stuffed it back in your bag.

“Oh, come on I was just messin with ya,” Dean said, lying spent on the bed, a grin still on his face though you refused to stop pouting. Your heart was hammering in your chest though you knew you were being ridiculous, that he was just joking. Of course it was natural, you knew that. You also weren’t naïve to think that he and Sam found moments to themselves at the bunker or in the dingy motels you stayed in. But right now you couldn’t see the funny side, couldn’t join in on his teasing. Because this was Dean.

Dean who told silly jokes to make you laugh or teased you a little until you rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. Dean who laughed when you did, his grin burning bright like the sun in a way that you couldn’t help but stare at. Dean who put his hand on your thigh when you were driving like it was nothing. Dean whose touch felt like it would melt your skin, leaving a mark only you could feel. Leaving behind an ache that you could never get rid of. Dean who didn’t need to do that. Dean who went out and found someone to warm his bed for the night when he was lonely. Dean who made you lonely when he chose to do that. Dean who crept into your thoughts when you were alone in the bunker. His smile, his touch, the way he looked at you making you reach for the tiny pink helper which was nothing in comparison to him.

He called your name but you didn’t listen, you just swung your duffle on your shoulder and muttered that you’d meet him at the car. Dean sighed and flopped back on the bed, hoping you’d forgive him before you made it over state lines.

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

The road home was long but straight. Two lane black top edged by dense forests for nothing but the next two hundred miles. It had been pretty at first, but the thickness of the trees meant the radio reception was spotty to say the least and given that you had refused to speak for the last two hours, your eyes glued to your phone through the intermittent periods of silence, it was painfully awkward.  

You could feel Dean watching you, his eyes leaving the road every couple of minutes to glance your way, shifting like he was going to say something before he thought better of it. It was only when the radio cut out for good did he clear his throat, waiting for you to look at him. You didn’t. Dean sighed.

“Are you still not talking to me?” he grumbled. You looked at him with a glare before you turned back at your phone, scrolling through your Facebook looking for someone who’s life was even bigger of a mess than yours to make yourself feel better. Dean huffed, “oh c’mon. It’s not a big deal.’

“You were out of line,” you muttered.

“It was a joke,” he reasoned, earning himself another glare, “I didn’t mean anything by it, honestly. It’s not a big deal, we all do it. It’s natural.”

“So? I don’t bring up every long shower and extended car ride you take, do I?” you said.

“Yeah, but I don’t mind,” he shrugged, “because I’m grown up enough to know it’s not a big deal. Whatever you do in your room-”

“Is none of your business,” you snapped. Your phone was forgotten now, slung to the side as folded your arms across your chest, trying to keep yourself together. You could feel the tightness in your chest, the embarrassment from before creeping back in. Dean shifted. He could see you were getting self-conscious, your cheeks tinging pink like they always did when you were nervous. It was how he knew he’d fucked up, knew he needed to back track and steer the pair of you back on course. One that didn’t make you torture him by shutting him out.

 “Look I’m sorry okay,” he said quietly, clearing his throat, “I didn’t mean to tease you…it just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you scoffed. Dean shifted, looking awkward himself as he said, “you know…I just didn’t think you’d need a hand in that department.”

“I don’t,” you laughed in disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were having this conversation, that you were telling him about this. The pair of you never talked about sex, not really, not yours anyway. Dean made jokes or showed up with hickeys from nights before but it was never mentioned. He did it to make Sam squirm or roll his eyes. When you mentioned a man he changed the subject, like the thought of you doing anything like that was ludicrous. Like you were some kid.

Still now you felt the need to explain yourself. That you weren’t some sex-crazed teenager who took every opportunity to lock herself away because she couldn’t bring herself to trawl dive bars like he did.

“It’s just quicker sometimes. You and Sam are just kind always around and sometimes…well sometimes it’s hard to be…” you trailed off, ears bright red, watching as Dean waited expectantly, before the word slipped out, “quiet.”

Dean looked at you, mouth agape as the words lingered in the car between you, a thousand images running through his head. He shifted, trying the way his jeans felt distinctly tighter than they had a moment ago. You continued to look at him, that beautiful clueless look you always gave him whenever you said something that unknowingly drove him wild.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he lied, looking back to the road as he tried to focus. But the road was deserted, an expanse of asphalt, bleak and boring and no match for the thoughts in his head. He could still feel you, writhing against him, all hands and heavy breath against his neck as you fought for the damn thing. Now he could feel your eyes on him, a grin growing on your face as you chuckled.

“What?” he panicked.

“Nothing,” you said, breathing that adorable laugh you did whenever he caught you off guard with a joke.

“No c’mon,” he demanded, heat creeping up his neck.

“I just, I thought I was flustered but you’re downright embarrassed,” you giggled.

“No, I’m not,” he scoffed.

“Oh, come on Dean. Like you said it’s natural besides don’t tell me you’ve never had…help,” you said.

“Never need it sweetheart,” he rebutted. You rolled your eyes, “you know it’s a friend not an enemy right? Nothing to be scared of.”

 “Oh shut up,” he said, though he didn’t want you to. He’d take all the teasing in the world if it meant hearing that giggle. If it meant you’d keep talking to him like this. You’d never done it before. He couldn’t stomach it. Hearing you talk about other men, how they touched you, got to hear all those noises you made. Loud ones apparently. Well he couldn’t cope with that.

“Clearly you just don’t know what you’re doing,” he countered, “you need more practice.”

“Oh yeah should I get it down to a tight five minutes like you?” you asked.

“Efficiency, when needed, is a skill,” he said proudly.

“Right,” you drawled, “and it’s nothing to do with-”

You trailed off, going quiet as you looked out the window. He glanced over, confused at whatever you’d stopped yourself from saying, your fingers fiddling with a hole in your jeans awkwardly. Dean frowned, “what?”

“Nothing, never mind,” you muttered.

“No go on princess,” he challenged, “out with it.”

You hesitated, not meeting his eye as you said, “well you’re not exactly complicated, guys, I mean. It’s not really a skill…”

“Is that right?” he said.

“Yeah, I mean a stiff breeze could get your motor running,” you said.

“That’s what you think huh?” he asked, jaw ticking. He couldn’t help but take it personally, that you saw him as some horny teenage boy. When you had no idea. No idea how he tried his best not to fawn over you, how every move or look made that heat pool in his belly. How he’d had to shove it all down, only allowing himself to dwell on all that when he had a moment to himself. How it wasn’t just anyone who did it, it was just them he had to run to because he couldn’t put that all on you. It wasn’t fair. You meant too much to him and he couldn’t ruin that.

You seemed to notice how you’d upset him but you didn’t apologise, just persisted in the way you did, the way he normally liked as you sighed, “oh come on! are you really gonna pretend I’m wrong here? How many girls do you bed on average per week? You only have to think about sex and you're out the damn door! And then you make fun of me for having one fuckin’ vice on the rare occasion I get the bunker or the motel to myself-”

Dean had stopped listening, the impala turning down a long dirt road in the middle of the thicket. You stopped your ranting, confused as to what the hell was doing as you demanded, "Dean where are you going?”

He didn’t answer, just put the car in park and looked at you. You could feel your heart pounding, in a different way to before, the look in his eyes making you squirm as you realised you’d upset him.

"You really think that?" he asked.

"Think what?"

"That I'm like that," he replied.

"Dean, I have eyes," you sighed. Was he really taking issue with this? Did he think you'd never noticed? That it didn't drive you crazy to watch his endless pursuit of anything that moved?

"And you never wondered why?" he laughed. 

"Why what?" you snapped, wondering what you were missed.

"You don't see it, do you?" he said, looking at you like he couldn't believe how dense you were.

"Dean what are you talking about-"

"It's you!," he cried, "it's not random! I'm not obsessed with sex; I'm obsessed with you!"

"What?" you whispered.

"The way you look at me. The way you smile or roll your damn eyes at me when I'm trying to make you laugh. You touch me all the time and don't even notice and then I'm like a fuckin' twelve-year-old poppin' his first boner. And I can't think, can't function 'cause I'm thinking of you all the fuckin' time-"

"Dean," you breathed.

"And then I watch you on cases, at bars or whatever. The way guys look at you, it makes me want to rip their damn heads off but you're so fuckin' nice you never see it. So I just pretend it doesn't bother me, pretend it's not driving me insane. Find a cheap skirt or a bar to stop thinking about you," he ranted, his chest heaved, words coming out without him giving permission. He seemed to realise all too late he'd said too much but he was too far gone, too broken from watching you just gawk at him like he was crazy, "have you never wondered why we don't talk about this shit? It's because the thought of you with someone else, hell even that stupid fuckin' thing might make my head explode-"

His words were cut off as you launched yourself at him, crashing your lips to his. He took a moment to respond, to comprehend what you were doing but then he moved against you, pulling you closer as you as he held your face in his hands. It was hot, heavy and left you breathless, his hands like fire against your bare skin as the pulled at your hips.

“What was that for?” Dean breathed as you broke away, forehead pressed to his, your chest heaving but so full of fervour you didn’t care. You laughed, your thumb sweeping across his jaw, his big green eyes wide with disbelief. And he called you clueless.

“Dean who did you think I was thinking about?” you asked, pressing a kiss where your hand had been, his stubble rough against your lips as you moved to whisper in his ear, “you’re right. I don’t notice any of them. It you, it’s always you I notice. You I want instead of that thing-”

That was it. Without warning he pulled you onto his lap, lips returning to the assault as you squealed his name. He didn’t stop, just kept kissing you as you pressed yourself to him, making him groan as his hands found their way under your shirt and found nothing but bare skin.

“You trying to kill me,’” he grunted, hips bucking against you as he took your nipple between his fingers. You moaned, you thighs clenching together as the heat in your belly started to grow, desire chugging away at rapid pace. As his mouth moved your neck his hands continued downward, the layers between you yanked away until he was touching you, fingers burying inside you without warning. 

“You’re fucking soaked,” he said with a breathy laugh, “here I was thinking you were just clueless. This what fighting with me does to you honey?”

“Fighting, arguing, hell just looking at you,” you breathed, rocking forward until his hand flat was against you, sounding slick and desperately filthy as his thumb found your clit.

“And to think I’ve been running to bash one out every time you smiled at me,” he panted, sucking against that sweet spot on your neck that made you see stars. You didn’t know how your brain managed to function, to come to from the ecstasy that was building by the minute but his words and the way you could feel him, straining against his jeans, begging for you pulled you to reality. Your hands moved to his belt fumbling to get him out but he grabbed your wrist and stopped you.

“Dean,” you whined, entirely too needy, you could see by the way his eyes glinted. He always did like teasing you too much. 

“Nuh uh sweetheart. I’m gonna make you regret ever thinking this isn’t pure skill,” he said, grinding he heel of his hand down against you, the friction making you clench around him. 

“Oh god,’” you cried, rocking needily in tandem with it, your mouth barely working against his as he worked you, sloppy and desperate. It was everything you’d ever wanted and more, something you were sure he never did with those girls.

“Actually the names Dean,” he teased, laughing as you still managed to roll your eyes. Even here, a quivering wreck barely managing to string a sentence together he was still trying to make you smile. 

“Shut up,” you panted because that was all you could muster, your release was coming, tightening around him, you nails in digging into his shoulder.

“That’s it baby,” he cooed taking in the sight of you. Maybe he should’ve talked about this with you before because no matter what you said he was sure no one had ever gotten you like this before, slack jawed half lidded and moaning his name like it was a god damn prayer. Not even that stupid toy could make you feel like this he was sure if it.

You came with a whimper, a gush over his hand that could’ve made him blow his load right then and there. He was sure at some points he’d come close. And that was just by watching you, the way you giggled when he teased Sam or how you put your hand on his arm to get past him in the kitchen in what he now realised was plenty of space. But now, as you collapsed against him all heaving chest and loose limbs it was all he could do not to throw you on the seat and bury himself until you’d taken everything he had. But you just rested against him, lips branding his skin as you mumbled expletives.  

“You good?” he chuckled, holding you tighter as he wiped his other hand on his jeans.

“That was…” you couldn’t finish. Couldn’t make the right words for that form in your brain.

“Worth the wait?” he whispered, his lips muffled by your hair.

“Annoyed we could’ve done it sooner,” you countered. Dean chuckled; you weren’t wrong. You pulled back, smiley and happy, your fingers running through is hair and down his flannel until they rested, fiddling with his belt.

“So,” you smiled.

“So,” Dean replied,

“Back seat?” you suggested,

“Definitely,” he said leaning up to kiss you once more “but first I’m gonna need an apology.”

“What for?” you giggled.

“Well by my watch, Mr No Skills got Little Miss Complex here from arguing to a puddle in five minutes flat,” he grinned, smug as anything.

“Oh shut up!” you said thumping him on the chest but he caught your wrist pulling you against him so he could kiss you again , “not a chance.”

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

dean winchester tags

@caitlin1996

You were miles from the bunker, hours deep into unfamiliar mountain roads after chasing down what turned out to be a pack of werewolves. The town had been small already, tucked away, isolated, and the wolves had been picking off the population one by one, quiet and methodical.

The case was done. Finito. You and Dean had saved the day.

You should’ve felt relief. Victory. Something light.

Instead, your body ached and your chest felt hollow.

Your neck twinged when you shifted, ribs screaming in dull protest beneath your jacket.

Getting thrown into a tree by a pissed-off werewolf had a way of humbling you fast. You were pretty sure nothing was broken, Dean had checked you over with shaking hands and frantic eyes, but you knew you’d be bruised for days.

And still… the physical pain wasn’t what gnawed at you.

Earlier that day played on a loop in your head, vivid and cruel.

You’d been excited when you took the case. Too excited, maybe. Sam was off helping Eileen with another hunt, which meant it was just you and Dean. No third wheel. No motel rooms with a thin wall between you. Just space. Time. Something that felt dangerously close to domestic.

You and Dean hadn’t been seeing each other long, not long enough to define anything… yet, but long enough that it wasn’t just a comfort fuck in the dark anymore.

You hadn’t labeled it. Neither of you had. You were adults, friends first, hunters always. You cared about each other. You enjoyed each other. Really enjoyed each other. And at the start, that had felt like enough. Easy. Organic.

You’d told yourself it didn’t need more explanation.

Until suddenly… it did.

Because somewhere along the way, things had shifted.

Subtly at first. Then all at once.

Dean would pull you into his side on the couch in the ‘Dean Cave’, your legs draped over his lap while some old movie played half-forgotten on the screen. On long drives, his hand would find yours without comment, fingers lacing together like it was the most natural thing in the world. He kissed your cheek in the mornings when he reached for his mug, even in front of Sam, something that had once been just yours, private and unspoken.

It felt like something.

It felt like enough.

And then, just when you’d start to settle into it, when you’d let yourself relax, he’d pull back.

Some nights, he wouldn’t come find you, wouldn’t drag you half-asleep into the warmth of his bed. He’d go in alone instead. Other times, he’d wave off movie night, choosing a drink by himself, shutting himself away like a door quietly closing. You told yourself not to read into it. Being a hunter was heavy. You knew that better than most. Some days demanded space.

You understood that.

But Dean was hot and cold. Push and pull. One step forward, one step back.

And the more time you spent wrapped up in him, the more his habits became yours, the more his touch felt like home, the harder it became to ignore the quiet question building in your chest.

You hadn’t needed answers before.

Now, you did.

You weren’t looking for a label stamp of approval. Just the certainty that if you gave him your whole heart, he wouldn’t drop it the moment things got complicated.

And then you saw him today with the witness.

Her friend had been one of the victims, her grief raw and real… right up until Dean approached her at the bar, slipping seamlessly into his sympathetic cop routine. The voice he used was softer, practiced. His posture relaxed, familiar. You’d seen it before, just not in a long time.

You hadn’t meant to watch. You’d just arrived back after questioning your own witness, slowing when you spotted them at the bar. Her manicured hand rested on his arm, fingers lingering longer than necessary. Her chest angled toward him, posture open, inviting. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, smiling up at him through lashes that were just a little too deliberate.

You knew that look.

Textbook. You’d seen it a hundred times.

And Dean, Dean knew it too. Yet he didn’t pull away.

He smiled. Played the part. Let her touch him. Let her slip that hastily scribbled number into his jacket pocket without protest.

And standing there, watching him not pull away, watching him slide so easily into a version of himself you thought you’d been slowly, quietly replacing…

It stung. Deep. Sharp. Personal.

Because that used to be all there was. That version of Dean. The charming, unattached one who kept things easy and left before they got heavy. The one you’d told yourself you were no longer sharing.

When he finally noticed you, his expression shifted instantly. Relief softened his features. His smile, the real one, turned warm and familiar as he crossed the room toward you.

It made it worse.

You played dumb. Let him touch you like nothing was wrong, his hand resting casually on your thigh as you compared notes in a quiet booth, nodding along while your head and your heart went to war.

You told yourself it looked worse than it was.

Told yourself it was just a means to an end. Just Dean doing what Dean always did.

But you couldn’t shake the image.

And then the spiral started.

Was this temporary for him? Convenient? Were you just… easy? Familiar? Someone warm to come back to until the next blonder, bustier, simpler woman caught his eye?

The thought twisted in your gut, cold and relentless.

You felt stupid for even thinking it. You liked to believe you knew Dean better than that. But it stuck under your skin, festered, made you reckless, made you push harder during the hunt than you should’ve.

And now you were hurt.

Dean didn’t know that part. He didn’t know how deep it went.

He probably thought your silence on the drive back was just pain and exhaustion settling in after a long, brutal day. And you let him believe it, because right now, you didn’t trust what might come out of your mouth if you tried to talk. You needed space. Time to think. Time to decide how to approach it without everything spilling out wrong.

But the universe, it seemed, was hell-bent on throwing curveballs your way.

Baby’s engine rattled suddenly, the car jolting beneath you both.

Dean stiffened instantly. “C’mon, Baby…” He patted the dash, like a comforting hand might coax her through it.

The Impala sputtered again, harsher this time, a violent rattle shuddering through the frame. The dashboard lights flickered once, twice, and the engine gave one final, defeated groan before falling silent altogether.

The sudden quiet was deafening.

The car rolled a few more feet before Dean guided it to the side of the road, snow already swallowing the tires as it settled.

You exhaled slowly, breath fogging in front of you as the heater cut out. Not that it had been doing much to begin with — the age of the car saw to that. The cold crept in immediately, sharp and invasive.

“Well,” you muttered, curling in on yourself. “That’s just great.”

Dean twisted the key. Nothing.

He tried again. Dead.

“Shit.” He blew out a breath and tugged his jacket tighter before slipping out of the car. The door opening alone dragged what little warmth remained with it, replaced instantly by an arctic bite.

You could barely make him out through the blowing snow as he rounded the hood, cursing under his breath while he checked beneath it. Another sharp “fuck” carried back to you, confirmation settling in your gut that you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

He shut the hood and hurried back inside, the cold following him despite his speed. He rubbed his hands together, breathing warm air into them before leaning back with a frustrated huff.

“Looks like she’s done,” he said quietly. “Too damn cold out here.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and uncomfortable.

“Awesome.” You said through chattering teeth, “Man it’s freezing.”

Dean glanced at you, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Well,” he said, voice smooth despite the cold, “I might know a way to help with that.”

Something in you twisted, sharp and ugly.

“Don’t.” You pulled away before he could reach for you.

The word came out harsher than you meant it to, snapping through the small space of the car.

Dean stilled, blinking in surprise. “Hey—” His voice softened instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned closer instead, hand hovering uncertainly near your arm. “Is it your ribs? Your neck?”

“I’m fine,” you said, clipped and cold.

Dean frowned. He knew that tone. It set his teeth on edge. “Okay.” He said slowly, choosing his words. “Then what is it? Because you’ve been like this since we left town.”

You scoffed, turning toward the window again. Snow battered the glass relentlessly.

Dean exhaled, running a hand over his face. “C’mon. Don’t shut me out like that. What’s wrong?”

That did it.

You turned on him, anger flaring hot and sudden, cutting through the cold. “You,” you snapped. “You’re what’s wrong.”

Dean froze. “Me?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” you continued, voice shaking now, pain bleeding through the edge of your anger. “Don’t sit there and act like you actually care.” You were being a tad dramatic, but you were cold, in pain and he was making you feel crazy.

His confusion was immediate, written all over his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw you, Dean,” you said quietly. “Earlier. At the bar. With the witness.”

Recognition flickered across his expression a beat later. He shook his head. “That? I was just doing my job. Getting information — like we always do.”

“And getting her personal cell number was vital information?” you shot back.

He blinked, stunned. “That’s not—” He stopped, choosing his words carefully. “It wasn’t like that. I swear.”

You scoffed, turning slightly away.

“No,” he pressed, leaning closer now, voice earnest. “Honestly i forgot about it the second we sat down. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t want it. It didn’t mean anything.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

But the day had been too long, your body hurt too much, and the image of him letting her touch him still burned behind your eyes.

And so you shoved the door open, cutting him of before he could continue.

The cold hit you like a wall, sharp and brutal, snow stinging your face as you stepped out into the storm.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Dean demanded, panic edging his voice as he scrambled out after you.

You pointed down the road, toward the faint glow you’d noticed earlier, the only break in the endless stretch of white, the one lonely house on this godforsaken road. “There’s a house. I saw it a few minutes back.”

“It’s a blizzard,” he argued, already moving toward you anyway. “You can’t just walk off like this.”

You turned on him, words spilling out raw and unfiltered. “I’d rather take my chances out here than be stuck in that car with you right now.”

The sentence hung between you, heavy and irreversible.

Dean stopped short.

You saw it then, the way his shoulders slumped, the hurt flashing openly across his face before he could shove it down.

Guilt crashed into you instantly, sharp and sickening. But you didn’t take it back.

Instead, you turned away from him and began walking in the direction of the house.

It didn’t take long before you heard his footsteps following, the crunch of snow beneath both your boots the only sound left in the white, suffocating silence.

As you finally approached the house, you were frozen down to the bone.

The porch light cut a soft, golden circle through the snow, a small mercy against the endless white. Your fingers were numb, breath shallow as you climbed the steps and knocked, knuckles stinging with the effort.

The door opened slowly, and an older woman peered out, cautious at first.

“Hi,” you said quickly, words tumbling out through chattering teeth. “I’m so sorry to bother you this late, but our car broke down just up the road. There’s no service out here, and the storm’s getting worse. We didn’t know where else to go.”

It was only half a lie, you had known where else to go, but the heat spilling through the narrow gap in the door was already thawing your resolve. Suddenly, this felt like the only right choice.

The woman took one look at you, snow dusting your hair, your cheeks flushed raw from the cold, then glanced past you to where Dean stood a few steps back, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“Oh, you poor things,” she said immediately, concern softening her features. She was short, bundled into a thick knit sweater, her auburn hair cut short and permed in a way that spoke of another decade. The lines on her face were deep but kind, worn by years of smiling rather than worry.

“Come in, come in. Let’s get you out of that cold before you freeze solid.”

She pulled the door open wider and ushered you inside, already calling over her shoulder, “Honey! We’ve got company.”

Warmth wrapped around you the second you crossed the threshold, thick, comforting, almost dizzying. The smell of woodsmoke and something savoury hung in the air. You sagged slightly as the door shut behind you, cutting off the howl of the storm.

“We really can’t thank you enough,” Dean said earnestly as a man appeared from the adjoining room.

He was tall, nearly Dean’s height, but softened by a round belly and broad shoulders. A full grey beard framed his warm, ruddy face, and his eyes crinkled with easy kindness as he smiled at you both.

“Well, you’re safe now,” he said gently. “I’m Alan. This is Beverly.”

“I’m Dean,” he replied, shaking Alan’s hand before turning to Beverly. You followed, offering your name too.

It didn’t take more than a minute for Beverly to start fussing, the way only someone who had spent a lifetime taking care of others could. She’d already began brewing some tea, clucked softly at the state of your coat, and draped thick blankets over both your shoulders before steering you toward the couch by the fire.

“Sit,” she insisted kindly. “Both of you. Get some heat back in those bones.”

You sank down with a quiet exhale, the warmth slowly seeping back into your limbs, painful and welcome all at once. Dean sat beside you, close but careful, his knee brushing yours as he accepted his mug.

Conversation came easily after that. They asked where you were headed, nodded along as you answered carefully, filling the gaps with gentle stories of their own. It was… nice. Comforting in a way that caught you off guard.

At one point, Beverly smiled at the two of you over the rim of her cup. “You two married?”

You startled slightly. “No—” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, we’re not.”

Beverly chuckled softly. “My apologies. You just make a good looking couple.”

You offered a small smile in return and then stared into the fire, watching the flames curl and snap. From the corner of your eye, you saw Dean’s mouth twitch, almost a smile, before it fell, something unreadable crossing his face before he tucked it away.

They told you about moving out here a couple years ago, how they’d traded the noise of town life for quiet mornings and long winters. How the snow didn’t bother them anymore.

Eventually, as the wind rattled the windows harder, Alan cleared his throat.

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” he offered. “Blizzard should pass by morning. I’ve got some things that might be able to help you get that car started once the cold eases up.”

“Thank you,” Dean said sincerely. “We really appreciate it.”

By the time Alan finished his story about digging the fireplace out by hand during their first winter, your social battery was well and truly dead. The adrenaline from the storm had worn off, leaving only exhaustion and the dull, persistent ache in your ribs.

You shifted slightly, blanket slipping from your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I think I might turn in, if that’s okay.”

Beverly’s face softened immediately, like she’d been waiting for it. “Of course, sweetheart. You look done in.”

She was already on her feet, ushering you and Dean down the short hallway. The house creaked gently beneath your steps, warm and lived-in, the kind of quiet that felt earned.

“The bathroom’s just down there,” Beverly said, pointing. “Fresh towels are under the sink. And—” she hesitated, then smiled, already opening a dresser in the guest room, “my kids left plenty of clothes behind over the years. These should fit well enough for sleeping.”

She handed you a soft cotton shirt and a pair of lounge pants, then passed Dean something similar, fussing all the while. “Nothing fancy, but they’re clean and warm.”

“Thank you,” you said again, meaning it more than you could put into words.

Beverly squeezed your hand, a brief, grounding touch, before leaving you both alone. “Get some rest.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence settled in, thick and fragile.

The room was small but cozy, lit by a single lamp that cast everything in amber. A quilted bed sat beneath the window, the blankets neatly folded, smelling faintly of lavender and clean linen.

You set the clothes down and tried to change, but the moment you lifted your arms, pain shot through your side. You sucked in a sharp breath, fingers trembling as you struggled with your shirt.

You felt Dean shift behind you, hesitate, and then ask,  “can I help?” His voice was careful. Gentle. Like he was afraid of spooking you. 

You paused, pride warring briefly with exhaustion, then you nodded, once.

He moved slowly, helping ease the fabric away from your skin, his hands warm and steady, but never lingering too long. 

When the shirt finally slipped free, his breath hitched.

The bruise along your ribs was dark and ugly, spreading like a storm cloud across your skin.

“Jesus,” he whispered. You could feel his eyes burning into you skin, and turned to see his furrowed brow, the sadness in his eyes. 

“I Hate seeing you like this.” He confessed, voice cracking, just barely. 

You opened your mouth to brush it off, but he kept going, words tumbling out now, raw and unguarded.

“Every time you get hurt, it—it messes me up,” he admitted. “Because all I can think about is losing you. And that thought?” He shook his head. “It wrecks me.”

Your throat tightened.

“What you saw today,” he said suddenly, shaking his head again, frustration lacing his words. “That woman— none of it meant anything. I swear to you. I was acting out of habit and didn’t even think about it like that, and i’m so sorry.”

Whatever fight you’d been clinging to finally drained out of you, leaving only the ache underneath.

“I wasn’t mad about the number,” you admitted softly. “Not really. I was scared.” You met his eyes. “Because I don’t know where I stand with you, Dean. And the more I care, the more it feels like I’m losing my footing.”

He stepped closer. “You’ve got me,” he said immediately. “You’ve always had me.”

You let out a weak, but relieved laugh, tears stinging your eyes. 

“You’re making me a little crazy,” you said, then really looked at him — this man who’d been in your life for nearly a decade. Not always steady. Not always close. But always there.

And suddenly, the truth landed.

“I think…” your voice shook, but you didn’t look away, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hung there, terrifying and freeing all at once.

Dean didn’t hesitate.

He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes, his forehead resting against yours. “I love you too,” he breathed. “I’ve been trying not to say it. Trying not to need it. But it’s there. It’s always been there.”

You smiled through tears, and he kissed you then, slow and careful, like you were relearning each other. His hands stayed steady at your waist, grounding, reassuring. The kind of touch that said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

You melted into him, the last of the tension you’d been holding onto finally slipping away.

The kiss deepened slowly, unhurried, like you were both savouring it — like you were finally allowing yourselves to feel everything you’d been holding back. All the hurt, the jealousy, the fear from earlier softened and dissolved, replaced by the warmth of him, the steadiness of his hands, the simple truth of this.

When he guided you back toward the bed, it was with the same care he’d shown all night, one hand firm at your waist, the other warm against your back, checking in with every movement, every breath.

He eased you down onto the mattress like you were something precious.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured against your skin as he hovered over you, breath warm and steady.

You nodded, fingers curling into his shirt to pull him closer instead, answering him with a deeper, more urgent kiss as he settled his weight carefully against you.

The rest of your clothes were shed slowly, his hands never rushing, never careless, until there was nothing left between you. When he finally eased inside you, it was gentler than he’d ever been before, cautious but reverent. You welcomed him instinctively, arms tightening around him, holding him close as he began to move.

His rhythm was slow, deep, mindful of every breath you took, every small sound you made. Enough to make you feel him completely. Enough to remind you that you were safe, wanted, chosen.

Your skin prickled, your heart thudding hard in your chest as he surrounded you, body and soul. You clung to him, his shoulders, his hair, anywhere you could reach, grounding yourself as he brought you closer to the edge.

His breath was hot and uneven against your neck, hands tangling in your hair, grasping at your uninjured flesh as he murmured quiet praises meant only for you.

The cold from earlier was long gone now, replaced by heat, desire, want, need, curling deep in your bones.

You held him to you as you came, burying your broken gasps against his skin as pleasure rolled through you in thick, overwhelming waves. He followed not long after, body tensing, movements faltering as he gave himself over completely, panting your name as he did.

And in the quiet that followed, wrapped around each other, it felt less like escape, and more like coming home.

Later, once you were tucked into bed beneath layers of quilts, Dean curled around you instinctively, one arm wrapped securely around your middle, careful of your ribs. Your head rested on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmured sleepily.

Dean hummed in response, nuzzling into the top of your head, his arm tightening around you just a little.

“Did you ever picture something like this?” you asked softly. “You know… moving somewhere quiet. A house. Growing old with someone?”

He was quiet for a moment, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along your arm.

“Not really,” he admitted, and you tilted your head to look up at him, curious.

“By the time I was old enough to think about stuff like that,” he continued, “we were already knee-deep in hunting. Cases. Always on the move. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.” He let out a slow breath. “Even when I did try… you know how that went.”

You nodded, listening, a small ache settling in your chest.

“But with you,” he went on, voice softer now, more vulnerable as he hooked a finger under your chin, and met your gaze. “I’ve thought about it. I let myself imagine it. Even if it never happens… when I picture happy?” His fingers brushed softly against your cheek. “It’s you.”

Tears welled before you could stop them. He brushed them away gently with his thumb, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s you for me too, y’know” you whispered honestly.

He leaned down then, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, slow, warm, full of quiet contentment.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But you knew this much: home was never going to be a place.

It was the man holding you.

And that, you thought, was enough.

A/N: I know i’m severely lacking with the content atm, i’m very aware of my overflowing WIP’s folder 🥴. I’m trying, albeit slowly, to get through it, finish off some pieces that are long overdue. Those who are still sticking with me, and patient. I appreciate each and every one of you, and hope to continue getting back to posting, reading, etc more regularly. Love you all X

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

WARNING: This story implies/references some potentially triggering topics including domestic abuse, sexual assault, a past miscarriage (chemical pregnancy), and follows the journey of how the characters deal with it. Please consider these carefully before reading. I can’t stress this enough!

A/N: This all started out as a one shot idea of Dean playing with kids and nerf guns. That one shot hasn’t been written yet because my brain wanted to know where the kids came from, but Dean will get his hands on a nerf gun in this fic.

uploading weekly on Fridays 🇦🇺🕕

Chapter 1 - Yearning

Chapter 2 - Harbouring

Chapter 3 - Confronting

Chapter 4 - Familiarising

Chapter 5 - Languishing

Chapter 6 - Domesticating

Chapter 7 - Honeydaying

Chapter 8 - Disconcerting

Chapter 9 - Ruminating

Chapter 10 - Saddling

Chapter 11 - Containment

Chapter 12 - Sentiment

Chapter 13 - Derisionment

Chapter 14 - Announcement

Chapter 15 - Disappointment

Chapter 16 - Ligament

Chapter 17 - Retirement (working title)

Chapter 18 -

Chapter 19 -

Chapter 20 -

TIMESTAMPS TBA

EXTRAS/RELATED

Writing Game Snippet

100 Followers Celebration Sneak Peak

WIP WEDNESDAY (20/02) Chapter 16

Please Remember folks, abuse isn’t always physical. It’s also not easy to admit when you’re going through it, or sometimes even realise. Look after yourselves, and keep an eye out for signs from those you love. ❤️

If you'd like to be tagged in this series or any of my other works, please let me know, or you can add yourself HERE

You toss and turn, but every time you close your eyes, you see them. The victims you couldn’t save, that monster tearing through skin and bone like it was ripping apart paper. Sinew snapping, blood splattering, corpses splaying across the ground like rag dolls.

You don’t know how much time passes, how long you’ve been staring at your ceiling for. All you know is that you can’t get your brain to shut down, that your guilt is eating you alive and keeping you from a good night’s rest — maybe you don’t deserve one after your failure.

With a sigh, you untangle your limbs from sheets that offer you no comfort anyway, and you make your way to the bathroom. The shower cleanses the sweat, but it can’t wash away your thoughts. They spiral and spiral, like the suds of shampoo go in endless circles. Only that, unlike the voice in your clogged head, the water has a drain to disappear into.

Changing into new pajamas feels like an impossible task, but you have half the brain to trick yourself into thinking a different setting is better than the current one.

At the very least, even if you slip back into your old shorts, you throw on a hoodie — one of Dean’s, one he rarely ever wears, which is why you stole it one day without thinking twice. That, and because the black fabric is soft, and the Metallica logo makes you feel a little more powerful (and maybe because you like the faint scent of leather that lingers within). Even Dean once said it makes you look “badass.” His words, not yours. Ironic, when you haven’t felt this defeated in a long time.

Gingerly, you leave your room, tiptoeing towards the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of tea would calm your nerves and help you relax. You rummage through the cupboards, thanking your past self for insisting on getting some tea bags despite Dean insisting whiskey was the way to go during sleepless nights. Back then, he was only half-joking, but for a split second, you consider following his advice. 

You boil the water, fill a mug, and watch the liquid turn muddy first and golden second. There could be something therapeutic about the sheer process of brewing up some tea, were it not for the hollow in your chest.

Picking up the cup, you wander off to the war room. You’re on a mission to find the most boring book to tire yourself to sleep, but before you can reach the library section, let alone a shelf, your eyes meet a pair of green ones.

Upon hearing your footsteps, Dean lifts his head and gives you a quick scan. His gaze briefly stops at the Metallica hoodie, the sight of which triggers a subtle twitch of his lips. His feet are perched up on the table, one hand clinging to a bottle of beer, the other occupied with his laptop. Whatever faint dialogue was emitting from it before you walked in, he hits the pause button.

The low rumble of his voice is familiar and soothing, just a tad raspier than usual. You immediately recognize the restlessness it is laced with. “Can’t sleep?”

Part of you feels like a child getting scolded for staying up too late, but when you see the same kind of droop in Dean’s eyes, you shrug. “No,” you answer. “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

Dean glances at the screen of his laptop, greeted by a paused movie, and scratches the back of his head.

“Guilty as charged,” he hums, taking a sip of his beer. Setting the bottle back on the table, he grabs at the chair closest to him, pulling it to his side and patting it twice. A silent invitation, one you immediately accept. You step closer, but before you can sit down, Dean sits up.

“Actually,” he huffs, “Let’s move this to the Dean Cave, eh? Comfier chairs, better screen, and most importantly: More fuel.”

You don’t bother arguing that you prefer your tea over the beer; you simply clutch the warm mug in your hands and give an approving nod, to which Dean shuts his laptop. You follow him down the hallway and into his customized little cinema. He wastes no time arranging some pillows and blankets, dimming the LED lights, and proudly filling the cup holders of the plush seats with fresh cans of beer. It doesn’t matter whether you want one or not, so long as he makes you feel included.

“Anything you wanna watch?”

Alright, that feels like too much consideration on his part. You blink at him, bewildered. “You’re asking me? It’s your collection, your room.”

Dean opens his mouth, undoubtedly having some teasing remark at the ready, but he swallows it down and shakes his head instead, his grin softening into a mellow smile. “I dunno, you deserve to pick a movie after such a rough day.”

His words, despite their kind sentiment, are tiny needles pricking your throat, constricting the airflow and making it difficult to swallow. Not even your warm tea helps the aching in your body. You don’t deserve to pick a movie when you have a bunch of people’s blood on your hands. People who will never watch movies ever again, let alone get the luxury of picking one.

You cast your eyes down, shrug, and sink down in one of the cushions. “I don’t mind, anything’s fine,” is all you manage to mumble.

Sensing that he’s hit a nerve, Dean doesn’t respond. Instead, he browses through his DVDs for a moment, putting in a surprisingly tame movie. You half expected one of his slasher movies, which he finds both amusing and comforting, but you’re definitely not in the mood to see more gore tonight.

He’s chosen one, you know that he knows you like. You’re not sure whether to feel grateful that he’s putting so much thought into making you feel comfortable or to feel guilty for disrupting his routine.

“You could just continue watching whatever you had on your laptop earlier,” you suggest meekly.

Dean, settling next to you, feigns nonchalance. “Nah, ‘s fine. Been meaning to watch this one for a while,” he lies, leaning back in his chair like it’s a second home.

Somehow it is. You feel more at home, more at ease, here than in your own bed. It’s not the chair, necessarily. Not the Dean Cave or the giant screen in front of you. It’s simply this spot in general — Dean’s soothing presence, the fuzzy blankets he’s prepared, the way he’s taking care of you so effortlessly. You don’t need to say a thing; he already knows.

“Thanks, Dean,” you mutter quietly.

“Don’t mention it.”

The movie is almost boring, but it’s just what you need right now. Dean makes an effort to chuckle at silly scenes, and whether or not he’s just pretending or actually enjoying the movie, he’s there. That’s enough to make you feel less anxious. It’s enough to make you relax, to allow the tension to melt from your limbs.

Eventually, your eyelids are too heavy, each blink feeling like a battle with your consciousness.

Dean slowly reaches over, carefully taking your cup out of your hands and replacing it with the blanket, gently tucking you in. He even lowers the volume of the movie until it’s a background noise to your ears that you can hardly pay attention to anymore. Your breathing calms into a steady, deep rhythm, and finally, you drift off to sleep.

When you wake up the next morning, you’re still in the Dean Cave, but someone has made sure you won’t suffer from a stiff neck, having adjusted your position and some pillows for maximum comfort. You rub the sleep from your eyes and get adjusted to your surroundings just in time for the door to creak open.

Dean greets you with a smile and both hands holding a cup of coffee each. “You’re up.”

You sit up, stretching a little, and accept one of the mugs with a sleepy “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he brushes you off, reminding you of last night’s events. Part of you still feels like an intruder. You never meant to invade his personal space, but he welcomed you with open arms either way.

“I can’t believe you’d fall asleep to that banger movie,” says Dean, the shit-eating grin on his face causing a flustered heat to rush to your head.

“I told you, you can pick whatever you wanna watch,” you huff defensively, which only earns you a half-teasing chuckle.

“I’m just joking,” he revokes, even holding up both hands in surrender. “It wasn’t half bad. Especially one hour in, you missed the best part.”

You hide your flustered expression behind the rim of your cup, slurping on the much-needed coffee instead. Dean is right — it wasn’t half bad. Not just the movie, but the fact that you at least got a couple of hours of rest in. While you don’t feel fully restored, at least you feel like you can take on the day.

It’s not until night comes again that you grow more anxious. Once again, you find yourself tossing and turning, unable to close your eyes without the cruel memories twitching you back. Just like last night, your energy is drained, but you’re wide awake. The second you try to relax, there’s screaming ringing in your ears and guts staining your hands.

Groaning, you slip out of bed again. You’re shivering without the blankets as much as with them, but throwing on the hoodie helps fend off the trembling once more, if only a little.

Like last night, you wander off to the main hall. Should you feel sillier for hoping you’ll find Dean sitting there or for the disappointment when you don’t? In all fairness, you feel silliest for sneaking to the Dean Cave, especially when you realize he’s not in there either. Would he mind if you occupied this space for a while, putting on the same movie, wrapping yourself in a fuzzy blanket? Either way, something is telling you it won’t be the same.

You’re nervously chewing on your lip as your feet carry you towards Dean’s room. If you’ve felt like a nuisance yesterday, you feel even worse now as you stare down his door. You can hear light snoring from inside, and every logic within you is telling you to let the guy be. Dean Winchester barely gets any sleep as is; it feels like a crime to disturb his three to four hours of shut-eye.

And yet, despite your better judgment, your hand carefully twists the doorknob. Holding your breath, you pass the threshold and slowly approach the bed.

You barely make a noise, merely whispering a gentle “Dean?” but he jolts awake regardless, whipping his head in your direction and plunging his hand under the pillow.

Immediately, you take a step back and hold your arms up in surrender. “Whoa, it’s just me,” you quickly say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you.”

In the dim of the room, you can barely see the cogwheels turning, but Dean relaxes again, shoves his hunting knife back under his pillow, and grumbles your name. There’s more confusion than annoyance in his rumbling, but you regret coming here either way.

“What are you doing here?”

You don’t know, and you feel stupid for coming here.

“I just— fuck, I’m sorry, this is silly… I’ll leave,” you stutter awkwardly, though before you can even turn around, Dean captures your wrist. He sits up, flicking on the lamp on the nightstand with his other hand, and pulls you to sit on the edge of his bed.

“Everything okay?”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your eyes are glued to your lap, and you shrug before you clear your throat. “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought, well, maybe—” You interrupt yourself with a small sigh, suddenly turned into a small and helpless child. Dean’s grip on your wrist loosens, his thumb rubbing an invisible pattern onto the back of your hand. “Do you mind if we, uh… Can we sit and talk for a bit?”

Holding your breath, you prepare for the worst. Surely he’s going to ridicule you, break out into laughter, and throw you out of his room, maybe scoff at you for robbing him of his sleep. You already see yourself getting kicked out, trotting back to your room where rest won’t find you, and nightmares will come haunt you, whether you’re asleep or awake.

Dean does no such thing. He’s silent, which makes you squirm all the more. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not even when he shuffles slightly, the sheets rustling under his movement.

Then he says it, so casually, you’re not sure he realizes what you were asking of. “C’mere,” Dean hums, gently but firmly pulling you closer by your hand.

You want to question it. You should question it, but you can’t. Not when a pair of strong arms guide you into a warm chest. You turn into putty right then and there, letting Dean drape your body against his without protest. Immediately, you relax in his embrace, burying your face in the fabric of his shirt. It smells like the Metallica hoodie, only more intense, more real, warmer, safer.

He starts the conversation, and you can’t even focus on what he’s really talking about. Something about Sam and expired milk, something that draws a giggle from your lips. You focus more on how deep his voice is, still laced with sleep, than on the actual words. Soon enough, your responses are limited to mmhms and uh-huhs, each one softer than the last.

There’s a hand on the small of your back, running up and down like it’s second nature. Dean wraps the blankets around both of you, holding you close without hesitation. Like you’re easy to hold, easy to care for, easy to love. His heart beats in a steady rhythm that lulls you to sleep in mere minutes.

When morning comes, you’re still wrapped up in blankets and a hug, Dean’s soft snoring in your ears. You’re half afraid it will be awkward once he rises, that he might make fun of you after all. That the second he opens his eyes, this fragile, peaceful moment is destroyed.

He looks so at ease, much more than you’ve ever witnessed him. With his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted, and not carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for the duration of his slumber, he looks younger. You stare at him until his nose twitches, and you still look at him when his gaze locks with yours.

“Mornin’,” is all he says. No questions. No judgment.

It becomes a habit quickly.

You sneak into his room the next night too, this time asking directly if you can lie down with him. He scooches over immediately, letting you fall asleep in his arms. The night after that, Dean has already prepared the space for you by the time you get there. There’s an extra pillow next to his; he’s already positioned more to the side, so you have enough room, and there’s a hoodie draped over the edge of the mattress.

“I figured you’d want options,” Dean grins, but there’s no edge to his words, no cocky teasing found in his offer. You slip out of the Metallica hoodie and into the new Led Zeppelin one. It smells just like him and feels so warm, you almost think he must’ve worn it just now.

The two of you exchange restless evenings for late-night conversations. Tossing and turning turns into entangled limbs. The hollow you once inhabited is no longer your home, Dean’s arms welcoming you instead. The world feels a little less heavy and cold and a lot more like a soft hoodie and a warm hug.

Dean Winchester Taglist Pt. 1:

@ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles

@artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy

@blueriver-shifting @bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl @cassieriddle713 @castielscaplan

@charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @conceepp @deansbbyx @deanswifeyy

@deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @dragonfly92 @edajcheel @emma1998sblog

@emmy21842 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @foxyjwls007

@fuckingdamnitdean @hot-and-confused @idfc @idjit-central @jackles010378

@jey1ls @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78

@lessons-of-red @lunaleah @lyarr24 @madelinessss @magic-sprinkled-daydreams

(More to be added soon!)

A/N: If you want to be on the tag list, please comment below, or you can also DM me!