It was always a no strings attached kind of relationship. Always the same routine. Just one night of intense, burning passion every few weeks, and then he would be gone again and you would go back to your normal, civilian life. 

And then slowly, in the few times before he would leave, when Dean would stick around and chat for a little, something changed. You liked him. He was sweet, and kind. He loved his brother and saved the world more than a few times; not that anyone actually knew about it. He told you as much about himself as he was willing to share with a hookup, and you did the same. You showed him parts of yourself you weren’t sure most long-term boyfriends had seen before, but that was okay. Because it was always no strings attached. Just sex. Right?

It was how you ended up here. Bare legged beneath the sheets, wearing only a shirt and underwear as Dean sat at the corner of the bed, fully dressed, lacing up his boots. He was leaving again, like he always did, but this time the ache settling in your chest rested a little heavier than the other times. You could usually bear it, push it away and let the sting fade on the cab ride home, but something about this time just… hurt more. 

Your eyes burned into Dean’s back as he stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, turning to you as he shrugged it on and smoothed the collar down. 

“I’m headin’ out now, sweetheart,” he said like it was the most casual thing in the world. Like the way he called you ‘sweetheart’ didn’t deepen the already painful ache. 

You nodded, forcing yourself to try and sound casual as you said, “Okay.”

Dean paused near the foot of the bed, his brows furrowing as he looked at you, as though he was trying to find something hidden beneath your skin. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, nodding again. “Yeah, I’m fine,”

“Well you don’t look fine,” Dean persisted, stepping a little closer to the bed. “You’re frowning, sweetheart. I don’t know about you, but I thought we had a good time.” 

You cleared your throat and nodded, crossing your arms and trying to prepare yourself for the choice you were about to make. “We did,” you admitted softly. “That’s… sort of the problem here, Dean.” 

It took Dean a few moments to catch on, leaving you both to bask in thick, tense silence as his eyes met yours and his expression shifted from concerned to guarded within seconds. “You know how this works, sweetheart.” 

“I know,” you said quickly, defensive as you dropped your arms and toyed with the sheets, your gaze falling with it. “I just… I wish you’d stay the night, at least. Just once, y’know?”

“You know I can’t do that,” Dean sighed, stepping a little closer to the bed again. His expression was still guarded, but a little softer now. His jaw ticked when you looked back up at him, and he ran a hand through his cropped hair before he spoke again. “You’re a good friend—” Ouch. “—but I can’t… I can’t give you anything more than this. My life, it… doesn’t exactly leave much room for relationships.” 

Taking in a deep breath, you blinked hard and gnawed on the inside of your cheek. You already knew the answer to the question that fell from your lips, but you asked it anyway. “You don’t even want to try? At all?”

Dean’s expression hardened again, like he was upset at you for not seeing his point. But you didn’t. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen that part of his life before. Hell, it was how you two had met in the first place. “This isn’t about what either of us wants. This is about what I can’t give you, Y/n. I’m trying to keep you safe here. Staying away keeps you safe, don’t you get that?”

“Safe from what, Dean?” You nearly scoffed, bitter disappointment mixing with the hurt hollowing out your heart. “From you?”

“Yeah, from me.” Dean confirmed with a small nod, his voice hoarse but firm as he dipped his head to recollect himself before meeting your gaze. “From me. From the life. From everything. People get close to me and they… they get hurt. Every time. I don’t want that for you.” 

“I get it,” you said, the words coming out harsher than you had meant them to. Pausing, you took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “I do, Dean. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. Every time you leave, I…” 

Dean sighed and approached the side of the bed, swallowing a lump in his throat as his hand twitched, like he had contemplated reaching for you but ultimately decided against it. “Maybe we should stop,” he suggested, his voice still hoarse and quiet as he looked at the floor. 

His words hit like a swift punch to the gut, the ache in your chest increasing tenfold, face falling and eyes wide as you stared at him as he stared at the ground. “You don’t mean that,” you finally said, firm and full of denial as you shook your head. 

Out of every way you thought this would end, you had simply never considered that it would be Dean calling it off. In every scenario, it had been you. Either by finding the courage to stop things for your own sake or by finding someone who made you feel anywhere near the way Dean does, it was always you ending it. Never him. 

When Dean didn’t speak again, only raising his head to meet your eyes with guilt ridden green irises, you swallowed and kept going, pure hurt in your voice as you spoke. “I would rather have some of you like this than not have you at all, Dean.” 

You watched as Dean tensed, hurt flashing across his face before he clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Don’t say that,” Dean insisted, his voice quiet and trembling. “Don’t. You deserve a hell of a lot more than this. You know that. I’m only gonna hurt you.”

“You’ll hurt me either way,” you told him, voice soft and solemn as you held his gaze. That ache in your chest grew deeper, cracking like a fissure and bleeding you dry. It had probably been there since long before you realized your feelings for Dean, but it had been growing slowly with each of his departures. You were finally feeling the whole of it now, and it felt like it was killing you. 

“You don’t need me,” Dean insisted, his voice full of pain and self-loathing. Didn’t you see that he was just trying to protect you? There was no easy way for this to end, he knew that, but at least this way you would be safe. Alive. He’d rather not have you and know you were alive than have you and watch you die bloody. 

You scoffed at him, the sound wet and thick as you shook your head. The fissure deepened slowly as you swallowed, trying desperately to ignore the pain. “Maybe I don’t need you,” you agreed softly. “But I want you, Dean. I want you in any way you’ll let me have you. Even if it’s just like this. Even if it’s only when you have time to spare to come and see me, to sleep with me. I’ll take it.” 

Dean’s heart ached, fighting back tears as his gaze softened, taking in the pain practically radiating off your words. He just wanted to do the right thing, but right now, seeing you so hurt because of him, sure as hell made him feel like it wasn’t. 

“You deserve a normal life,” Dean tried again, his voice shaking slightly as he tried desperately to get a handle on his emotions. As he tried to get through to you, to make you understand. “A house, a family, a couple kids. I can’t give you any of that. My life ain’t exactly easy, sweetheart. And at some point, you’ll regret being with me.” 

Something swelled up in your chest, burning hot and choking you as you listened to him. “I don’t regret a damn thing,” you insisted sharply, your words quick and defensive. “Not a damn thing, Dean. So don’t you ever say I could end up regretting choosing you. Not now, not in the future.” 

Dean gaped, sighing softly as he shook his head again, but you beat him to the punch. 

“And it’s not like I’ve ever really wanted those things to begin with, Dean.” You told him, voice softer now. “I don’t care about living the perfect life. I never have. You know that.” 

“I didn’t say you would have regrets now,” Dean insisted, taking a deep breath and crossing his arms as he stared down at you, taking the authoritative route, pain still hidden in his eyes despite his hardened expression. “I’m saying that you will, at some point. I know you will. Because you might think you’re okay with it now, but my life ain’t exactly sunshine and rainbows. You can say you’re okay with it, but you won’t be later on. I know you won’t. You deserve somebody who can give you everything you truly deserve, and I’m not that guy.” 

“Dean,” you sighed, the sound pained as you struggled to keep your tears at bay. But he lifted a hand and you stopped, closing your mouth. 

“I’m a hunter,” Dean said, his tone firm and gruff. “All I can give you is a couple nights out of the year. That’s it. Just some nights. And you… sweetheart, you deserve so much more than that.” 

Your heart ached, beating and bleeding in your chest when you realized your initial point wasn’t getting through to him. 

“Dean,” you pleaded again, your eyes searching his as you waited a moment to see if he would try to interrupt again. When he didn’t, you kept going, sitting up straighter in the bed, voice laced with a hint of agony and the desperate need to be understood. “I don’t care, okay? I don’t. Not anymore. I’ll take whatever you can give me without complaint, but I refuse to lose you like this. To lose seeing you in any way, even if all you can give me is a night or two every once in a while. I’ll take it,” 

You knew you sounded desperate, and it was everything you hated about those rom-coms your friends always loved to watch, but it was exactly what you were. Desperate. Desperate to keep Dean in your life in one way or another, however he wanted to be. 

For a moment, Dean nearly broke. The intensity in your voice was almost the chink in his armor, weakening his resolve but not quite pushing him over the edge. Dean had never had anyone be so willing to fight to keep him by their side like this, and especially not in the way you were doing it. You weren’t lashing out at him, yelling and demanding more from him than he could give. You were just asking. Asking if he would be willing to give what he could, and nothing more than that. 

And it seemed that understanding that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Because Dean knew he should call it quits and walk away, for both your sakes, but he found himself unable to. He found himself not wanting to. 

“Just…” you sighed again, the sound quiet and trembling as you broke your gaze from his and looked at your lap for a moment before returning your gaze to his. You swallowed hard, voice trembling and losing all intensity, falling back into a saddened softness as your brows furrowed. “Please, Dean. Don’t just walk away.” 

It was a raw, aching plea, and hearing it had shattered whatever remained of Dean’s willpower. Everything in him was screaming at him to run, to get away from you to save you from him and his cursed hands, but he just… couldn’t. His feet remained planted on the carpeted floor, his body moving of its own accord, hands reaching out to cup your jaw in his hand, soft skin against a rough calloused palm. 

“There’s just about a thousand reasons why I should walk away,” Dean spoke, his voice soft and trembling as he held your face in his hand. “But I… sweetheart, I don’t think I could, even if I tried.” 

You heaved a shaking breath, relief flooding the fissure in your chest like a temporary balm. Your eyes fluttered closed, a soft smile splitting your lips as you tilted your head up towards Dean. Daringly, you allowed yourself to lean into his palm, finding that his warm solid skin brought you a great deal of comfort. Reaching up, you let your hand cover his on your palm, trapping it against your skin for a moment. 

It was late, somewhere around 3 in the morning, and you knew he would have to go sooner or later. But at least now you had the slight assurance that, sometime soon, he would come back. It would hurt, but you would gladly take it over never seeing him again. 

Dean’s chest tightened at your small gestures, tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously as he stared at you. He knew that this wouldn’t last. That sooner or later things would have to come to an end. But still, part of him refused to let go. To just give up on one of the few solid, steady things in his life — one of the few things he could leave behind and know it would still be there when he came back — despite the risk it put you in. 

When you opened your eyes again, gaze soft and pliant under Dean’s, you could tell you were thinking the same thing he was. One day, this would end. One of you would decide that it was just too much, or maybe you’d find people who were better suited for you, and you’d probably never see him again after that. For now, though, in some small way, Dean was yours and you were his, and the unfortunate truth was that you were in love with a man who was too kindhearted to drag you any further into his life than a borrowed bed every once in a while. 

Despite it all, though, you would take whatever he was willing to give. With open arms and a forgiving smile, you would take however much of Dean Winchester you could get. 

Dean knew he was making all the wrong moves by keeping you around. Hell, he should probably be running for the hills right now, getting as far away from you, from this town, as fast as he possibly could. But seeing you staring up at him, warm and soft and pure in his hands, he could feel his resolve continuing to crumble. 

So, instead of breaking away and leaving you behind like his mind was yelling at him to, Dean stayed for just a little longer, his thumb brushing soft strokes along your cheekbone. His eyes raked over your face, gaze soft and grateful and all kinds of things swirling in his chest that he couldn’t put a name to. 

Love, A small voice within him called out, a soft echo from deep down inside his battered, guarded soul. You are in love. 

Dean could’ve sworn his heart stopped. 

After an internal battle, and a few more long moments simply staying by your side, Dean let his hand fall from your cheek as he forced his gaze to move to the analog clock on the motel nightstand, blinking a slow, 3:27am back at him. 

“I have to go,” he murmured, a soft sigh falling from his lips as he took a small step away from the bed.

Slowly, you nodded, voice just as small as you spoke. “Okay.” 

Dean watched you stand from the bed, the shirt you wore covering your thighs as you stood in front of him, chests practically touching. He wondered if you knew how badly he was tempted to keep you in that bed all night. 

He knew he should move. He should step back and turn around and walk right out that door like he was so used to doing, but he couldn’t. Part of him would remain with you until he came back again, and he didn’t want to let that go. So, he cupped your cheek again, pulling you a little closer, his temptations slowly taking over. Telling him to give in and throw you right back onto that bed, to hold you, touch you, feel you until the sun came up. 

“Dean…” you murmured, gaze softening sadly but making no real effort to push him away. “You should… you have to go.” 

He knew you were right. His logical mind knew you were right. But his heart and his soul were already weeping with the distance, and he hadn’t even left yet. If he didn’t leave now, he’d never be able to. 

So, he nodded once and reluctantly let you go, stepping back and licking his lips. “I’ll, uh… see you soon, okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, forcing your face not to show any negative emotions as you watched him slowly step further back. The only indicator that you were feeling anything at all was the immense oceans worth in your eyes, a raging storm brewing in your irises as you watched Dean continue backward until he was almost at the door. 

“Goodbye, Dean,” you said softly, a small smile splitting your lips, hoping it looked happier than you felt. 

Dean nodded again, silent as he watched you put on a brave face. He wondered, now, how many times before had you worn that same face, that very same fake smile, as he left and he didn’t notice. God, he felt like an idiot for not noticing. 

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” Dean replied quietly, sporting his own small, slightly saddened smile as he turned his back, reaching for the doorknob and twisting it open. He paused for a moment in the threshold, daring one last glance back at you, trying to burn your image into his mind to hold onto forever. 

You did the same, your eyes sloping intently over the curves of his side profile, the glint of moonlight in his pale green eyes, the soft spikes of his short hair, the silhouette of his jacket hanging over his frame, down to the slight bow of his legs in long-worn jeans. You soaked the image of him into your mind, always to look back on and never to forget about. 

Saying goodbye always hurt to some degree, but never had it been as dragged out as this one, and never had it come with conversations like that one you’d just had with Dean. A small part of it all had felt very… final. Almost as though, despite what you had both just agreed upon, you would never be in a room like this with Dean ever again. Like you would never feel his skin against yours again, never feel his lips on your neck, never feel him fill you and mold you to him and transform you entirely ever again. 

And you hated it, more than anything. 

Then, with sagging shoulders, Dean nodded once more and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Everything in him screamed to turn around, his instinct to go back to be with you gnawing at his gut with every step he took further away from the door and closer to the Impala. And he almost did. 

But his mind flashed with that sad smile you gave him, and he couldn’t stop as it morphed into pain, and his mind conjured up gruesome images that would haunt him forever if they came true. And the only way to stop that was to keep you at a distance. 

As painful as it was for Dean to leave, staying would only hurt you more in the long run. 

Still, if he could see the way you stood in that motel room, alone and shivering from the sudden wash of cold that came over you, staring at the door like it would bring him marching back to you, he wouldn’t hesitate to scoop you up and keep you at his side forever. 

But he couldn’t see you. He couldn’t see that hollow look in your eyes, the way you flinched slightly as you heard the rumble of the Impala spark up and slowly fade away with the distance it put between you and him, how it felt as though your heart was cleaved in two, an open wound in the very center of your chest, spilling agony from that familiar, Dean-shaped fissure in your soul and pouring out everywhere like it was blood from a wound. 

He didn’t see the way you tried to contain it, to pull yourself together and gather your own clothes, silent in your movements as you mentally reassured yourself that you would see Dean again soon. You would see him again. 

You had to see him again. 

Every day that passed after that first month marking the last time you saw Dean, you practically prayed that he wouldn’t be a coward. That he would come back at some point, even if it was just for his usual night of casual sex. It made you feel just a little pathetic, but you couldn’t help it. Dean Winchester was a drug, and you were addicted. You had gotten that first hit so long ago, and you’d do anything to have more of it. More of him. 

But that first month passed, and then the second, and then half of the third. It was the longest you’d gone without hearing from him, and you had started moving on. You hung out with your friends more and buried yourself in work and the occasional guy from a bar, but you never found it within yourself to take it further than a one night stand. Maybe you were just as bad as Dean was, but you didn’t dare let that thought linger for too long. 

You had given up on thinking you’d see him again anytime soon when the text came through, interrupting your half drank vodka cranberry and a story one of your friends was telling for what must’ve been the thousandth time. 

‘Glen Pines motel. Room 119’ It had read, short and succinct and catching you off guard, as his texts usually did when you received them. 

Still, it had heat pooling low in your belly and muttering a half-assed excuse to your friends, tossing enough cash on the table to cover your portion of the tab before you were slipping out of your chair and heading for the exit.

When you got there, Dean was, as always, waiting to answer the door, pulling you inside and shutting it immediately. He seemed almost crazed as he shut the door behind you, his green eyes wild as he took you in — dressed casually, but still a little nicer than he typically saw, some kind of gloss coating your lips and your eyelashes carefully painted with mascara. 

Relief seemed to course through you both, as though even being near one another was enough to feel like the first hit of whatever euphoric drug flowed through your veins. The mere sight of Dean cleared your mind and relaxed your body, and it seemed to do the same for him. 

You dropped your purse on the ground beside the door, stepping closer and pressing your chest against Dean’s, body aching for more as you kept your gaze firmly on his. 

Everything else seemed to disappear when you stepped closer, Dean’s hands flying to your waist, torsos flush and barely leaving any room to breathe. No longer could you feel the heartache, only Dean’s hands sliding from your waist to grip your ass, the twitch of his jaw as your hands slid upward to cup his face, and the crush of his lips on yours. 

The kiss was heated and desperate, as it usually was when you first got your hands on each other. An angry clash of teeth and tongue and spit, a fight to tangle yourselves together as fast as you could. 

Your hands slid down, gripping tightly to the back of Dean’s neck as he squeezed your ass twice and pulled you closer to him, his telltale signal. With practiced ease, you wasted no time breaking the kiss and jumping into his arms. He caught you easily as your legs wrapped around his waist, his lips pressing to your neck, hands holding the backs of your thighs in a vice-like grip. 

To Dean, this was his own personal slice of heaven. After not seeing you for months, not touching you or tasting you or feeling you, he was practically on cloud nine just having you in his sight. He promised himself after last time that he wouldn’t come back. That he’d spare you of the pain being around him seemed to cause, even if it was just because you cared about him and didn’t want to see him go. But the way you had pleaded with him, the thought of holding you in his arms and finding familiar, bursting pleasure within you… he couldn’t stop himself. 

And now here he was, nearly three months later, just like clockwork, laying you down on that cheap motel mattress, a growl rumbling low in his throat as his lips sucked marks into your neck and his hands slid up your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt and tugging it up over your head with little effort. 

Your legs tightened around his torso, easily pulling him closer to you, seeking his heat, his warmth — seeking the fire that only he seemed to carry, the only one that burned hot enough to satisfy you. 

Dean pressed his hips into yours, pulling a soft sound from your lips that had him smirking against your skin, his calloused fingers digging into your waist, kneading flesh and rippling goosebumps across the plains of your skin. 

The need within you burned hotter as his hands roamed your torso, grabbing and tracing and feeling every inch of you like a man starved, his lips drifting across your chest, leaving open mouthed kisses and trailing fire in their wake, your back arching and hips rolling in a natural, instinctive response. Just his touch was enough to have your pussy dripping, panties practically soaked as your need for him grew. It was like you were trapped in the desert, dying of thirst, and he was the only glass of water left in the world. You needed to have him. However you could.

You gasped as he rocked his hips, grinding against your clothed cunt as his breath turned ragged on your skin, fingers tracing along the underwire of your bra. When Dean paused his movements, you sat up a little, unclasped your bra, and tossed it aside. You’d learned fairly quickly that when it came to these exchanges, Dean enjoyed the foreplay but didn’t quite like the lead up to it. He wanted you both naked as quickly as possible, if he could have things his way.

A low growl rumbled in Dean’s throat as his eyes latched onto your bare chest, a gentle hand on your shoulder contrasting the animalistic look in his eye as he pushed you back down onto the bed. He slid his palm down to cup your breast in his hand, kneading the soft flesh as his mouth peppered kisses and small bites on the other. 

His free hand roamed down your side, reaching for the button of your tight jeans, popping it open easily and working the zipper free. Dean’s hand fell away from your breast, his mouth still moving expertly against your skin, both hands hooking into the waistband to tug the rest of your clothes off with very little effort. 

Dean pulled back to look at you, sprawled out across the bed with your calves dangling from the edge of the mattress, marked up by his mouth and panting, eyeing him with those lust-blown irises that could put him to his knees in an instant. He was quick with undressing himself, undoing his belt with practiced ease and shedding all of his layers in mere seconds. Before you knew it, he was crawling up the bed to meet your eye, elbows braced on either side of your head as he took a moment to admire you. Not your body, not the way he had marked it, but you. 

You giggled softly under his gaze, unable to fight the heat crawling up your cheeks. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean said, trying to sound casual as he shook his head and moved his forearm to brush a piece of hair from your forehead. 

“Are you sure?” You asked. He was rarely ever this soft with you. Hell, he rarely ever took this much time to bury himself inside you. 

“I’m sure,” he replied, his eyes staring right into yours. He dipped down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips, tongue prodding softly at your lips as he shifted his weight to his knees. You granted him access, letting him taste you as his hands fell to your thighs, tracing the skin before travelling down and guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. 

The weight of his cock resting against your slick folds was driving you crazy. It seemed to do the same thing for Dean as he rocked his hips once, twice through your folds before he pulled back, breaking the kiss and admiring you as he guided his head to your entrance, watching your jaw fall open and your eyes squeeze shut as he pushed forward with a groan, your walls stretching to accommodate his size. 

When you managed to open your eyes, Dean bottomed out inside you, still and waiting for your okay, you felt the breath leave your lungs. In the low light of the motel room — the moonlight and the lamp on the bedside casting a soft glow across his skin — Dean looked more like a Greek god than a human. The shadows and golden light stretched across his torso, accentuating the toned muscles and golden skin, sharpening the features of his face, speckling across the flecks of shimmering gold in his lust-blown green eyes.

You dug your heels into his back as your walls clenched around him, eliciting the softest of groans from his soft lips. When you nodded, hooking your arms under his to find purchase against the supple skin of his shoulder blades, Dean began to move. Slow at first, deliberate thrusts to make sure you were adjusting properly. His head fell forward, buried in the crook of your neck as one of his hands gripped your thigh, his other forearm braced above you on the bed, fingers tangling lightly in your hair. 

When he started to hear those soft, needy moans falling from your lips, his pace quickened ever so slightly, his thrusts deep and hard. He responded to every signal you gave, conscious or not. Every clench of your walls around him, every shaking sound that spilled from your mouth, every beat of your heart in your chest as he consumed you, and you him. 

“Fuck, baby, feels so good,” you gasped softly, blissed out and close to entirely unaware of yourself as Dean thrusted into you, filling you so effortlessly. As he stretched you better than any other man could. 

Dean, however, was a little more tuned into the task at hand. He heard you call him baby, practically whispering it right into his ear with the position you were in. It had his chest tightening, the feeling uncomfortable despite how fucking amazing you felt around him. And he was sure that if he weren’t so lost in you, he would have paused. He would have asked what you meant by using that name on him. But he was lost in you. So he kept going, never faltering as the sound of skin meeting mingled with your panting moans, filling the room and his ears, drowning out the sound of you calling him baby. 

He panted into your skin, moving a little faster as your nails dug into his back, the pleasurable sting spurring him on until he was practically slamming into you. Your moans reached a fever pitch, body wrought and arching beneath Dean as the pleasure overwhelmed you, claimed you, set you on fucking fire. 

“Dean, fuck, I’m close,” you moaned, your head tipping back, legs already beginning to shake. He responded to every single signal your body gave, his hand on your thigh feeling the tremble beneath the skin as he gripped it tight. With a shaking breath, Dean leaned forward to lay a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck. 

“Feel so good,” he murmured into your skin, his voice strained as his hand drifted up your thigh, ghosting over your hip and trailing to the spot where your bodies joined, hovering over your clit. “Such a good girl, sweetheart. Gonna come for me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice tight and stuck in your throat as he brushed his calloused finger against your clit, circling slowly, applying pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your fingers dug softly into his back, whining softly in his ear as he brought you closer to the euphoric precipice, seeking to toss you over into the crashing waves.

Dean groaned into your skin as your legs began to shake and twitch around his waist, his cock throbbing as he tried to keep his even pace. He was struggling now, urging you to come before he could even think about release. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he panted, his voice a low groan.

“Fuck, right there, Dean—” your voice was strangled, quiet and pleading as you spoke. The pleasure was unbearable, now, and with a soft, shaking moan, you were trembling around Dean as you came. It was unbearably intense, as it always seemed to be when you had sex with Dean. Your walls wept, clenching around him as your eyes squeezed shut and your fingers dug a little deeper into his shoulder blades. 

Dean always knew how to give you the pleasure you needed. The mind-wiping release, his body pressed to yours, singing high praises with soft touches and quiet sounds… he was the only one that could even come close to it. 

He came just before your walls grew too sensitive to his thrusts, pulling out and shooting hot ropes of cum over your lower stomach. His orgasm was just as intense, it seemed, as his body shuddered and shook beneath your hands, soft grunts falling from his lips as he panted into the crook of your neck. 

He pressed his chest to yours, panting heavily and trying to catch his breath. You were still out of it, still recovering from the mind-numbing experience. So much so that you began to speak without thinking. Reaching up, you brushed a hand through Dean’s hair, your other hand still gripping his shoulder blade. 

“So good f’me, Dean,” you murmured, your words soft and slurred as your mind recovered from being turned into mush. “So good, Dean. I love you so much,” 

It seemed that the bliss of Dean’s orgasm had done something similar to his mind, as he took a second to fully register what you had said to him. He tensed at the sound of your praises, the distinct declaration falling from your loose lips. Cold panic flooded his veins, the fear that he only ever felt when someone was in danger rushing over him and making him pull back. Pull out of your hold, where he only ever felt safe. 

When he was pulling away, coming to stand up, you followed. 

Clarity came to you the moment Dean tensed beneath your fingers, guilt sinking like a boulder in your gut. Sitting up on the bed, you ignored everything else and focused on Dean. That familiar deep cut fissure revealed itself again as you watched him get to his feet. 

“Dean, I’m sorry,” you apologised, voice shaking slightly. “I didn’t— I wasn’t thinking and I just—” 

“Don’t,” Dean finally spoke, his voice gruff and laced with something you couldn’t pinpoint. “Stop apologizing.” 

He began to gather his clothes, movements harsh and guarded as he tugged his pants back over his legs, then his shirt. Meekly, you ducked from his sight and followed, pulling your clothes back on with haste, the sting of embarrassment and rejection clawing at your brain, tearing it to shreds. 

Dean finished dressing first, but he didn’t leave immediately like you thought he would. Instead, he watched you gather your things, his gaze burning your skin as you shrunk away from it. You didn’t dare look at him as you clutched your purse close to your chest. 

You kept your back to him, shoulders tense and fat tears hanging from your lashes. Barely turning, you looked over your shoulder but kept your gaze on the ground as you spoke. “I should… I should go, Dean.” 

“Sweetheart…” the pain in your words alone was enough to make him regret the way he was treating you. He knew he was being selfish, damnit, but he didn’t want to hurt you like this. 

“No, Dean, you… you’re right. Maybe we should stop.” You said, the words stabbing like daggers at your heart even as you spoke them. It was painful to admit, but maybe you had gotten too deep into what was never supposed to be anything but sex. 

Dean didn’t speak. He didn’t even know what to say. How to convince you that he wasn’t upset, that he understood, that he wanted you to stay. All he knew was that he was being selfish. That he finally understood why you always wanted him to stay the night afterwards instead of just vanishing in the night. 

You finally turned to look at him, heartbreak written all over your face even as you smiled. Dean wanted nothing more than to cross the distance between you and scoop you up into his arms and take away your hurt. But he knew it wouldn’t make a difference, so he stayed put. 

“Goodbye, Dean.” You whispered, voice thick. And with that, you were just… gone. Slipping out the door and into a cab, you allowed the tears to fall as the cab peeled out of the parking lot. 

Dean was left alone in the oppressive silence of the shitty motel room, his heart feeling like it would break in two if he made even the slightest of moves. He knew he should be leaving, heading back to the bunker before the sun started to rise, even if that was hours away. But he just couldn’t bring himself to take another step when he was still processing the loss of one of the only good things in his life. 

You allowed yourself to cry in the backseat of the cab for a little while. The drive back to your apartment usually only took about ten minutes, and for that time, you didn’t even realise something was wrong. You were too caught up in your sorrow, lost in your tears and your pity party of one to notice that the cab driver was heading out of town, instead of further toward the center. 

“Hey, where are you going?” You finally asked, voice timid and polite as you wiped your cheeks. “Cook street is that way—” your voice died in your throat as you jabbed a thumb over your shoulder, cold dread washing down your spine. 

In the rearview mirror, your eyes met the cab drivers. But where his irises should have been, there was pure black. 

“You shouldn’t get into a cab that you didn’t call, doll.” The cab driver sneered, his maniacal smile telling you that he enjoyed how scared you looked. “You never know who’s behind the wheel.” 

A scream built and died in your throat as he smirked, pressing the pedal to the floor and revving the engine. The car jerked and you fell back into the bench as he floored it, heading onto the highway.

Dean made it back to the bunker just before sunrise. He hated how empty he felt when he pulled the Impala into the garage and made his way back to his room, making sure he didn’t startle Sam awake as he thumped his way down the hall. 

He hated just about everything, really. The way his whole worldview seemed to have been altered, tilted a little to the left and dizzyingly off-balance. It was as though your presence in his life, however fleeting, kept Dean stable. He felt nauseous, like he was constantly motion sick. Collapsing on his bed, not bothering to change his clothes or even pull off his boots, didn’t seem to help, either. The impact sent a rush of air upward, and the faint scent of your perfume stuck on his skin rushed Dean’s senses, forcing another rumble of heartache through his chest.  

Days passed like this, and Dean felt horrible for it. He was supposed to be helping Sam figure out how to locate a particularly annoying, up-and-coming demon that even Crowley had lost his handle on. One of those pesky Lucifer loyalists that didn’t seem to want to give up on the idea of freeing him from the cage. Again. 

Instead, he was sitting around, trying to find the motivation to get off his ass and do something about their current problem. Sam had clearly seen that something was off, but Dean had kept Y/n and that part of his life secret from his brother. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but once it started, Dean didn’t have the heart to tell Sam why he would go off in the night once every few months. Hell, he didn’t have the heart to tell Sam that he was even going anywhere. 

Four days in, Dean managed to plant himself in the chair across from Sam in the library and use his own laptop to help Sam do some research to find a way to stop the demon from getting his hands on an artefact that would help him spring Lucifer. He’d been there for hours, retinas burning from staring at his computer screen for so long, the words blurring and shifting, when his phone rang. He let it ring the first time, since the number was unknown and nobody who wasn’t important really knew the number on that phone, anyway. But then it rang again, and then one more time, and Sam was giving him a look that said, ‘are you gonna answer that?’ so, he did. 

And he regretted it the moment he put the phone to his ear. 

“Dean!” A male voice cheered, his voice laced with fake appreciation. “So nice of you to finally pick up the phone.” 

“Who is this?” Dean asked, his voice dropping an octave and rumbling defensively in his throat. “How’d you get this number?”

“A little bird gave it to me,” the man sighed. “You know, I don’t know why you just let her leave like that, Dean. She seems like quite the… active participant.” 

Dean’s heart clenched, lodging in his throat. He knew who the person on the other line was talking about, and about a thousand emotions swirled within him before he landed on his usual reaction — anger. He glanced at Sam, who looked at him curiously, before responding. “Who is this?” He repeated, his voice angrier and rougher. 

“I believe you’ve been looking for me,” the man replied casually. “Well, I found you first, Dean. And I found your little plaything, too. Man, I’ve gotta say, Dean, I see why you picked her. She’s quite the looker.” Dean’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t respond. The man continued. “Look, I’ve had a fun few days with her, but I’m getting bored. I thought she’d be more… useful than she turned out to be. So, I want to make you a deal.” 

“I don’t make deals with douchebag demons.” Dean growled into the phone, and the man chuckled. 

“You do if you want to keep Y/n alive.” The demon said, and Dean felt his entire body freeze, his muscles locking up. “Exactly. So, here’s what’s going to happen. I know you have the artefact I need in that bunker of yours. You give it to me directly, and I’ll hand her over in one piece. You can go back to doing… whatever it is you do to her, and I’ll raise Lucifer properly, like the dedicated son I am.” 

When Dean still didn’t respond, the demon sighed. There was shuffling on the other line, and the heavy creak of a door opening. Then— 

“Dean,” your voice cut through the line, sounding broken, tired, and thick. He could tell you were hurt, just by the wavering sound of your voice. “Dean, don’t do it, whatever they asked, I’m okay, I swear—” 

“See, Dean? Now you know I mean business.” The demon spoke, his voice oddly perky and professional. 

“You’re gonna burn in hell for hurting her.” Dean growled, but the demon only chuckled in response. 

“Been there, done that. You have 24 hours, or I slit her throat and bleed her like a stuck pig.” The demon responded, followed immediately by the click of the other line. 

Dean’s phone pinged with coordinates from the same unknown number moments later, and the growl that tore through his throat was practically animalistic. Rage built quickly within him, and he was half-tempted to throw his phone across the library and shatter it completely. But he needed those coordinates. He needed to get you out of there, get you back to safety. 

“Dean, what the hell was that?” Sam asked, pulling Dean out of his rage and back to reality. His gaze, suddenly defeated, met his younger brothers. When he spoke, his voice was rough and already sounding defeated. 

It was time to come clean to his brother. 

“They… the demon we’ve been looking for. He’s got Y/n.”

“Y/n?” Sam asked, the name not ringing any immediate bells for a moment before it clicked. “You mean Y/n from that poltergeist hunt in Topeka? That Y/n?” Dean nodded. “What does she have to—” Sam cut himself short at the realisation, at the hurt on his brother’s face. “We’ll get her back, Dean,” 

Dean shook his head, already feeling defeated. Of course, they had to have taken her. Of course, his involvement in her life ended up putting her in danger. “He wants the artefact in exchange for her. If we don’t give it up… he’s gonna kill her, Sammy.” 

You’d been tied up for days. It was the longest few days of your life, and you weren’t quite sure exactly how much time had passed, but you felt like hell. The only indication that time had passed was when someone came in to force feed you some sort of slop-like food, a glass of water, and leave again. Whoever had taken you hadn’t shown their face again, but a guy dressed in a sharply pressed suit with perfectly styled blond hair — a perfect vision of corporate Ken, if you had any opinions on his style — visited you far too often. 

Sometimes he would taunt you, pacing across your vision with his hands behind his back, spouting nonsense to you with what you supposed he believed was a charming smirk. He’d bramble on and on about some ancient thing, about his perfect plan, how some guy named Crowley was going to ‘regret ever trying to squash me like a cockroach under his heel.’ So far, you thought this Crowley person was entirely justified in that attempt. This guy was fucking annoying.

Other times, though, he would take his frustrations out on you in the form of what he called a good, old-fashioned beat-down. It was always painful, left you in tears and spitting blood and saliva from your busted up lips, but you always swallowed it down. You might not have been a hunter like Dean was, but you knew enough about his life to take a hit or two and keep your mouth shut. 

You didn’t understand why this guy had even chosen you to take over Sam. Despite what you wanted to believe, what you hoped, your relationship with Dean was transactional, at best. But you also knew, logically speaking, that the second this guy knew that you weren’t worth what he was asking from Dean, that he wouldn’t just let you go. Opening your mouth meant signing your own death certificate, so you shut the hell up and let him rough you up to feel powerful, and hoped Dean cared just enough to actually come up with a game plan to save your ass. 

The Impala rumbled imposingly through the streets of some backwater town in Iowa. The population count in this place — Dean didn’t bother trying to remember the name of the town, he had more important things to focus on — couldn’t have been more than a couple hundred, at most. Half the buildings were squat and falling apart, and the houses seemed to look even worse. 

Dean wasn’t focused on the scenery, though. Sam was using the map on his phone to navigate his older brother and the sleek black car down the roads, hoping to reach the other side of town to the address the demon had given them before their time ran out. The brothers had tried to work with what little time they had to formulate a proper plan, but they came up with their usual order of business — violence. 

They had hoped to have enough time to get some sort of decoy of the artefact, but that took time that they didn’t have. It was a flimsy plan, anyway, so Dean had resorted to what he knew best — hand the damn thing over, make sure the civilian in danger was safe, and then start stabbing. Sam had Ruby’s blade, and Dean had one of the many angel blades he and his brother had gotten ahold of over the past few years. Tried and true, violence was Dean’s preferred answer to his supernatural problems. 

He remained stoic and silent on the drive over — they’d taken off sometime in the night, and the early morning sun cast an innocent glow over the world. There was dew on every blade of grass, the air smelled fresh with the promise of life. Dean knew better than to believe that. He was a man that was about to walk into a warzone and pray that the enemy wouldn’t be the one to make it out alive. He was a desperate man that was about to kill what could very well be a small army’s worth of demons for one woman. In Dean’s eyes, though, she was worth it. 

Sam didn’t try prodding at his older brother for answers. He already knew he wouldn’t get any when Dean was like this. He knew, as he typically did, that Dean was blaming himself entirely for another person he cared about being put in danger and hurt by a demon. One too many times had he and Sam lost someone to the evils that they dedicated their lives to trying to take out. Whether due to unfortunate circumstances — or, in this case — someone twisting their arms just enough to take a defeat over a death, Sam and Dean had faced too many near-deaths and far too many losses.

Dean cut the engine a little further away from the location they were given to avoid getting caught out. Sam and Dean didn’t exchange any words, just a singular, determined look before the doors to the Impala creaked open and slammed closed. 

Sam carried the artefact under his arm — a chunky wooden box with sigils burned into it. Inside, wrapped in an old, slightly musty smelling flap of animal hide, was an utterly ancient piece of metal. It was warped and twisted beyond belief, similar to the twisted iron of outdoor railings in nice suburban neighborhoods. It was jagged on one end, like it had been melted off of another, larger piece. Through the rust, Sam had seen markings etched into it. He didn’t know what exactly it did, or why this demon truly needed it, and that irritated him. He was willingly giving up a potentially powerful, entirely unknown artefact to a demon. Sure, he and Dean would get it back by whichever means were necessary, but it still bothered him. Just a little. 

A woman greeted them at the door of a rundown, clearly abandoned house with a sinful smile, dressed like every corporate American office receptionist. She made a comment to Dean and then her eyes caught the box under Sam’s arm — her eyes widened slightly, almost imperceptibly, before her smirk turned even more sinister and she led the brothers inside. 

She brought them into the basement, which looked miles bigger — and cleaner, though still damp-smelling — than the rest of the house. Every demon trying to resurrect Lucifer needed a base of operations, Dean supposed. He counted at least seven demons in the basement, but there was a hallway across the room and off to the left — he had no idea how many rooms were down there, nor if there were any more demons in there or not. He felt a little trapped, but you were down here with them, somewhere. 

“Sam! Dean!” A voice called. From the hallway, a man around Dean’s height emerged. A quaff of perfect blond hair, a bright, cunning smile stretching his lips. He clapped once, eyes flashing black before back to perfect blue. “So nice of you to join us. And,” he checked his watch, “with just an hour to spare. I’m glad you showed, really. That girl of yours seems like she’d put up a fight if I did try to kill her, and I don’t enjoy getting my hands dirty.” 

“Alright, Corporate Ken, enough with the small talk,” Dean ground out, anger and frustration and annoyance swelling in his chest. He glanced at Sam, understanding passing between them, then nodded toward the box and then toward the demon.  

For the first time in what must’ve been days, you had more than five minutes to yourself. Nobody was watching over you like you were a prison inmate, and that dickhead had stopped ranting to you between punches. He had been stopped by a female, one of the few here, who whispered something to him and then handed him a rag. He smirked and wiped his hands of your blood, not saying another word as he stepped out of the room and left you alone. 

You were trying to strain your ears to hear something, anything — but the walls were too thick, and your head was still swimming. It was hard to keep your wits about you when you could barely breathe, let alone think beyond the throbbing in your skull. After the first day, the demon had at least avoided injuring your face too much. He stuck mostly to your torso, and while the whole ordeal was insane and traumatizing, you were at least grateful that you could still breathe, see, and speak. Even if taking a full breath sent sharp pain stinging across your ribcage, and your vision was often blurred with tears, and your voice was always choked with pain.

Then, a cacophony of rapid, muffled sounds reached your ears. It sounded like a nasty kind of fight, with screams and thuds and things breaking. Oddly enough, it made you feel relieved. It meant, hopefully, that Dean had come for you. That you were getting out of this damp, dingy basement. Out of this chair and these clothes, and to safety. 

You held your breath when the fighting stopped all at once, then the haunting echo of footsteps coming closer. You wanted to hope that it was Dean, but these demons seemed nastier than anything you’ve ever come across. Not that you’d ever come across a demon or had anything but the vengeful spirit that used to haunt your apartment to compare them to, but you liked to think that the point still stood. 

The door creaked open, your slightly hazy gaze locking on the gap as it got bigger and bigger. Dean stepped inside, and it was like neither of you could breathe. It hurt for you to take a full breath, anyway, but the utter relief upon seeing him had been enough to pause your entire nervous system for a moment or two. 

Dean, however, felt like he was dying inside. You were alive. And for anybody else,  it might’ve been enough. But the blood and bruises and overall tousled and tired look about you felt like an arrow to the heart. He was the reason you were hurt. He was the reason why you’d been kidnapped, taken and beaten for what he could only assume was fun for that prick he just killed. The demons must’ve known you didn’t know anything, and had rightfully decided to use you as a damn bargaining chip. 

This was Dean’s fault. You wouldn’t have been at that motel room if he’d had enough strength to stay away like he had planned to. You’d have been just fine, moving on with your life and living like a normal person, just like he wanted you to. Every single worry he had about you getting hurt because of him had been justified in that moment as he stared at you, broken and bloody. Dean Winchester believed that he was nothing more than bad luck. 

But then a broken sound clawed its way out of your throat, and Dean was rushing forward, untying the bounds holding your arms behind the chair. He couldn’t stand to see you so hurt, even if it was his fault. He was quick to cut through the ties on your ankles, freeing you in record time. 

Then, as carefully as he could manage despite his overwhelming need to be closer to you, Dean was hauling you up by your biceps, pulling you right into his arms and pinning you to his chest. One of his hands cradled the back of your head to his shoulder, the other splayed between your shoulder blades. And you melted right into him, falling into his warmth like you belonged there. Because you did. You were made for Dean Winchester, it seemed. Despite how deeply he tried to deny it. Down to the very atom, the way you folded into him and slumped against his chest… yeah. You were made for him. He was sure of it.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, his face buried in your hair. He didn’t care that it was greasy and dirty. That you were covered in blood, sweat, grime, and whatever else. He needed to feel you close to him. To know that he wasn’t dreaming and he had somehow managed to get you killed, too.  

“Why did you do that, Dean?” You asked, still pressed against him. You didn’t make any moves to pull away, and Dean took that as a good sign. “That was so stupid, you know that?”

With an extreme amount of reluctance, Dean loosened his hold on you slightly. He slid his head around to cup your bruised cheek, careful to avoid a small cut on your cheekbone, his green eyes shining something beautiful and emotional under the single bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling. He regarded you deeply, his breath stuttering in his chest as his thumb swept over your cheekbone, tracing the line of the deep bruise surrounding the cut. 

“Because it was you.” He answered, his deep voice rattling your heart in your ribcage. His words, raw with honesty and emotion, cut you deeply. “Because I’d do anything to keep you safe, sweetheart. Anything.” 

Your bottom lip, split open with a small cut by the corner, trembled as you stared up at Dean. His hand moved, and his thumb traced the plump curve of it. His breath shook in his chest, just like yours did, and you watched the preparation building next to the honesty and the deep, unwavering emotion in his eyes. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I wanted to keep you safe, and I still managed to hurt you,” he exhaled, the sound shaking as he took you in, hurt swimming in his gaze. “I don’t want to push you away anymore. Not if it means you’re going to get hurt, anyway.” He swallowed, his lips parting, before he forced the next words out of his mouth. “I love you. And I don’t know what the hell I would do if I lost you.” 

Your breath hitched. You had never imagined you’d ever hear Dean confess something like that. Then again, in all the times you had imagined where whatever relationship you had would go, you had always imagined it coming to an end. You never thought it would turn into something new. Something better. 

“I love you, too,” you confessed, eyes flooding with happy tears. Your lips split into a bright smile despite how it pulled at the cut on your lip and agitated the bruises on your face, but you just couldn’t contain it. 

Dean smiled, too, a soft, relieved laugh falling from his lips as he pulled you back into his chest, tucking his chin atop your head. 

You felt the fissure in your heart slowly begin pulling back together, and you knew it wouldn’t heal fully with just a few sentences. But the important thing was that it was beginning to close, and Dean was beginning to open up. And that was really all you had ever wanted.

=======

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𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐

ꔛ. meeting each other,

✧ who you are in the supernatural world .ᐟ

oh babe, you’re so not normal. not a hunter in the traditional sense—you’re a researcher. a lore-obsessed, caffeine-fueled, late-night-theory-scribbler. your chart (leo sun, aquarius uranus + neptune) screams “eccentric witchy bookworm with a sparkle in her eye and a stake in her purse.” you’re deeply curious about the supernatural, with a foot in both the mystical and scientific. a little empathic, a little psychic. your mars and mercury in cancer give you a gut feeling for danger and lies. you could hunt. you choose to study instead. you’re the brainy witch who sometimes rolls her eyes at all the testosterone. you burn incense in the bunker. you organize cursed objects alphabetically.

✧ what he's like .ᐣ

he’s the definition of slow, steady, and secretly tragic. taurus sun, capricorn moon, virgo rising? this man is held together with books, guilt, and green smoothies. but when he feels safe? he’s gentle, nurturing, wickedly intelligent. he debates morality while polishing a machete. he reads ancient texts for fun. he’s loyal to the end—but it takes forever for him to let you in. you’re sunshine and sharp comebacks. he’s thunderstorms in slow motion.

✧ first meeting + first impression

classic hunter research overlap. sam and dean crash into a case involving a haunted historical site, and you’re already there—sifting through grimoires and sipping lavender tea out of a chipped mug. he’s suspicious at first. asks too many questions. but then you quote a 14th-century Latin text perfectly, and he’s hooked. his first impression? “too pretty to be this smart. probably dangerous. probably important.”

ꔛ. friendship compatibility,

✧ how it'd begin ...

with quiet mutual respect. you trade notes. help each other decode old texts. he’s gruff, you’re glowy. you tease. he stammers. you leave sticky notes with affirmations on his laptop. he pretends to be annoyed. but he saves every single one.

✧ the friendship dynamic

it’s intense but soft. emotional safety with zero judgment. you’re the first person he trusts with the ugly parts. you defend him without question. he supports your weirdness without flinching. you get pizza after near-death experiences. you talk astrology while he files silver bullets.

✧ quirks + fun things

you both have nightmares, but you text each other weird memes at 3am to cope he calls you “professor” when you get deep in the lore you prank dean together by pretending to summon demons for fun. (he does not laugh.)

ꔛ. romantic compatibility,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

oh baby. absolutely yes. you’re fire and air—he’s earth and stone. you’d drive him insane, in the best way. friendship turns to love when you patch him up after a bad hunt, fingers gentle, voice soft, and he realizes he can’t imagine losing you. you make the first move. leo sun, venus in leo—you shine, and you don’t wait. he hesitates, then melts.

✧ the relationship dynamic

it’s slow-burn friends to lovers, with deep devotion and tension so thick it hums. arguments? only when he shuts down emotionally and you push him to open up. making up? soft words, forehead kisses, holding hands until the storm passes. grand gestures? all from you, babe. he just gives you the keys to the impala and calls that vulnerability. but when he finally really says “i love you”? it’s after you almost die. of course it is.

✧ love languages ♡

sam’s: acts of service (he’ll memorize your favorite tea, kill for you, and re-ward your apartment without asking) quality time (research dates and cozy silences)

yours: words of affirmation (you need to hear it. often. sincerely.) physical touch (hands brushing while reading lore, full-body cuddles after long hunts)

ꔛ. scenario ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ friends to lovers

you’re friends first. best friends. trauma-bonded in the bunker. he walks into your room without knocking. you steal his flannels. you two work cases like you’re mind-melded. he goes in with the brothers, you cover intel and witchcraft. sometimes, you go in together. you watch his back. he teaches you how to shoot. you enchant his weapons. you sleep in the same bed once during a storm. just for warmth. nothing happens. the second time? still nothing. third time? you kiss him in your sleep. he stops breathing. next morning, he avoids you. until you corner him in the library, slam a book on the table and go, “sam. just kiss me. i’m literally dying of tension.” he kisses you like you hung the stars. and just like that—you go from best friends to everything.

ꔛ. overall ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 9.5 / 10

this is a soul-level, cosmic bestie to slow-burn lover kind of thing. you challenge him. he steadies you. your chaos + his caution = a dream team. you’re sunshine and weird facts. he’s shadows and silent loyalty. together? you’re balance incarnate. it’s not flashy. not easy. but it’s real. it’s built over time, through trust, banter, and lore-stained hands. he’s the one you build a life with—quiet mornings, messy hunts, soft laughter in between apocalypse-level threats. you are his soft place to land. he is your unshakable ground.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

“Ain’t Nothing Subtle ‘Bout the Way He Loves Her”

The sun was dying slow and gold behind the Colorado hills when the Impala pulled up outside the Roadhouse. Dust rose soft around her tires like the place itself was exhaling—welcoming, wary, watching. It was the kind of spot that made your boots feel heavier and your shoulders feel lighter, if you knew what to do with a whiskey and had something worth bleeding for.

Dean popped the driver’s door, stepping out with his usual lean-and-stretch maneuver. The leather jacket creaked, the air smelled like beer, old pine, and maybe a dash of demon stink from some nearby town they’d just cleared out. But for once, his muscles weren’t tight with mission or guilt. Instead, his eyes flicked to the passenger door where she sat, legs tucked under her, hair wild from the wind.

“Y’ready for the madness?” he grinned, cocking a brow.

Y/N stepped out, slamming the heavy door closed behind her. “Please. I’ve seen you try to eat gas station sushi. I think I can handle your friends.”

Dean laughed—full and unguarded, the kind of laugh that made him look five years younger and a little more like the boy his mom remembered.

Inside, the Roadhouse was alive with the usual hum. Darts clinked. Glasses thudded. Ash’s ridiculous hair bobbed behind the bar as he scrolled something on his ancient laptop. Ellen looked up from a rag she was wringing out, sharp eyes landing on Dean. Then on the woman walking in beside him.

And like a switch flipped, her entire face changed.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Ellen said, a grin crawling slow across her face. “Dean Winchester, bringing a date into my bar?”

Dean instantly stiffened. “She’s not a date, she’s—”

Y/N was already giggling. “Don’t worry, Ellen. I know how hopeless he is with labels.”

That got a laugh from Jo, who popped out from the back room like she’d been waiting for the curtain to rise. “He’s definitely hopeless, alright.”

Dean groaned. “Great. A tag team.”

But Ellen wasn’t done. She came around the bar and sized Y/N up like a general inspecting a new recruit. Her eyes were sharp, measuring—but kind beneath it all. “You hunt?”

Y/N nodded. “My dad started me off with salt rounds and silver before I was potty trained.”

That got Ellen’s respect. She reached out to shake her hand.

Dean, behind them, tried so hard to play it cool. Just nods, casual, stoic. But his eyes betrayed him. Every second, he was checking Y/N’s face. Watching her reaction. Smiling like he’d swallowed the goddamn sun.

And Ellen saw it. Oh, she saw it.

⸻

An hour in and Dean had loosened up. The gang had made room at their usual table, drinks flowing, stories flying. Jo was trying to one-up Y/N with old salt-burn tales. Ash was explaining the finer points of demon detection with his “genius-level IQ,” which basically meant “I drink beer and hack things.”

And Dean?

Dean was floating. One arm over the back of Y/N’s chair, one leg half tangled with hers. He wasn’t even subtle. Whenever she laughed at something Jo said, he grinned like he’d won a war. Every time she reached for her beer, he was already sliding it closer.

Ellen stood at the bar, arms folded, watching the whole damn thing like it was a soap opera.

“You ever seen him like this?” she asked quietly to Ash.

Ash didn’t even look up from his screen. “Never. Dude’s whipped.”

⸻

Later, Y/N excused herself to the bathroom, and Dean got up to grab her another drink—leaving her jacket slung over the chair.

That’s when Ellen made her move.

“You got it bad,” she said, flat-out, wiping down the bar in slow circles.

Dean raised a brow. “What?”

She stared him down like a seasoned gunslinger. “Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. You’ve been grinning like an idiot all night. The only time you looked away from her was when you were blinking.”

Dean scoffed, scratched the back of his neck. “She’s cool. That’s all.”

Ellen leaned in. “You called her your girl three times already. And just now? You ordered her drink before she even asked. You don’t do that unless you’ve memorized someone’s whole damn soul.”

Dean blushed.

Actually blushed.

“Oh, man,” Ash mumbled from the end of the bar. “It’s terminal.”

Dean shot him a look. “Bite me.”

But Ellen smiled—soft now, not teasing. Just… knowing.

“She makes you happy, doesn’t she?” she asked.

Dean looked down at the bar top, swirling the condensation off his beer bottle with one finger.

“Yeah,” he said. “She does.”

And like some cheesy fate-orchestrated moment from a movie?

Y/N had walked up just in time to hear that.

⸻

He didn’t notice right away.

Not until she kissed his cheek when he handed her the beer, still warm from the bottle but even warmer from her lips.

He blinked. “What was that for?”

Y/N just smiled, coy. “Just… felt like it.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What’d I miss?”

Ellen chuckled under her breath.

Y/N leaned closer, her voice low and honey-smooth: “Nothing, baby. Just glad to be here.”

⸻

Outside, later that night, Dean had her pressed against the Impala, arms on either side, breath puffing warm in the chill.

“You heard me, didn’t you?” he muttered.

Y/N tilted her head. “Heard what?”

Dean groaned. “You know what.”

She laughed. “That you memorized my whole damn soul?”

Dean groaned louder, forehead thumping to her shoulder. “God, kill me now.”

But she pulled him in tighter, fingers sliding into the back of his hair.

“Not a chance,” she whispered. “I kinda like lovesick Dean.”

Dean grumbled against her neck. “I’m not lovesick.”

“Mm-hmm,” she teased. “Tell that to the three different people you told I’m the best shot you’ve ever seen."

“I stand by that.”

“And that I make better pie than you.”

“Lies. Slander. I was drunk.”

“And that you’d give up the Impala if it meant keeping me safe.” Dean stilled. Pulled back, looked into her eyes.

“I meant that one,” he said, voice low.

Her breath caught. “Dean…”

He leaned in. Kissed her soft. Then whispered against her lips, “Ain’t nothing subtle about the way I love you, sweetheart.”

⸻

Author’s Note:

Thank you for reading, you sinfully sweet sugar demons! If you ever wondered what it would look like if Dean tried not to be totally whipped in public and failed? This is it. Thank you for loving these soft moments with me, for believing in the kind of peace a hunter might dare to touch. Until next time, keep the pie warm and the Impala fuelled.

the look you gave him right before he leaned in. big glossy eyes, a sleepy pout drooping your lips, love and adoration melting the expression right into your features.

dean just... leaned in, and planted a kiss right on the curve of your lips, with nothing but a, "goodnight, pretty girl." he reaches behind him to pull the string on his lamp, casting the room into darkness, and then further into the dark when his eyes closed.

he thought that was it. donezo. over. a short story with a happy ending, prepping the both of you for another night of you completely entangled in his arms.

the weight of your body settling on top of him forces his eyes open, a little oof leaving his lips on an exhale. he blinks once, twice, three times to focus in the dark, and no, he'd been right with his first assessment: your face was nose-to-nose with him.

"what was that?" you ask, the innocence in your voice another thing that never failed to make his heart swell in his chest.

dean blinked once more time for good measure. "that was the lamp turning off."

your hand collides with his chest, just hard enough for him to feel it through his t-shirt. the corner of his mouth quirks in amusement. "no. the other thing. where you put your mouth on me."

now, he's fully smirking. he had no right to take advantage of your innocence like this, even if it was just to chuckle a little at your wording, but he couldn't help himself. he was sleepy, you were on top of him, and dean was nothing but a man, in the end.

"you want me to do it again?" he asks, tilting his head to mimic the confused stance of your own.

"no," you huff, in that unconvincing way that told him without being able to see that you were blushing. his fingers come up to pinch one of your cheeks and, sure enough, it was warm beneath his fingertips. "i wanna know what it was."

dean tilts his head up enough to brush his mouth against yours, his eyes searching the both of yours for any indication of hesitation. as usual, all he finds is the deep curiosity that makes him feel like putty. putty in your hands for you to play with, and you do. always do.

"that was a goodnight kiss," he whispers, just lightly enough against your mouth to feel his lips tingle at the slight pressure. "it's something you do when you love someone."

your hands cup his face before he can process they've moved, squishing his cheeks between your palms. "should i kiss you goodnight?"

yes, dean's head screams it at the top of its lungs, god, yes. but he's behaved, and civil, and honestly? if this was something you wanted to explore, he wasn't going to rush it. you were probably the one person who'd ever gotten dean to take a moment and slow down. "do you want to?"

"yes." dean could have wept. "and then i will go kiss sam goodnight."

dean could have wept — for a different reason. "no. don't do that."

"but i love him." he can hear the defiance in your tone, the fierce irritation that the conclusion you'd drawn from his words was wrong. your fingers curl into his shirt, your nose firmly pressed to his, and dean wished with all of his being that he had the strength to entertain your confusion better than this, but he's a little distracted by the feel of your legs framing his ribs and your lips tickling his with each word.

"different type of love," he tries to explain, even though his voice is a little strained and more than a little muffled through the smush of his cheeks in your hands. "the kind of love that makes you feel like you're gonna die."

you blink, taken aback. for a second, your hands on his face loosen, but then they're right back, puckering his lips like a fish with nothing but your little hands' strength. "like i'm gonna die?"

he lifts a hand between the both of you, tapping your chest. "heart races, thoughts full of the person, can't breathe." he tries to smile, and he must look ridiculous, because you laugh like the sun lives within you. "symptoms of being in love."

slowly, your smile mimics what his would look like if you weren't holding his face captive. it's bright and radiant, lighting up your face in gold. "i am in love."

"i know you are," he carefully extracts your hands from his face with a gentle grip, his eyes downturned to watch your mouth, so close but so far away, on the precipice of kissing him but not quite there yet, "and i love you."

the words leave his mouth in a breath. he doesn't know how long that thought has been trapped in his mind, begging to be set free, but now that it was out, he'd never been more sure of something. he loved you, and it set him free.

your head tilts down just enough to meet his lips, kissing him slowly but surely, with all the confidence of a girl who's done this before, even though he knows you haven't. you're attached to his hip, his arm, his life — you had no time to kiss anyone but him, he knew it, so where this skill came from was beyond him. but dean wasn't going to argue with it, not when you were warm, sat on his lap and holding his hands on his chest.

you break apart like you don't really want to, a huff being the first thing to leave your mouth, as if he personally had been the one extricating you away from him. "i like it." for the first time in your life as his personal little (pretty) leech, you sound small and uncertain, a confession whispered to the wind in hopes that the words don't get crushed by his fists.

"yeah?" he shifts a little beneath you, just so he can sit up and reach you a little better. "i like it, too."

"do we have to go to sleep now?" you ask, just as tentative, and all dean wants to do is sweep you into his arms and poke at your sides until you laugh and smile again, just to see his baby back, but this shyer version of you is beginning to capture his heart as much as the typical you does.

dean cocks an eyebrow. "you don't want to go to sleep? i mean, that's fine n' all, but..."

"you said it's a goodnight kiss." the authority is back in your voice, those beautiful lips in an aggravated pout. "so do we have to sleep?"

dean huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "you can kiss for fun, baby. doesn't have to be for goodnight. that's just... a variation of kisses."

"i wanna learn all of the variations." and by god, even if he wanted to, you spoke so strongly that dean took it not as a wish but as a command.

he's breathless, now, even though he's trying very hard to be the all-knowing instructor god you've always seemed to think he was. "you don't want to sleep." a question said as a statement.

"i already said it twice now." an answer said as an argument.

"just wanna stay up all night n' kiss me, is that it?"

you roll your eyes, another little gesture that makes him grin. you've always pulled his smile out of him like you had them in your back pocket, so easy to access. "is it not obvious?"

dean can't help it this time. he huffs out a bout of laughter, his hands closing around your thighs, and takes your top lip between his in a quick kiss. "god yes," he breathes into your mouth, and any exhaustion is gone and forgotten in the wind as your lips properly connect with his once again.

notes. this was long overdue!! hope you guys like it teehehe it was very fun to write. i hope the baby!reader hype has not fully died & u guys will still love this </3

Steve shuts his eyes in exasperation. “Sam. Just go get a coffee or something.”

“What? You practically dragged me out of bed at the ass crack of dawn and now-”

He stops abruptly at Bucky icy glare. “You know what, I am getting coffee. It’s too early for your drama,” he decides, exiting the gym with a non committal wave goodbye.

“Didn’t know you and Y/N were so close,” Bucky practically growls. He approaches a punching bag to keep from breaking his best friend’s face. Steve blushes, only adding fuel to his friends' anger. He raises his shirt to nose. “Do I smell like her? I took a shower this morning,” he wonders outloud. 

Bucky punches the bag so hard it goes flying from the ceiling, raining sand on the floor. Steve's eyes widen when he realizes Bucky didn’t even use his metal arm to do it. He quickly raises his hands in a surrendering position “Woah, it wasn’t like that! She sleep teleported into my room and I wasn’t gonna kick her out!”

Bucky turns to face him. “Sleep teleported?”

“Yeah, you know, like sleep walking but─"

“I get it Steve!” He snaps, running a hand through his dark locks. “I just don’t understand why she went to your room,” he mumbles, voice now much softer and a little insecure. He thinks of his and Natasha’s attempts to get you closer that he was sure were working. They even googled courting tips for fucksakes. Natasha is much better at flirting but Bucy is a good listener, remembering every little thing about you. If you liked Steve you would tell him… wouldn’t you?

The blonde raises a brow at his friend’s sudden vulnerability. “What do you mean?”

“I mean in this huge tower, with hundreds of places to end up, why did she go to your bed?”

Steve sighs in frustration, realizing the real reason for the brunet’s behavior. Jealousy. “I don’t know, Buck. She was asleep when it happened, it was probably completely random. I’m just glad she didn’t end up in the street or something.”

Bucky freezes at that, all the worst thoughts of where you could have teleported flooding his head. He’s suddenly grateful you wound up in bed with his best friend. How could he have been so selfish? And how can he protect you from your powers? Bondage? No, that’s just kinky. Maybe cyro? No, he won’t let you in one of those freaky test tubes. Too many bad memories.

“Buck? Buck?”

He’s snapped from his thoughts. “Huh?”

“I asked how long you and Nat have been sweet on Y/N?” Steve smirks.

Bucky feels himself blush. “What makes you think we’re sweet on her?”

“Well you tried to kill me a minute ago because you were jealous, did you forget about that?”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. Sometimes he forgets how much of an ass his best friend really is. “I wasn’t gonna kill you.” He shrugs, playing innocent. “I was gonna tell Nat you slept with Y/N and then let her kill you.”

“Steve what?” Natasha’s deep growl has both men freezezing in terror. Steve sends the brunet a pleading look. Bucky reaches out to his mate hesitantly, “now malyshka, it’s not what it sounds like.”

____

You’re having a nightmare but the pain is what wakes you up.

You’re on the floor and your head is throbbing and your heart is racing but wait, this isn’t your room? Where are you? Suddenly Natasha is in front of you, gently cupping your wet face. That’s when you realize you are in fact, crying. Well this is embarrassing. A sense of comfort washes over as you recognize the two familiar scents.

“Zayka, where are you hurt?” She asks as Bucky turns on the lamp so they can scan you for injuries. You shut your eyes at the sudden light. “My head.” The alphas share a panicked look. “Friday, health scan,” the redhead demands.

“Ms. Y/N has hit her head on the nightstand and is suffering from a grade one concussion. No emergency healthcare is needed. I suggest pain medication, rest, and icing the area of injury.” The AI answers in a soft volume.

“I’ll get the pills and ice,” Bucky decides, rushing out of the room. Natasha pulls you against her chest, mindful of your head. “It’s alright omega. We’ll take care of you,” she soothes. She suddenly raises from the floor without warning, making you cling to her in surprise, before she deposits you on the bed. She smirks at your dumbstruck expression. Despite the pain you’re in you feel your stomach churn at the show of strength.

“How’s the pain, baby doll?” Bucky croons, approaching the bed with full hands. You sniffle as he hands you some pills to take, washing it down with your favorite juice “Thank you, and not too bad. I’ve survived worse,” you answer, wiping your face. They look at you unconvinced.

The brunet sits on the bed beside you, “it’ll be easier to ice your head if you’re laying down.” Natasha is there to pull back the blankets for you even and tuck you in. Your heart flutters at their sweetness. Bucky gently places the ice pack on your head. You wince at the contact but sigh happily at the numbing effect. “Not too bad my ass,” Natasha scoffs.

You pout, trying to look serious but it’s hard in your current position. “It really isn't though. I’m just embarrassed I concussed myself. Plus I’m not wearing any pants.”

“That’s what you’re worried about? Your pride?” Bucky asks incredulously.

“Yes I am. Frankly, I don't have a lot to lose.”

Natasha shakes her head as she sits on the other side of you. “As much as I love your sense of humor, we were a little too worried about your head injury to notice your underwear.” That’s a lie. They both got a flash of your pastel cotton panties. “I can get you some pants if it would make you more comfortable though.”

You shrug. “No it’s fine, I’ve changed in front of you on missions before. I’m not really body shy.”

They share a heated look. They’re very familiar with your confidence but now is not a good time to tell you that they regularly fantasize about said body. Natasha holds back any sexual comments, remding herself that you’re only in their bed hald dressed because you’re injured.

“Well if it makes you feel any better you have great legs,” Bucky mumbles, eyes widening at his own admission. Natasha is shocked but somewhat proud of her awkward boyfriend. He needs to work on timing but baby steps. You grin teasingly, “really? This coming from Mr. Muder thighs?”

Natasha, who’s now slipped under the covers beside you, lets out a deep chuckle. Bucky’s face burns an adorable shade of red making you smile once again. “Yeah, get in bed, murder thighs,” Nat teases. He scoffs but lays down beside you anyways.

Sandwiched between the two most gorgeous alphas you’ve ever seen you resist the urge to do a little celebratory dance. As much as you don’t want to leave you also feel like you’ve bothered them enough. You sigh before forcing the words out of your mouth.

"I guess I should be going back to my room now.”

They look at you as if you’ve just suggested committing a war crime. “Printsessa, you’re hurt. Don’t you think you should just rest here for tonight?" Natasha coos, gently taking your hand in her’s. The small affection is enough to make you momentarily forget your argument. Then Bucky is shuffling beside you, retrieving something from the floor.

“Plus you can't go anywhere without this little guy, right?”

To your horror, he’s holding your favorite stuffed animal. The one you fell asleep holding. “That’s… not mine,” you lie very convincingly. Nat raises a brow teasingly. “Really? ‘Cause it’s not ours.” You put on a show of fake concern. “Oh no, it’s… a bomb! I’ll defuse it!”

Bucky moves the plushie away from your reach. “If I give it to you, you have to promise not to teleport away.”

“You want me to stay here with a bomb?” You ask, determined to stick to your story.

“Omega, we both know it’s not a bomb,” Nat interjects, cupping your face so you’ll meet her eyes, effectively making your brain short circut. Your face burns under her touch. “I’ll stay,” you softly promise. The alphas smile triumphantly as Bucky hands you the toy.

“We’d never make fun of you, zayka. Everyone has their comforts,” Bucky soothes. “Really?” You ask, looking between them. “Of course. I have a safety blanket that I won’t let anyone use,” he confesses. Natasha hums beside you, "and I do ballet."

“Really? Could you teach me?” You ask, looking up at her with excited eyes. She thinks of the way she was taught and clenches her jaw. No, she’ll make it fun for you. “Whatever you want, pretty girl.” You beam at her sweet words just as a yawn escapes your lips.

Bucky places a large hand on your waist. “I think the pills are making you sleepy, doll. Why don’t you get some rest?”

“Wait, I need to ask you guys something.” You focus on the green dinosaur in your hands but you can feel their gazes burning into you. “I don’t think I can embarrass myself anymore so I’m just gonna come out and say it… do you want to go on a date with me?”

There’s a horrible silence for a moment. Bucky looks at his girlfriend with pure happiness but she’s more hesitant to accept your confession, considering you just suffered from a head injury then took strong pain medication. She sighs deeply. “Zayka, we should talk about this in the morning─”

You barely notice Bucky pressing himself against you, afraid you’re going to leave. You look at Natasha defiantly. “No. I might have a concussion, and be on drugs, and not wearing pants, but I know what I want! So if you’re going to reject me just go ahead and─”

Before he can stop himself, Bucky cups your jaw and turns your face to him, smashing his lips against yours. Nat raises her brow, hardly surprised by her mate’s impulsive behavior. Still she can’t help but groan at the two of you kissing. It’s even hotter than she imagined. When he finally pulls away your chest is heaving and you’re looking up at Bucky with big glassy eyes. You already look so wrecked from just a kiss.

“Did that feel like a rejection to you?” He teases in a gruff voice, bumping his nose against yours. You shake your head breathlessly. “Um, no, but I think I should get Nat’s opinion too.”

The red head smirks, leaning in slowly just to tease you. Just as you begin to pout she surges forwards and takes your bottom lip between her teeth. You gasp at the light sting but she quickly soothes it with firm kisses. Bucky squeezes your waist from behind, gently mouthing your neck. You shiver as she pulls back, blinking slowly. You clear your throat,

“Yeah. That checks out.”

They both grin at your dazed reply. “You’re adorable, pup,” Bucky coos sweetly. Natasha hums in agreement, cupping your cheek. “You should rest now, zayka. We can talk more in the morning.”

“And kiss?” You ask drowsily.

She smiles, gently running her fingers along your jaw. “Of course, omega.”

You clutch your toy in your arms and nuzzle against Natasha’s breasts, pulling Bucky’s arm around your waist. Your bare legs are intertwined underneath the warm blankets. The last thing you say is a soft and sweet, “night alphas,” before drifting off.

Both of their hearts pick up at the title. You had never called them that before. Bucky tucks his head into your neck. He inhales your scent to remind him that this is real and not a dream. The two most amaizng woman he’s ever known in bed with him just seems too good to be true. He feels Natasha moving and look to see her texting with one hand.

“What are you doing?” He whispers against your skin. “Just telling Steve that the three of us will be taking a sick day.” She responds quietly. Bucky smiles at the prospect of a lazy day with his girls. “You think of everything, malyshka.”

“I know.” She brags, placing the phone on the bedside table. “Friday, cancel all alarms and don’t let anyone in unless the world is ending.”

“We should order her some fancy stuff for her nest, you know, like from one of those special omega websites. Oh, and lots of stuffed animals,” Bucky excitedly plans as he looks at your peaceful face. Natasha reaches over you to stroke his arm,

“Relax, dorogoy. We’ll have our whole lives to spoil her.”

____

The elevator ride felt like an eternity. He stepped out into the heavily guarded parking level, the security guard nodded in his direction, and pointed to a sleek, top spec Range Rover with blacked out windows.

She leaned over the bonnet, scribbling into a notepad. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned abruptly.

“Congressman, hi -” she began, holding out her hand. 

He didn’t take it. “You’re my driver?”

“I am,” she said cautiously, waiting for him to interrupt again. “Ready to go?”

He didn’t respond. 

Vibranium clinked dully against the metal of the car door.

“Uhh, that’s my seat?” She said, her lips pinched to hide her smile. 

He left the driver door wide open and moved to the rear door instead, sliding into the car without a word. 

“Thanks!” She chirped, hopping up behind the wheel.

The seat automatically adjusted to her height. He watched the mirrors shift too, suiting her position. 

She threw her notepad and phone onto the seat beside her. In the centre console, she’d wedged a water bottle and a half empty iced coffee.

“Can you even reach the pedals?” He couldn’t help asking.

“Good one, haven’t heard that before. Little ol’ me, great big hunk of a car… course I can reach. I have this poking stick, see - helps me push the pedals ‘cos my tiny legs just can’t do it -” she laughed.

“Right, I get it. You can reach.”

“Sure you’re done? Would you like to see my licence? Proof that I can drive stick? How about you jump out and make sure I can see over the steering wheel?”

He stared out of the window instead.

With a self-satisfied smirk, she watched him through the rear view mirror. 

“Seatbelt on?” She asked. 

“Are you always like this?”

“Yep. Now, any music requests?” 

His frown deepened. 

“Good, I don't want to hear them. Driver privileges. Hope you like 90s dance.” She waited until he'd caught her eye in the mirror, the horror crossing his face. 

And then she winked. 

The car roared to life. The V8 engine growled, low and powerful, but the smooth leather seats and plush interior barely shuddered. The tyres squeaked on the ramp and as the sounds of Faithless filled the vehicle, she pulled out into the steady stream of traffic.

The thumping beat reverberated through the speakers and the driver hummed along to the music, sneaking glances at the grumpy figure in the backseat. 

Bucky's misery was obvious. He kept his arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze fixed out the window, his jaw clenched.

The sound of the music was only broken by the occasional sound of him sighing deeply.

The humming grew louder until the track reached the chorus and the driver began singing along, full, off-key commitment.

Bucky couldn't help but grimace at her wildly out of tune efforts. She had to be doing this on purpose.

"Do you have to do that?" He asked shortly. 

"Do what?" She called over the thumping bass. 

"Can you turn it down?"

"Huh?"

"Turn. It. Down."

She reached for the volume dial. "What are you saying?"

"God, finally," he muttered. "Do you have to do that?" he asked. 

"Do I have to do what?"

"Sing along? It's awful."

"Oh. Well... I just like to," she shrugged. 

“But you can't sing. You're way off," he said bluntly, his tone flat.

She shrugged. “Isn't that part of the fun?”

“Says who?” 

“Oh I love this one!” She said gleefully, ignoring his question and turning the volume dial up again, higher than previously. “Love life and laughter is all I believe…”

Ahead of them, the traffic slowed and Bucky watched with increasing alarm, his brows pinched together, as the driver bounced and shimmied in her seat to the beat of the music, her hands either waving enthusiastically or clutching her heart like the song had cracked her open. 

“I feel your hands, your lips, the heat of your body

Whisper your love to me say that you love me

Please just love me down and never leave me,

I'm a dreamer-uh-uh-uhhhhh!”

“Kill me now,” he growled, yanking his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts and raised the phone to his ear. 

"Yo man, I was just about to call you,” came Sam’s voice, already full of smug amusement. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I heard you got yourself a new ride?" Bucky rolled his eyes at the barely contained laughter in Sam’s tone.

"News travels fast," he grumbled, watching her continue to bop in her seat. Sam chuckled on the other end of the line, clearly amused by the situation.

"How's that going for you?"

“How’d you think?” Bucky hissed, “How’d you find out anyway?”

"Let's just say, my sources are always reliable," Sam replied cryptically. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide a small smirk. “Pepper just told you, right?”

“Bingo.”

“That figures," he said.  

"Yeah, some of us have gotta be the grown ups around here,” Sam laughed. "So… you having fun?"

"I don't need a driver."

"A little louder, I don't think she heard you." Sam deadpanned.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don't need a driver," he repeated louder, making sure she heard this time.

“Pepper’s right, you’re a public figure now, man. You can’t just be tearing your motorcycle around like a feral cat.”

As Sam negotiated, the driver in question lifted her hand and flipped Bucky the middle finger.

Too busy flipping him off, she didn’t notice the traffic ahead slowing - and slammed the brakes hard.

Bucky lurched forward in the back seat, instinctively reaching out to brace himself, gripping the back of her seat.

"Oof, shit, sorry." She grimaced, easing to a more gentle stop behind the car in front.

He slumped back, indentations left in her headrest from the tight grip of his vibranium fingers. 

He tried to play it cool, acting like he hadn't been caught off guard.

"Watch where you're going," he muttered, his voice gruff.

"Sorry," she said, her eyes still on the road ahead. "These idiots don't know how to drive. I'm pretty sure they're texting."  

"You sure it's not your reckless driving that's the issue here?" Bucky retorted.

He went back to his call before she could respond. 

"I gotta go, I'm on my way to a meeting,” he told Sam, barely holding back a growl. “Y’know, if my damn driver can get me there in one piece. I should probably read the notes before I go in." 

"Enjoy the drive buddy, see you later," Sam cackled as Bucky ended the call with a sharp tap.

He leaned back in his seat, glowering out the window as the city whizzed by outside.

"You don't have to look so miserable," the driver said, her voice cutting through their uncomfortable silence.  

Bucky didn't respond, his gaze still fixed on the city outside.  

She rolled her eyes at his stubbornness. 

“Honestly, it's not the end of the world, having someone drive you around. You get more work done, you get to listen to my excellent music -”

"We're not talking about this," he muttered, opening the files he'd put on the seat next to him. “I'm sorting this out with Potts, your assignment will be over by the end of the day.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

They lapsed into a kind of truce, the radio mercifully turned down and the driver still singing along at a more acceptable volume. 

Her singing was the only nagging reminder that she was there. He tried to ignore her and focus on the files in front of him, but his concentration kept getting derailed by her off-key humming. 

"Can you stop that?" he snapped suddenly, surprising even himself.

"Youuu got it," she said quietly, falling silent at last.

Her smile faltered for the first time, just long enough for Bucky to notice.

A quiet sense of relief washed over him, but then, after a few moments an uneasy feeling settled over him. 

The quiet was too stifling. 

Without the white noise he found himself hyper-aware of her presence. 

He could now hear the rhythm of her breathing, the squeak of the leather steering wheel beneath her grip. He could hear the steady drum of her heart, a few beats quicker than a resting rhythm.

His focus sharpened on the sound of her pulse. 

He wondered what could be causing her heart rate to increase. Was she nervous? Excited? 

He snuck a glance at her, taking in the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled, the quick exhale.

Before he could ask, she brought the car to a smooth stop outside a towering building. 

"Here we go, first stop. I'll be here whenever you're ready to move on." She said softly.

Bucky collected his notes from the seat and shoved them into the leather messenger back that rested on his lap.

He exited the car without a word, taking a moment to take in the impressive building before him. Behind him, he heard her window glide down, the tinny motor sound imperceptible to most ears.

“Thank you,” she prompted him with a grin.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged without turning around. “Thanks.”

He didn’t turn back until he got to the revolving doors of the building, by which point he could see her huddled over her notepad once again. 

As if feeling his stare, she turned to the doors and smiled brightly, waving in his direction.

He ignored her.

~~~~

His meeting dragged on for over two hours. Irritation and fatigue picked at his brain and made his eyes itch. He felt dehydrated, hungry, and by the time he finally stepped out into the sunlight, his stomach rumbled in time with the traffic.

Out front, the Range Rover sat proudly - exactly where he’d left it.

Or rather, where he’d been left.

He could see her, either talking on the phone or - more likely - singing along to the radio.

He wondered if she’d even moved for the last two hours.

Seeing him on the sidewalk, she jumped out of the car and opened the rear door for him. Further along the seat, the drinks holder had been pulled down and inside sat a large bottle of water and a tightly wrapped foil… something.

 “What’s that?”

“Figured you’d be hungry. And thirsty.” She shrugged, closing the door behind him before he could respond. She slipped into her own seat and turned the ignition.

He could feel her snatching glances at him in the rearview mirror while he carefully peeled back the foil on what turned out to be a still warm burrito. 

“What?” He asked warily through a mouthful of food. 

“Don't talk with your mouth full. It's not becoming of a Congressman.” She teased. 

“Not a Congressman yet, doll.” He sneered. 

She pulled out into the stream of traffic into a gap he'd only have taken on his motorcycle. The car behind flashed its lights in annoyance but she just flicked her hazards on and off in thanks. Over the sound of her music, the GPS announced a delay ahead. 

“We're gonna be late,” he complained. 

“Have a little faith, please.” She grinned and took the next left, ignoring the directions on her phone. Twenty minutes later, her passenger fed and watered, and the traffic defeated, she pulled up at their next stop. 

Early. 

“Shall I say I told you so now, or save it for later in case any more rack up?”

“How about you don't say anything?” 

“Not going to happen. Enjoy your meeting, I'll be right here.”

He hesitated before getting out of the car. “You know, you didn’t have to…” he started quietly. 

“I wanted to.”

And that was it.  

Every day when he stepped out of his house, the car was parked up and waiting for him. And every day, the music was too loud, she talked too fast, too much and drove the Range Rover like she'd stolen it. 

Every day he threatened to fire her. And every day Pepper Potts told him to get his head out of his ass.

A week into his enforced new staff member’s tenure, he text her. 

Corner of Grattan and Bogart. Don’t be late.

Sam was in Washington heading north and had suggested meeting him part way. He picked up two coffees and waited for her, his baseball cap pulled low. 

He wasn’t scrolling his phone. 

He wasn’t really doing anything.

Just sitting. 

Waiting.

When he heard the low purr of the Range Rover pulling up, he stood. One coffee in each hand. She rolled down the window.

“You know it's Saturday?”

“What, no dramatic music this time?” he asked.

“It's soul Saturday, I thought I'd wait for you.” she grinned. “You want in or are you just here to judge my taste again?”

He climbed in and handed her the drink without saying anything.

She looked at it. Then at him.

“…You got my order right,” she said, half-suspicious. “How?”

“You’ve ordered it three times already this week,” he shrugged, like it was no big deal. “I have ears.”

She looked down at the cup. Her name was scribbled across the side. In his handwriting.

She smiled softly. 

Bucky stared straight ahead, pretending to study the road. She pulled away from the curb without saying another word, but the silence between them this time wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was familiar.

“So, where to?”

“Jersey, gonna collect my bike from the shop and meet Sam.”

“So this is a one way trip? And you couldn't just… jump on the train?”

“Potts said no.”

“Oh, and you always do as you're told,” she scoffed. 

“Occasionally, when it suits.”

She yawned into her coffee and fell silent again. “I mean, I probably wouldn't cross Pepper either.” She admitted after a while, before treating him to her singing once more. 

~~~~

Days later, with the sun dipped low enough to cast a golden wash across the buildings, traffic was thick, and for once she wasn’t weaving like a maniac. 

The music was low, piano versions of recognisable songs. Bucky had his eyes closed, head tilted slightly back against the seat. He wasn’t asleep.

He never really let himself sleep while he was on the move.

“Rough day?” She asked softly. 

He didn't answer right away. 

“It’s always a rough day.”

“You still showed up. That counts for something.”

He opened his eyes and glanced at her in the mirror.  

“I’m bored,” she said suddenly. 

He arched an eyebrow. 

“Then maybe pay attention to the road,” he muttered.

“I am paying attention. I’m also multitasking.”

He exhaled through his nose. A smirk, barely there.

“You want to pick the next song?” she asked casually.

He frowned. “What?”

“Music. You know? You can be DJ.”

“I don’t… I don’t really know what I like.”

She blinked. “You don’t like music?”

“I didn’t say that.” He looked out the window again. “I just haven’t had a lot of… say. In what I hear.”

There was something in his voice, flat, but not dismissive. It suggested years of noise he hadn’t chosen. 

Propaganda. Orders. Guns. Screams. Silence.

She swallowed, nodding slowly.

“Well,” she said after a second. “Let’s fix that.”

She handed him her phone, unlocked and open to her music app. “Pick anything. Go on.”

He held it like it might bite him.

“Not gonna lie to you,” he said dryly. “This feels like a trap.”

She laughed, not mocking, just easy and warm. “Worst case scenario, you pick something awful and I throw us into oncoming traffic.”

“Fair. What classes as awful?”

“Let's find out, shall we?” She wiggled her eyebrows. 

He scrolled hesitantly, his thumb moving slowly, like he was trying not to break anything.

Finally, he tapped something.

A slow, smoky jazz guitar slid through the speakers. She looked at him in surprise. “You just… picked that out of nowhere?”

“I didn’t just pick it.” He didn’t look at her. “I have been trying to adjust for the last few years. Sam's thrown a few suggestions my way.”

They drove in comfortable silence for a while. 

“…Not bad,” she murmured eventually.

His mouth quirked, just barely. “Yeah.”

She stopped the car outside his house.

“Get some rest, Congressman. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks, so I look like shit?”

She laughed sharply. “Yeah, right. As if. Look, it may not feel like it, but you’re making a difference.” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so.” 

He nodded tiredly and stepped out of the car. 

At the top of the steps, he turned, noting that she always waited for him to go inside before she left. 

It didn't stop him from checking that she was still there. 

~~~~

The events, meetings, townhalls, meet and greets were beginning to blur.

He stepped out of the building, tie loosened, shoulders tight. The black Range Rover was already parked across the street, perfectly aligned in a no-standing zone, hazard lights blinking innocently.

She leaned casually against the side of the car, sunglasses perched on her head, sipping an iced coffee with more espresso shots than he dared think about. 

“You’re early,” he grunted as he slid into the backseat.

“I’m always early,” she said brightly, climbing into the driver’s seat. “What, you just think I appear like magic?”

He didn’t respond, but she caught the faint twitch of his mouth in the mirror. 

Close enough to a smile.

As she pulled into traffic, he noticed they weren’t heading in the usual direction. “You missed the turn.”

“Not going home yet. I’ve got one more stop and then I have instructions to take you to Pepper.”

His jaw tightened. “You have another pickup?”

“Yup.”

“Oh,” he said, trying and failing to sound unaffected. “Didn’t realise you chauffeured other people.”

“Although you're technically my only client, and the most dramatic, I'm doing her a favour,” she said, clearly amused. 

He didn’t answer. 

Just sat there, seething quietly at the idea of her smiling and chatting with someone else the way she did with him. 

Someone younger. Cooler. 

Probably not traumatised and 100 years out of place.

The Range Rover coasted to a stop in front of a sleek private school entrance. She unbuckled her seatbelt and twisted to glance at him. 

“Back in five. Try not to melt in the leather.”

He grunted, but watched her go.

It wasn’t a man. Not even another client, not in the way he thought.

A moment later, she returned with a kid practically bouncing alongside her. The girl looked up at her with absolute adoration, and she responded with a warmth Bucky hadn’t seen before.

She walked the girl, Morgan, (it clicked a second later) back to the car and opened the rear door.

“You remember the Congressman,” she said by way of introduction.

Morgan clambered in without hesitation, sliding across the backseat until she plopped down beside him like they were old carpool buddies.

“Hi,” she said, pulling her seatbelt across. “You look less mad than last time I saw you.”

Bucky blinked. “Uhh… hi.”

She looked up at him, curious. “You still mad about her?”

He glanced toward the front, where the driver was watching them in the mirror with raised brows.

“...No,” he muttered. “She’s fine.”

“I know,” Morgan said matter-of-factly. “She makes the best lunchbox snacks. Sometimes she lets me drive in the driveway if Mom’s not home.”

“Don’t say that in front of people,” the driver said quickly, tossing her a warning glance.

Morgan narrowed her eyes. “Anyway, Mom said you were mad that she made you get a driver, and I said -”

The driver was hiding a smile now, fiddling with the GPS. “Alright, kiddo, seatbelt on?” She interrupted, “Get on with your homework, stop bothering Congressman Grumpypants.”

As they pulled away from the school, Bucky sat back. The heat of his earlier jealousy had died off, leaving him embarrassed. 

He'd been jealous of a kid. 

Not just any kid, Morgan Stark.

Morgan rolled her eyes and pulled a tablet out of her backpack, popping in earbuds and disappearing into whatever assignments awaited her.

He didn’t know what the hell was happening between him and the woman in the front seat. But it was starting to get harder to pretend he didn’t care.

At the office, Pepper Potts was exactly where he expected her to be, half-glancing at a screen floating in midair, tapping on her phone, eyes flicking up to meet his with a sharp, calm kind of clarity that always unnerved him.

“You’re early,” she said, without looking at the time. “That’s rare.”

“I wasn’t driving,” Bucky replied dryly.

That got him the faintest smirk. She waved a hand and the screen blinked away.

“She’s good,” he said, casually. Too casually.

Pepper tilted her head. “Morgan?”

“…Your driver.”

“Ah.”

He scratched his jaw, suddenly feeling defensive for even bringing it up.

“I didn’t know you were hiring clowns,” he added, trying to sound annoyed, but the words lacked his usual bite. “She talks a lot. More than Sam, and that's… a lot.”

“She does,” Pepper agreed smoothly. 

“Where’d you find her?”

“Hmm?”

“The driver.”

“Why?”

“Just curious.” He tried to sound disinterested. Neutral. 

He failed miserably.

Pepper gave him a slow, knowing look. 

“You never ask about people, Bucky. Ever.”

“She’s… unusual,” he muttered.

“Unusual how?”

“Drives like she’s in a Fast and Furious movie. Listens to the worst music I’ve ever heard. Talks too much.”

“But you’re still in one piece.”

“Barely.”

Pepper smiled. “You could’ve just said you liked her.”

His eyes flicked up. Sharp. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He scowled. “This isn’t… I  just wanted to know where you found her.”

“She interned with us a few years ago. Logistics. She's smart. Too mouthy for upper management though. Too good for it, in all honesty. She freelanced security logistics for a while, specialising in VIP movement, crisis response. Tony would’ve liked her.”

Bucky blinked. “Wait, she’s trained?”

“Extensively. Don’t let the coffee cups and dancing fool you.”

He blinked again. 

It clicked. How she always had them out of tight traffic. How she knew exactly when to pull up, when to back off. How she always parked near exits without seeming to think about it.

He felt a little stupid, honestly.

Pepper watched him closely. “She knows what she’s doing. And before you ask, no, I didn’t pick her to annoy you. That's just an added bonus.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She grinned again. 

He shifted his weight. “She ever drive for someone else?”

“Not like this. You’re the first.”

That meant more than it should’ve.

Pepper leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “Why don’t you just ask her these things yourself?”

He looked away. Jaw tight. “Not my business.”

She smiled gently. “You’re wrong, Bucky. It is your business. She’s in your life now, whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t answer.

Pepper didn’t push.

“Go home,” she said finally, turning her attention back to her screen. “And don’t fire her. You’d regret it.”

He looked incredulous, then it dawned on him. 

“She tells me you threaten to fire her every day.” Pepper arched an eyebrow. 

“I wasn’t really going to -” he started, then stopped. “…Whatever.”

He left without saying goodnight.

~~~~

The event had gone better than he’d expected.

A few speeches. Awkward handshakes. 

But people had listened. Some had nodded. A few had smiled. He could handle that.

It was easier when they wanted to be there to listen to him. He found it much harder convincing people who'd already made up their minds to dislike him. 

What he couldn’t handle was the crowd waiting outside.

Photographers. Reporters. Bright flashes already popping the second the door opened.

His chest tightened immediately. He knew this feeling, It started in his hands - both of them. 

Tight, twitchy, like even the coils and springs in his metal arm were tightening.

Then his jaw, clenching so hard his teeth ached. He froze in the doorway, half in shadow, half in the spotlight.

Too many faces. Too many voices, all shouting his name.

Winter Soldier!

Congressman Barnes!

Are the rumors true? Are you stepping down?

Smile for us, sweetheart!

That was a new one - they didn't usually call him sweetheart. He realised why. 

That last one wasn’t even aimed at him, it was aimed at her. Parting the boisterous group like the red sea. Appearing before him, still and quiet. 

And somehow, that broke the spell.

Before the tension could boil over, before he could even think about turning around and bolting, she stepped forward. Like it was nothing.

She slid into the space beside him, hand lightly brushing his arm, not grabbing, not controlling. Just grounding.

“You ok?” she murmured, almost under her breath. 

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t flinch either.

“Sorry folks,” she called sweetly. “Congressman Barnes is late for a call with Captain America himself. No time for pictures.”

Someone tried to shout over her. She cut them off without raising her voice.

“And no further questions,” she glared. 

He didn’t say a word until they were both back inside the car, the Range Rover felt like a little island of peace in the chaos.

She didn’t turn the music on. Didn’t start the car. Just looked at him.

“Better?”

He nodded stiffly, trying to force his pulse back under control.

“…Thanks,” he muttered eventually.

“Any time. I'm calling Pepper, you need real security. This is getting ridiculous.”

“It's fine, I'm fine.” He insisted. 

“No.” she said forcefully through gritted teeth once they were on the road. She sounded angrier than he'd ever heard her. “No. You don’t have to be bulletproof all the time.”  

He didn't say anything, but he felt the comment land, however off-the-cuff she made it sound. 

“And you actually do need to call Sam back,” she sighed. “That wasn't a lie. Any objections if I get us a little sugar rush?” 

She was in the drive-thru for doughnuts before he could reach for his phone. 

~~~~

She was unusually quiet when she picked him up the following day.

No radio. No singing. No bouncing in the seat. 

Just a distracted hum of energy, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

He climbed into the back as usual and settled in. 

She fumbled slightly with the steering wheel, then sat still for a moment too long before starting the engine.

She didn’t even check the rearview to throw a quip his way. Something was off.

She drove in silence for about ten blocks before he spoke.

“...You good?”

She blinked. Glanced at him in the mirror. “Me? Yeah. Why?”

“You haven’t said a single annoying thing today.”

That made her snort, but there wasn’t much force behind it. “Wow. That worried you?”

He shrugged, looking back down at the folder in his lap. “Not really. Just weird when things are quiet.”

She didn’t answer. They drove another block. Then he cleared his throat.

“I, uhh, got something,” he said awkwardly, reaching into his jacket. “For the… silence.”

He handed her a small, beat-up flash drive.

She frowned. “What’s this?”

“I made you a playlist.”

She blinked, stopped the car at the red light and fully turned to look at him. “You… what?”

“Songs you’ve played. Stuff I caught. Things you like. That dance crap. Some other stuff too.”

“…You made me a mix?”

He shifted, looking suddenly very interested in the pattern of stitching on the car door. “Don’t make it weird.”

She stared at the flash drive like it might spontaneously combust. 

The car behind them honked, making her jump. She eased the car into gear and set back off, then carefully, slotted the drive into the dash and started skipping through the tracks.

The car filled with familiar sounds. Her favourites, blended with a few odd choices that had to be his. 

Jazz. Old-school rock. One or two that made her laugh. The Supremes, show tunes, K-Pop…

“I can’t believe you did this,” she murmured.

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“It’s definitely a thing,” she whispered, half-dazed.

And for a few miles, she forgot to drive like a maniac. Forgot whatever had been bothering her. 

He kept seeing her in the mirror, like she was waiting for him to say something disdainful.

But he didn't. He didn’t look smug. He looked quietly proud. Like it had been worth the effort, just to see her stunned into silence for once.

By the time they reached his next appointment, she was singing along again. 

~~~~

The evening events were the worst. The events where spouses attended and made him look painfully single. 

His driver had delivered him home, shoved a Prada suit bag into his hand and told him she'd wait outside. 

“You could just wait in there,” he waved vaguely toward the front door. 

“Ha! No, god no that's weird. I'll be here.” She shooed him into the house, “go on, hurry up, you have thirty minutes.”

Forty minutes later he was battling with his bow tie.

“Up and then under,” Sam said, his voice muffled by his hands covering his face. “No that bit goes round -”

“Round where?” Bucky turned to where he'd leaned the phone so Sam could see. 

“Man, please go and get in that damn car. Your driver will tie it for you.”

“I need to learn…”

“You don't have time, you gotta get movin’. I'll send you a YouTube video later.”

“YouTube? C'mon, man -”

“Buck, so help me I will kill you if you don't get in that car. If Pepper gets on to me ‘cause you're late, I will throw you under that bus.”

“Yeah, yeah, love you too buddy.”

The faint beep of the handset let him know that Sam had hung up. By the time he made it outside, she was pacing by the car. 

“Jeez, thought you'd gotten lost! What took you so long? Pepper is blowing up my phone,” she wheeled on him, scowling, but stopped immediately on sight. 

“You any good with a bow tie?” 

She stepped closer and took it from him. Her hands fluttered nervously but she looped the tie around his neck and used it to drag him a little closer to her height.

“You ok?” He asked. “You were about ready to kill me but you stopped?”

“Fine, totally fine.” She tied the knot carefully and tucked the band under his collar. She stepped back after tying the knot, brushing her fingertips along the edge of his collar like she couldn’t quite stop herself. 

He caught the way her hands hovered for a second too long, like she’d forgotten what they were supposed to do.

“There,” she said, voice a little quieter than before. “You’ll do.”

He didn’t move. Just watched her. Her eyes flicked to the side like she was desperate to be anywhere else.  

“What?” she asked.

“I told you, you were scowling. Then I walked out, and you just… stopped. Like you forgot to be mad.”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice was softer now. “You're being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he asked, stepping just a little closer. 

Her breath hitched, just barely, but he heard it.

“Are you worried?” He asked. “About Pepper being mad?”

“No, of course not.”

“You don't have to be.”

“I'm not.” She looked up at him then, and there was something in her expression he couldn’t place. He squinted at her.

“Then what?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Instead, she turned on her heel and yanked open the car door. 

“Bucky, just… just get in before Pepper has both our heads.”

The silence that filled the car was different this time. Not the usual, comfortable quiet they’d eased into over the last few weeks. 

This was charged. 

He didn’t say anything. He wasn't sure he trusted himself.  

When she finally pulled up to the event, she shifted into park and twisted to look at him.

He leaned forward instinctively.

Her eyes dropped to his lips for a split second.

“You never call me Bucky,” he said, voice low.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, just above a whisper. “It just… slipped.”

“Yeah?” 

She didn’t reply, she stayed frozen, eyes on his, like something might snap between them if either of them breathed too hard.

And then…

The rear door opened abruptly, and a polite young valet with the worst timing beamed in at him.

“Mr. Barnes, we’re ready for you inside.”

Bucky stared straight ahead, past the driver, jaw clenched. A breath passed before he looked back at her. She hadn't moved. 

“Enjoy the party,” she said, neutralising her expression and making her voice light and even.

He stepped out of the car, bow tie neat, posture perfect. But his hands were still shaking.

He hated these kinds of parties on a good day. There were always too many people pretending not to be watching him. 

But tonight was worse. He couldn’t stop replaying that moment in the car. The way she’d looked at him. The quiet inhale. The feel of her fingers at his collar.  

He was halfway through a conversation with some city councilman when he realised he hadn’t heard a word of it.

“Earth to Barnes.”

He turned to find Pepper raising a perfectly groomed brow, two champagne flutes in hand.

“You’re a million miles away,” she said, handing him one. “Did I miss a memo?”

He cleared his throat and took the drink. “Just... tired.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. 

Her eyes flicked toward the entrance. “Your driver peeled out of here like someone was chasing her… know anything about that?”

His grip on the flute tightened so hard he could hear the faintest crack. He downed the contents quickly and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter.

“I think there's a tiny crack in that glass,” he told them before turning back to Pepper. “She did?”

“She did,” Pepper said dryly. “I hope you're not upsetting her.”

He didn’t answer.

The day started horribly; Bucky woke up at around seven in the morning from a particularly harrowing nightmare. He hasn’t had one of those in a while, so it was very unwelcoming. This one, unlike other nightmares he’s had, was terrifying in a way he’d never felt.

He knows they’re gone, that Hydra and its agents have been obliterated, but that doesn’t mean Bucky doesn’t occasionally get anxious over the ‘what ifs’ of any potential harm Steve could go through should Hydra get him.

This ‘what if’ manifested in the form of you getting captured too. Even if he and Steve haven’t mated with you yet, they both know in their bones that you were crafted by any gods that exist to complete them. And the thought of you and Steve getting taken from him is far worse than anything Hydra could ever do to him.

Steve had to shake him awake, and he hadn’t been able to stop crying long enough to explain what had happened. After ten minutes of shaking and sobbing into his mate’s chest, he was finally able to articulate the horrifying images that now plague his mind, Steve had held him close, and he had kissed his cheeks and forehead and hairline, all while cooing words of affirmation and love.

The day only got worse from there. After the dream, it started with small things; he burned his hand while trying to make coffee - then spilled the coffee all over his favorite shirt. He ran out of his shampoo and had to use Steve’s - and, listen, Bucky is fully convinced that he survived Hydra because the universe wanted them together again, but Steve could definitely use some better shower products. The whole ‘two-in-one’ thing just doesn’t cut it for Bucky.

But then they had to meet up with their teammates for a briefing over a mission that Bucky is really not excited about, and found out the original one-day mission was going to be three days. Three whole days without you? Luckily Steve is coming with him, but then he thought about you being without both of them and started getting anxious. Now, even though you all haven’t been together for long, and they both know you can handle yourself, they detest the idea of leaving you for an extended period.

They’d managed to sneak in a few texts to you. Wishing you a good day at work, sending heart emojis when you send them a picture of a cute dog you saw while walking to the studio - Sam and Natasha spent a long time trying to get the men to understand modern language - and sending you pictures of them while they were too bored to listen to Tony talk.

But then they went to a coffee shop intending to grab their coffee and rush back to their apartment to get a few things so they could pick you up from work and take you to the new ice cream shop that opened up a few blocks from your studio. Dark clouds came rushing overhead while they were waiting for their drinks, and they decided to wait out the storm in a corner booth.

But people were staring, giving them - mainly Bucky - nervous glances, and a few people at the table next to them ate quicker than someone usually would and then placed a wad of cash on the table before rushing out.

Suddenly the idea of getting ice cream doesn’t sound so appealing.

Steve noticed because he’s so attuned to his mate that he knows Bucky is dejected, Bucky is hurt, he’s tired. Tired of people still judging him. Tired of being accused of things that he had no control over. They didn’t stay long, deciding that getting soaked while racing home was better than being in a place that’s now making Bucky feel unsafe.

Bucky’s been fighting with himself ever since they got home and changed out of their wet clothes. He wants to spend time with you more than anything, and you’ve been excited about this date ever since they told you, and Bucky will be damned if he doesn’t give you anything you want. But he really doesn’t think he can handle being in public right now.

His body is hurting with how bad he’s trying to force the negativity out of his mind enough so he can enjoy being with you, but it’s hard. And Steve telling him that you’ll understand that he can’t go out breaks him. His fists clench tighter.

Bucky wants to be normal for you. He wants to go out with his mates and not get worried about getting less-than-friendly looks at the three of you.

“I’m going to call her,” Steve says calmly, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and pulling him in tight while Bucky’s body starts to shake with how badly he wants to cry. “I’ll call her and I’ll tell her that you’re not feeling well, but we’ll go to her studio tomorrow for lunch. Okay?”

Bucky takes a deep, shaky breath before nodding, trying his hardest to not blame himself when he imagines the look on your face as Steve tells you they have to cancel. Steve kisses his mate's forehead and then untangles himself so he can get his phone.

It doesn’t take long for you to answer, and Bucky can hear your chipper “Hi Stevie!” and suddenly he wants to cry harder. He also hears Steve telling you that Bucky isn’t feeling well and that they’ll come visit you tomorrow. You go quiet for a moment before asking Steve to pass the phone to your other Alpha. And when Bucky mumbles, “Hey, honey,” he knows you can hear that he’s holding back tears.

“Hi, Alpha,” Your sweet voice immediately fills him with warmth, images of your smile filling his head. “You’re not feeling well?”

“No,” Bucky clears his throat, trying to force himself to not feel bad about it. “I’m really sorry, honey. I promise we’ll make it up to you.”

You pause, and suddenly Bucky is worried that you’re mad. But before his mind can spiral into more negative thoughts, your voice - soft and shy - asks if he’s home. And when he tells you that he is, you simply say “good,” and then hang up.

Well, fuck. Bucky tries to convince himself that you’re not upset, but Steve can see that it’s not working well. And at his boyfriend's suggestion of a nap, he trudges upstairs, lying down in bed and wishing upon every star in the universe that you’ll forgive him.

____________

When you heard that Bucky wasn’t feeling well you immediately thought of the worst. Is he sick? Well, that doesn’t make sense, he’s a super soldier after all. Is he hurt? That’s a possibility, their jobs are tough.

Does he… not want to see you? As soon as that thought crosses your mind, you dismiss it. Bucky and Steve have shown over and over that they like you and want to be with you. The word ‘love’ flashes through your mind but you dismiss that as well. It’s too soon, right?

No matter what’s actually going on, you know you need to make him feel better. As soon as you hung up the phone you gathered everything you needed to make apple pies. But then you faltered, what if he doesn’t like apple pie? Well, you have things to make brownies, and you know both Alphas love them. So you took out everything needed to make brownies with the intention of bringing them over when they were done.

But then a thought popped up. Would they even want you in their house? There were a few times when you told them they could come inside your apartment while you finished getting ready for a date night, but they politely declined. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now you’re worried you might be crossing a line.

You’ve just put the mixture in the oven when you decide that you’ll just drop them off and then leave. You don’t want to make them uncomfortable, especially since Bucky isn’t feeling well. While the brownies cook, you run to your bedroom to change into somewhat presentable clothes. You don’t bother getting all dressed up since you’re not going anywhere but your Alphas’ place, and even then you won’t be staying long.

By the time the dessert is done and put into a container, you’ve talked yourself in and out of going several times. Finally, after several minutes of having a mild freak-out, you gather the courage to gather your things and get in your car.

The entire drive has you a little on edge, though you know you have to do it. Not necessarily out of obligation, but because you want to make your Alpha’s happy. They’re always doing little things for you; buying you new plush blankets, getting you food on their way to visit your studio, Steve had even given you a sweater that both he and Bucky regularly wear - fully knowing and hoping you’ll use it for your nest.

Those men make you happier than anyone else ever could, you relish in their praise, your whole body lit up in flames whenever they get all sweet on you - which is all the time, neither man can resist kissing you, hugging you, telling you how you’re the sweetest Omega to ever exist.

They make you happy, and you will do everything you can to make them happy too. You want to be the perfect Omega for them, to show them that you can provide for them too, and that thought is what fuels you to park outside of their house and gather everything.

Your confidence wanes when you get to the front door, anxious again that the Alphas would be upset that you came over. You don’t even get a chance to think about leaving because the door opens wide, and Steve stands there with a smile.

“Honey,” He says, giving you that same longing gaze he always gives you. His eyes travel down to the container you’re holding, his smile growing wider while you cast your eyes down to the floor nervously. “What is that?”

A part of you wants to laugh, you know his heightened sense of smell can already figure it out. You don’t though, you merely shuffle on the porch nervously.

“W-Well I - um… I know Bucky isn’t feeling well, and I wanted to drop off some brownies for you guys.” Your eyes suddenly go wide, a small panicked noise leaving your lips. “Which I just now realized is probably not a good thing for Bucky to eat right now.”

You kind of want to smack your forehead. You were so focused on trying to be helpful that you didn’t even think of what would actually help Bucky feel better. Sensing your growing panic, Steve hums softly, reaching out and taking the dessert from your hands.

“That’s really sweet, honey,” Steve purrs, transferring the container to one hand so he can take your hand in his free one. “Thank you.”

An unexpected squeak leaves your lips, warmth filling your body as you squeeze Steve’s hand and smile up at him shyly.

“Y-You’re welcome, Stevie.” Your voice is soft, nearly indiscernible except for your Alpha with his advanced hearing. “Um, just… I guess you can text me later and tell me how they taste?” It’s phrased as an uncertain question because you don’t want to make him feel like he has to, but you desperately hope he does. You need their praise more than air.

“You’re not staying?”

That question has your head snapping up so you can look at him directly, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you take in his equally confused gaze.

“I - um. I guess I just thought you wouldn’t want me to. I mean, you never want to come in my house, so I just figured you wouldn’t want me in yours.” Your voice comes out shakier than you’d like, and the hope that he’d invite you in is creeping up. “Which is fine! You - you don’t have to, and I don’t want to make you guys uncomfortable, especially since Bucky isn’t feeling well.”

Steve sighs, his scent souring a little as though he’s disappointed, and now you’re anxious over possibly saying something wrong. But when he senses your growing panic, he tugs on your hand until you follow him inside. And immediately, the aroma of both Bucky and Steve’s scent calms you down.

“Of course we want you here, sweet Omega.” Steve smiles at you again, pulling you further into the house until you get to the kitchen not far from the entryway. He drops your hand so he can place the food on the counter. The Alpha quickly moves toward you, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you into his chest. Plush, soft lips land on the top of your head, and they linger there for a few moments.

As though he sensed your arrival, Bucky comes rushing into the kitchen with a wide smile.

“Omega,” He says, walking toward you and Steve with purpose so he can wrap around you too.

“Our sweet girl brought us some brownies since you aren’t feeling well.” You can hear the smile in Steve’s voice, and they both release their hold on you so you can turn around and face Bucky.

Bucky goes silent, and when you place your hands on his chest you can feel how his heart rate picks up. And after a few moments of simply staring into your eyes, his smile softens, his body relaxing.

“Oh, honey,” Bucky sighs wistfully, falling into your embrace while Steve stands behind you with his arms around your waist and helping you not fall over under Bucky’s hulking frame. You don’t mind though, you’d happily die by being crushed under their weight if it meant you could touch them, and have them touch you. Caressing you, kissing you, adoring you the way only they can. And despite your earlier hesitation, you wouldn’t pass up the chance to brighten up your Alphas’ day for anything. And their grateful kisses and pleased rumbles let you know that you did just that.

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbles into your neck as he presses soft and chaste kisses to the area. “You’re perfect.”

You can’t help the nervous chuckle that passes through your lips, nor can you stop yourself from shaking your head, immediately trying to deny it. While you love praise, specifically theirs, you don’t really feel like you deserve it sometimes. How can these two perfect Alpha’s possibly be interested in you? You’re not too sure why they like you, but you try not to think too hard about it. You don’t want to overthink everything and spiral into self-doubt, which would then lead you to sabotage the relationship, and you absolutely don’t want that.

“I-It’s nothing, really. I just want to make you feel better.” Your voice is small and shy, and you cast your eyes downward when Bucky pulls away from you to look at you with such intensity that it makes your entire body go warm. Your heartbeat speeds up when Steve steps back too and moves so he can stand beside Bucky and look at you directly.

“It’s not nothing, baby,” Steve sighs, reaching out and placing a large hand on the back of your neck and turning your head upwards so he can hold your gaze, and it’s absolutely impossible to suppress the shiver that runs down your spine. Oh, how you want to feel his hands on… other parts of your body.

“It’s thoughtful,” Bucky adds, lightly squeezing your hips. “We mean it; thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” You say softly, smiling at both of them and reaching out to place your hands on each Alpha’s chests. In a quick and bold move, you lean up on your toes to place a gentle kiss on Steve’s lips, then move over to Bucky.

Bucky, however, decides a single peck isn’t enough. Steve keeps his hand on the back of your neck and angles your head so it’s easier for Bucky to slide his tongue along your bottom lip and take advantage of your surprised squeak by slipping his tongue into your mouth. He swallows your little gasps and sighs, snaking his arms around your waist to pull your body flush against his.

The intensity of the kiss comes to a halt when Steve’s stomach rumbles. You and Bucky break apart with breathless chuckles, turning to look at Steve’s sheepish expression.

“Sorry,” He laughs, sliding his hand from your neck to the side of your face, and he smiles wider when you nuzzle and kiss his palm. “We haven’t eaten since this morning.”

“I can cook for you!” You say quickly, surprised with yourself by how fast you were to offer. You’re not the best cook, but depending on what food they have you’re pretty sure you whip up something presentable. Plus, your inner Omega is just aching to please them.

“You don’t need to do that, honey,” Bucky says, stepping back but keeping one hand on your back. “We can just order something.”

“Please?” You ask softly, smiling up at him and using the fact that he can never say no to your pout to your advantage. “I want to.”

Both men sigh, fully knowing that they could never deny you anything you want. So, they both nod, stepping aside so you can go to their fridge.

“You can just make something easy, it doesn’t matter to us.” Steve kisses your forehead, then smiles as he turns to look at Bucky while you go about finding something to cook. Pulling him in close, Steve quickly kisses Bucky’s lips and murmurs, “Told ya she’d understand.”

____________

“Told ya she’d understand.”

Steve chuckles when Bucky playfully shoves his elbow into his Alpha’s stomach. And Steve absolutely cannot stop himself from kissing Bucky again. And one more time. He can’t help it though, Bucky was feeling so awful earlier, and seeing his genuine smile and sparkling eyes fills him with happiness.

“Shut up, punk,” Bucky mumbles with a playful roll of his eyes, wiggling out of Steve’s hold so he can go sit at the kitchen island. Steve follows him, muttering “jerk” low under his breath as he sits next to Bucky.

The two men sit side by side, both with love-stricken gazes and twinkling eyes as they watch you flit around the kitchen happily, grabbing things here and there. They aren’t too sure what exactly you’re making, but it starts smelling good in no time. But the underlying scent of happiness coming from all three of you is what really strikes Bucky’s heart.

And in no time at all the food has been finished, and you make sure to pile their plates full of the food.

“I know spaghetti is boring, but I added a few spices so I hope you like it.” Your voice is soft and shy as you present them with their plates, and your rapidly beating heart showcases your nerves. You’re desperately hoping they like it - maybe praise you a bit for taking care of them.

“We’ll love it,” Steve says quickly, getting off the chair and walking up to you with a wide smile. “We’ll love anything you make us, honey.”

The squeak you let out makes both Alphas chuckle, giving you such soft gazes that makes you want to bare your neck to them in submission. With that, Steve and Bucky take their food and guide you to the couch in the living room, being careful as they sit down while Bucky pulls you into his lap.

They take time eating, occasionally feeding you despite your assurances that you already ate before you came over. They don’t care though, because they’ll be damned if they don’t dote on you for making them feel better.

And when the food has been eaten, Bucky gives you a glare when you offer to do dishes. “You’ve worked hard enough, honey,” Bucky tells you, wrapping his arms tighter around you to keep you in place.

It’s at that moment that Bucky realizes that this, the three of you under one roof, on one couch, is what home is for him. With you in his lap and Steve cuddled into his side, he knows that he’s the luckiest guy in the world, how can’t he be? He has his Alpha; the greatest love of his life, and you; the sweetest Omega to ever exist who’s teaching Bucky how to be happy in ways he never thought possible.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until you make a slightly distressed sound, your hands coming up to cup his cheek.

“Buck?” Steve coos, bringing up a hand so he can run his finger through his mate’s hair. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky sniffles, shaking his head as he wipes his eyes, then takes hold of one of your hands so he can kiss your knuckles. He smiles, so soft and sweet and innocent, smiling wider when Steve presses a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s stupid,” Bucky says with a quiet huff and shrugs. “I just… Today was shit, like, awful. And I’ve been happy all these years with Steve by my side, but other than right now, the only time I can remember feeling this happy was when I was finally reunited with him.”

Bucky briefly glances over at Steve, giving him that soft and adoring look he always gives him, then looks back at you and holds your gaze.

“You make me happy, Omega.”

Your eyes go wide, a soft gasp escaping your lips. Because, while you don’t know everything about what’s transpired in their lives and relationship, you know that it must be a pretty big deal for him to say this. And it fills you with a feeling dangerously close to love, but you can’t help it. Bucky’s been through the depths of hell and back, and he deserves everything good in the world. And you being able to give him some of that goodness just makes you want to cry.

“You-“ You cut yourself off, clearing your throat to suppress the waver in your voice. “You make me happy too. Both of you.”

“Good, Omega,” Steve purrs, reaching across Bucky to give you a tender kiss.

And when you break away from Steve, you turn to give Bucky a kiss as well, and Bucky? Well, Bucky is pretty sure (re: totally confident) that he loves you. He knows Steve does too, which makes everything easier. Knowing that they’re on the same page about their feelings for you gives him reassurance that maybe this could work out.

He wants to mate with you, he wants to be with you in every way possible. And when you pull away and smile at your Alphas with that sweet and tender way you always do, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, you want that too.

So who can really blame him when Bucky asks, “Will you mate with us?”

From next to him, Steve doesn’t visibly react, though his heartbeat speeding up and the flush creeping up on his face tells Bucky that he wants that too - they’ve also spoken about it in length, so he knows he’s not just speaking for himself.

All the two men can do now is wait for your answer with bated breaths. It comes only a half of a second later.

“Of course.”

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