Am I Dreaming Or Is That You Harrington?

Billy could whip the young guys of Hawkins into shape better than anyone else could, and it wasn't just exercise. When he was on shift, the gym smelled like a rich man's personal collection of high-end aftershave, and the machines stayed spotless. You couldn't tell if it was because the young guys were trying to copy Billy or if they were acting out of pure fear, but you were grateful nonetheless for the lighter workload, but despised the growing tally of favors you now owed him in return; like covering for him when he was hungover or staying late at the last minute so he could finish a shift ridiculously early to get himself scrubbed up for a booty call. 

"You were late. Again." Billy's tone was dull, a toothpick hanging from his lips.

"My alarm didn't go off," you replied with a firm tone, double checking that the machines were safely turned off and clean, "you look stupid with that toothpick in your mouth."

Billy sneered and leaned against a weight rack, his eyes burning into the back of your head and slowly trailing down towards your backside. You hated this: the long stares, his stalking, and yet you thrived off it. Each glance gave you power, encouraging you to keep getting under his skin.

Since Billy joined the team, he had it in for you, starting with passing taunts and then flirting with you as if he was seriously trying to pursue you, and when the manager ever had an issue, Billy either threw you under the bus to save himself, or acted like a gentleman, and took the blame. You were the woman who easily chewed through the men of Hawkins and aimlessly spat out their worthless bones, yet Billy had you stumped; you couldn't read him like a book in the way you read the others.

"You missed a spot, Princess," he drawled, slowly walking over to you, his eyes grazing you.

You didn't give him the satisfaction of looking up. Instead, you tossed the empty and battered spray bottle into the bin and headed for the reception desk. "And you're missing your bedtime, Billy boy." Officially clocking off with Billy stalking behind you, your finger flicked the main switchboard, turning off every light in the studio. "Go home."

With the two of you being plunged into darkness with the only light being an amber glow from the streetlight peeking through the windows, Billy flashed his signature smirk and sucked his teeth; he loved the back and forth, the way you answered him back and acted as if he didn't get under your skin. 

"Make me," he challenged, inching closer with his chest nearly brushing your shoulder as he pinned you against the wall with nothing but his dangerous and seductive presence. "I've heard you've got quite the appetite for Hawkins men, but let's see if you're as... ferocious as they say in the dark with a man from California."

The air between you was thick enough to choke on, but you didn't give in, not yet. Instead, you let out a light laugh and rolled your eyes, looking him up and down, focusing on his lips. "You think you're so irresistible, don't you? It's pathetic."

"Pathetic?" Billy growled, reaching out with his calloused thumb, catching under your chin, and forcing you to maintain the eye contact you were trying so hard to avoid. "I don't think so, you want me so fuckin' bad, looking at my lips like that." 

"Must all be in your head, Hargrove", your breath hitching as his other hand found the small of your back, pulling you against him, your right hand trying to support you as it pressed against his hard abs.

Billy shook his head and scoffed, looking down at you getting flustered against his body, "Now that is bullshit, sweetheart. I've seen how you look at the men that walk in here, like they're a mouthful you're sick of before you've even taken a bite." He lowered his gaze and brushed your lower back with his strong hand, making you shiver "Yet you don't look at me that way, you look at me like I'm the only man who can satisfy you and your... hunger."

His hand on your lower back turned into a firm and possessive grip that grounded you, his nose brushed against yours, and you could smell the tobacco and a mint on his breath. "If you didn't want this, you wouldn't be holding onto me, now would you?"

Opening your mouth to dismiss him was useless; the sharp rejection died in your throat, and you glanced down at your hand, noticing that it wasn't flat but instead your fingers were curled into the fabric of his white vest, bunching it as you pulled him closer, closing the tiny gap between you. 

"Just admit it," Billy stared into your eyes, looming over you and catching the quick quivering of your lips, "you want me to fuck you so badly."

"Just shut up and kiss me, Billy," you whispered, finally giving in to the one man you swore to yourself you'd never go there with. 

He didn't need to be told twice. 

Billy's mouth crashed against yours, incredibly desperate and demanding as his tongue begged for entrance into your mouth, which you granted. You could taste the richness of his cigarettes and the fresh mint on his tongue, and he hoisted you up onto the desk with his hands tangling in your hair. It was clear that while you might have spent the summer chewing men up, Billy Hargrove was more than happy to be swallowed whole.

Billy's lips broke from yours and travelled swiftly to your neck, kissing lightly before sucking on your sweet spot, causing you to arch your back and moan softly. You could feel Billy's smirk brush against your neck, and he slowly pulled away, staring down at you with a deep hunger in his eyes. He stood there, doing nothing, just staring at you.

You scowled at him and huffed, "What are you stopping for?" Goosebumps travelled up your back and down your arms and legs. 

"I don't know what you want," Billy shrugged, his tone a casual purr, "guess you'll have to tell me." 

You rolled your eyes, "Billy, what you were doing is fine, now stop wasting time, I'm getting cold." As the night grew later and later, the studio always got cold, even in the summer, thanks to your high-quality fans and open-window policy.

"Tell me," he said, his purr turning into a possessive growl, "tell me exactly what you want, sweetheart." 

You were slightly frustrated and felt like a deer in the headlights; you weren't the type to beg, no man ever had you begging, but Billy couldn't get enough of this already, seeing just how powerless you truly were. Every other man followed you without question, and here you were, being the follower. Your cheeks started to burn, and you swallowed hard as Billy stared down at you, eagerly awaiting your response. 

Taking a deep breath, you finally gave in to him. "I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me, Billy." 

Billy took great pleasure in seeing and hearing you beg for him; he never envisioned you to be the type to fall apart so easily. "That's my girl," he growled. 

You had finally met your match. 

Billy started to remove his gym shorts and vest, carelessly tossing them across the studio. Taking his lead, you removed your gym wear and carefully dropped it onto the floor next to you. Your body trembled and you weren't able to figure out if it was the cool air or excitement for the road ahead.  

Lying further back on the reception desk, your eyes travelled down Billy's lean body and impressive abs highlighted by the moonlight. He removed his boxers, and his erect length slapped against him; his size didn't daunt you, and instead, you noticed a fluttering deep in your lower tummy, expanding to your clit. 

Billy's hand gripped his dick at the base, and he slowly started to pump it as a bead of his excitement dripped from the tip, his eyes explored your body, and as his eyes went over your breasts and down your stomach, you noticed he gripped himself harder and started to tug himself faster. Inching closer to you, you opened your legs in preparation for him, wondering how the hell you'd be able to take all of him in. 

With how slow Billy was taking things, you knew this wouldn't be the end of your begging. If you wanted the night of ferocious passion to unfold, you had to work for it; you had to sweat. 

"Billy, please," you whined, "I want you now." 

"You're picking this up quick," Billy bit his lip, lining the head of his dick up to your hole, "I'm impressed." 

Noticing that he wasn't going any further, you could feel yourself getting frustrated, as if saying please wasn't enough for him to go all the way, you were tempted to grab him by the hips and pull him into yourself.

"Fuck, Billy! Just give it to me already!" you hissed, blowing a stray hair out of your face. 

Billy pushed himself inside of you, and his head lolled back, mouth opening slowly with a low groan slipping from his lips. You weren't used to men of Billy's length or width, and upon initial contact, you had sucked all of the air into your lungs until Billy finally established his own rhythm. Exhaling deeply, your hands clutched onto the desk for extra support, careful not to knock any of the reception phones onto the floor, you could finally get comfortable enough to lose yourself in the highlight of the moonlight with Billy pleasuring you. 

"How's that, princess?" Billy hummed, "You like the feeling of my cock inside your tight cunt?" 

Billy kept at his slow rhythm, and it was killing you. You hated him teasing you like this, dangling his potential on a stick; you needed him to speed up, you were greedy and didn't care if he knew it. 

"I'd be liking it a whole lot better if you could speed up a little," you mumbled, suddenly realising what you had said out loud and hoping he wouldn't stop, get dressed and go home. 

Billy's eyebrows raised, and he let out a laugh, taken aback by your bravery to give him feedback, he grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you up from the desk, as you reached your feet, he quickly spun you around and pushed you back down onto the reception desk but this time your breasts were pressed against the wood with one hand gripping the end for support and your other hand was pressed against your lower back with Billy's hand still firmly gripping it.

Billy bent over you, his nose pressing into the back of your ear "You want me to speed up?" his breath ran down the side of your neck. "I don't think you've got what it takes." 

"Please fuck me faster, I can handle it, I promise!" you begged again, a frantic tone bubbling in your voice.

You could feel yourself getting wetter, and it worked in your favour. Billy pressed the tip of himself again against you, and rubbed himself between your folds, getting the head of his dick slick before he finally pressed himself inside of you again. This time, Billy didn't give you a second to regain your composure and almost instantly, he started to slam himself inside of you, his grip on your waist tightening so much you could feel his fingernails dig into your sides. 

Your moans were betraying your guard and crumming it down into ashes. You were a moaning mess as Billy continued to thrust and buck inside of you; the sound of his hard slams echoed in the gym, and you were thankful that the doors were locked and the cleaner had left before your locking up. Billy's moans were just as loud and repetitive, and he sounded like a man eating his very first meal after a long day of back-breaking, hard labour.

"Billy, please don't stop, you feel fucking amazing." You gasped, your nails scratching into the wood and your back arching. 

"I can get so much deeper inside of you in this position," he grunted, his curls falling in his face, "can't you feel it?" 

"Mhm," you moaned, burying your face into the desk, "I can feel it, feels so fucking good." 

Part of you didn't want this to end, whilst Billy kept himself busy ensuring that he made the two of you feel good, you started to debate if going back to your routine of other men chasing you was worth it. Sure, you and Billy weren't even dating; the two of you were probably not ready to settle down or even commit solely to one person, but he made all of this so exciting, so fulfilling, and you hadn't experienced such pleasure from a man in a very long time; the rest were painfully... mediocre.

Your warm and tight walls clenched around Billy's cock, strangling him, and with each thrust, he noticed you were pushing your ass against him, your cheeks rippling with each slam. Billy's hard work started to pay off, and you could feel your lower stomach knitting together and a familiar warmth creeping higher and higher. His cock gliding against your walls felt like hundreds of careful kisses being planted on your sweet spot. 

"I'm getting close, Billy," you panted, your lips desperate for water, "please keep going, please."

"You want me to make you cum? Are you going to cum down my dick?" he asked, his hand finally releasing its grip from your waist. 

"Y-Yes! Please make me cum, I want to cream down you so badly." Your pants turned to a pathetic and needy whimper.

You could feel Billy's hand crawl up your spine and tangle in your hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers, clenching his fist, and slowly pulling you by the hair off the table with your back still arched. Your breasts were finally free to sit naturally after being uncomfortable against the wood, and as Billy freed your sore wrist, his hand immediately attacked one of your breasts, taking it into his hand as his thumb rubbed circles around your hard nipple.

"Fuck, you're excited." He whispered into your ear, his lips grazing your earlobe. 

"Please don't stop! Don't stop, I'm going to-"

Desperate to have release, Billy drilled into you faster, and the mounting pressure finally split into pieces, the warmth oozing inside of you, and the tense knot finally falling into ribbons; you could feel your thick and wet release gush down Billy's length. Noticing that his grunts were becoming repetitive in quick succession, and feeling a twitching against your slick and tender walls, you took great pleasure and satisfaction that the man who toyed with you would soon be spilling his seed inside of you.

Billy could feel yourself dampening his shaft, and it encouraged him to keep going. He was tired from a long day of training and heavy lifting and could feel his knees buckling. He'd usually retire back to his apartment and soak in the bath with Epsom salts to recover his aching muscles, but having an orgasm felt like a much better reward.

Billy pulled you closer to him by your hair, your chin tilting upwards so your view was the ceiling; his hand squeezed your breast, and with one last frantic and strong slam, Billy's cum spilt deep inside of you. He immediately let go of your hair, but held on to your breast for a moment, with his legs wobbly and his sweat-covered forehead resting against your spine. Your hair fell and got in your face, sticking to your own sweat, your heart pounding and chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Billy placed a soft kiss on your shoulder blade and slowly slipped out of you, his cum dripping from both the tip of his cock and your hole. 

Without saying a word, Billy slowly retrieved his clothes and cleaned himself up. You watched Billy get dressed and noticed a dark and triumphant look on his face, his signature smirk tugging in the corner of his mouth.

You cleared your throat, "What is it?" you asked, your voice a little wavy.

Billy looked up at you, his eyes glazing over your still naked body. "Nothing," he let out a laugh, shaking his head, and walking over to the water cooler, pouring himself a drink into the plastic ribbed cup. 

"No, what is it?" your tone now firm, "Really. What?" You crouched down and picked up your clothes, throwing them on in a huff, feeling slightly embarrassed. 

Billy walked back over to you, brushing the stray hairs out of your face "If I remember correctly," he hesitated for a moment, passing you the cup of cold water, "the other month you said you'd never go there with me."

You woke to the soft weight of his hand on your hip, a careful drift like he was testing the surface of a lake for thin ice. In the dark, Dean’s breath warmed the back of your neck, patient and unsure, the way it had been ever since he came back from the demon thing with edges that didn’t always tuck themselves away.

“Hey”, he whispered. It sounded like a word he’d practiced. Like some nights he’d rehearsed it to the ceiling. “You awake?”.

You pretended to consider it, as if your body hadn’t gone rigid the second his fingers eased over the blanket. “Kinda”, you said, voice scratchy. The truth: you’d been awake long before his touch. You’d been waiting to see if he would even try.

His hand didn’t move for a beat. Then it slid to your waist, so damn slow. He had been so careful lately. Careful made your chest burn.

“Couldn’t sleep”, he murmured. “Was thinking you looked cold”.

“I’m not”. You weren’t cold. You were a live wire pulled too taut. The clock on the nightstand wore its red digits like a wound. 2:17.

Dean exhaled and you felt it, the way a cliff feels the sea. “Just… letting you know I’m here”.

You swallowed. The words were simple, but they landed with pieces of everything that used to be true, everything that used to be easy. His palm splayed over your stomach, light, afraid to spook you. Once upon a time, you would’ve rolled toward him and tucked your knees into his. Now the space between you felt crowded with all the nights he hadn’t been in this bed, all the things you hadn’t said when he finally was.

“Dean”, you said. You didn’t mean to sound sharp, but it came out like a blade catching light. You felt him pause. “Yeah”, he said carefully.

You slipped his hand off your waist and sat up. The mattress dipped and complained. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stared into the thin seam of hallway light under the door.

“Didn’t mean to—”. His voice was softer now, weary at the edges. “If you need space, I can give you space. Just… it’s been a while, you know?” A breathy huff of a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “I’m trying here”.

“I know.” You did. That was part of the problem. He was trying, and so were you, and everything still felt crooked.

The bed rustled behind you and you knew he was propped on one elbow, watching your back like it might tell him the story your mouth wouldn’t. “We can go slow”, he said. “Hell, we can go reverse if that’s what you want. Just—”. The words snagged. “I miss you”.

You closed your eyes. The room smelled like his aftershave. You’d missed that too. You’d missed him, even when he was right there. But a bruise had formed under everything, something that didn’t fade with time or apology or the way his thumb once knew exactly how to circle your pulse. You breathed through the ache of his words, through the small, stubborn hope they tried to plant in the cracked soil of your chest. You wished missing were enough. You wished it were a tool you could hold up to the rust and watch it shine things clean. Instead, it felt like a weight set gently on top of all the others. “You should sleep”, you said, because deflection had become a fluent language between the two of you.

He was quiet for a beat. You felt the bed shift as he sat up behind you, one knee bracketing your back without quite touching. “I sleep. I just… don’t rest.” He pushed a sigh through his teeth. “I don’t want you to be scared of me”.

You stared at the seam of light like it might widen and swallow you. “I’m not scared of you”, you said, and it was true in every direction that mattered. “I’m scared of what we pretend not to see”.

His hands found his thighs. You didn’t have to turn to know he was there, all white knuckles and trembling restraint. “Okay”, he said carefully. “Then let’s look at it”.

You almost laughed. If it were that easy, you would’ve carved your eyes open months ago. “Dean”, you said and it came out softer than you meant. A truce flag with a bloodstain on it.

“C’mon”, he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Talk to me”.

You could’ve kept it safe. Complaints worn smooth by repetition, the easy grooves: the nightmares, the quiet, the way the Mark had left a gravity you were both still learning to walk in. But the night had a way of stripping you down to the truth you swore you’d save for morning. “I can’t do careful like this”, you said. “It feels like being handled in a museum. Like if I breathe too loud, an alarm goes off”.

He let out a choked sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so tired. “I’m trying not to break you”.

“You’re not going to break me”, you said sharper now. “I’m not glass”.

“Yeah?”, he said, and something frayed in the word. “You flinch when I touch you”.

You swallowed. “I flinch because you do”.

“I don’t want to hurt you”, he said. “I keep thinking if I take my time, if i learn you again, I… I can… I can make it right”.

You let the words sit. They were beautiful. They were heavy. They were true, and not enough. He shifted closer, his breath grazing the slope of your shoulder. “Let me try”, he said, low, the plea of a man who had bent fate with his bare hands and still didn’t trust himself with softness.

You finally turned and faced him. His eyes, green and wrecked and stubborn. You could have leaned in and ended this conversation with the easiest kind of truce. You could have let him map and rewrite and pretend the terrain hadn’t changed. “Dean”, you said and your voice trembled. “If I let you touch me like that right now, it’s going to feel like lying”.

He inhaled like the room was suddenly too small for both of you. “So what—what do you want me to do? Back off? Push harder?”. He shook his head, a tiny, miserable motion.

“No”.

“Then help me out here”, he said, softer, but the edge of panic threaded it. “I’m running out of ways to be wrong”.

Your mouth opened. You could have chosen silence. You could have let it pass and bought yourselves another week of delicate choreography, brushing shoulders in hallways, pouring coffee like penance. But instead: “I messed up”.

He stilled. It was incredible how someone so large could make themselves into a quiet thing. “Okay”, he said after a beat, tone neutral, hands flat on his thighs. “What does that mean?”.

Your throat felt raw, like every word you were about to say had claws. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him, so you kept your eyes on the little strip of hallway light instead, watery now through the tears that blurred your vision. “It means…”. You tried to swallow, but nothing went down. “It means I did something I can’t take back”.

Dean didn’t move. You heard the slow inhale through his nose, the practiced calm he’d learned from too many years of holding the world up with his bare hands. “You talking about a hunt… or about us?”.

You laughed, wet and ugly, and wiped at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Not a hunt”, you managed with your voice shaking. “I wish it was”.

He was so quiet it scared you. That careful patience, the stillness that said he was bracing for impact and trying not to make it harder for you than it already was. You felt his eyes, the heat of his gaze on the side of your face, waiting for you to just spit it out. You squeezed your hands together until your knuckles ached. Your voice came out so thin you barely recognized it. “I slept with someone else”.

It felt like stepping off a cliff. The words hung in the air, heavy, ugly and… unfixable.

Dean’s hands curled into fists on his thighs. He didn’t move. Didn’t yell. Didn’t do anything but sit there, breathing through the kind of hurt that should have broken something, should have broken you. “For how long?”. His voice was rough.

You shook your head, staring at your shaking fingers. “Twice.. It was just twice. It… it wasn’t about him, Dean, I swear. I just—”. You broke off. There was a pressure in your chest, like your ribs were collapsing in on your heart.

He let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a groan. “Do I know him?”.

You nodded, miserable. “A hunter. The one from that job in Oklahoma”.

Dean sure did remember. His jaw tensed, in his eyes were anger, recognition, betrayal, all trying to fit into a body that had learned to carry too much already. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. Then he stood, slowly, every movement braced against the urge to slam a door or put a fist through the wall. He turned away from you, grabbing the first pair of jeans he found, dragging them on in the dark. Shirt, then flannel, the motions mechanical. Armor for a battle that was suddenly all inside his chest.

You heard his breath, ragged and furious, the kind of quiet that was always worse than shouting. He reached for his boots and paused, fingers curling so tight you thought he might snap the laces. “Dean…”, you tried, voice breaking. You wanted to say you were sorry, but the words were useless now, thin and cold compared to the sick heat rising off his skin.

He didn’t look at you, not once. Just stood there in the half-light, shoulders hunched, back turned, like if he faced you now he’d lose what little hold he had on the mess inside him. You watched the way his fingers flexed and stilled on his boot, as if he was wrestling the words down before they could break him. “Before or after I came back?”, he asked. It was almost a whisper, so quiet you barely caught it. Like he was praying for an answer that wouldn’t burn.

Your breath stuttered. You knew what he wanted to hear. You wanted so badly to give it to him, to lie and let him hold onto one small piece of safety in the fallout. But you’d come this far on truth, and there was no going back. “After”, you said.

He nodded, just once. You saw the way his shoulders jerked, the way the breath left him in a broken, silent exhale. You wanted to reach out, but your arms felt too heavy, too far from forgiveness. Dean’s hands pressed to his knees, then to his face. For a long second, he just breathed there, every inhale sharp enough to cut. When he finally spoke, it was without turning, the words scraping through clenched teeth: “Were you ever gonna tell me if I hadn’t pushed?”.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came. You shook your head, the shame almost too big to hold. “I wanted to. I just… I kept waiting for the right time. I kept hoping we’d fix things first, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad”.

He let out a small, humorless laugh, ugly and hollow. “Yeah, well. Guess we missed our shot”. He reached for his boots again, movements sharp now, yanking them on with the kind of anger that comes from hurt so deep it has nowhere to go but out. When he straightened, he still wouldn’t look at you. He hovered in the doorway, hand on the frame, shoulders a tense, miserable line. “I gotta get outta here before I say something I can’t take back”, he said, voice shaking but steady. “Don’t wait up”.

“Dean, please”, you whispered, the words tumbling out between sobs you couldn’t swallow. The hurt in your voice filled the room. He froze at the threshold, back still to you. For a split second, you thought he might turn around, might let you see the wreckage you’d left behind in his eyes. But all you got was a bitter, choked laugh, barely louder than the blood pounding in your ears. “I hope his dick was worth it”, he hissed. He grabbed his jacket off the hook. Yours, one you wore sometimes, falling to the floor and left behind. He didn’t bother picking it up.

You tried to stand, legs trembling, wanting to chase after him, to grab his arm and make him listen, make him see that this wasn’t about anyone but you and all the brokenness you hadn’t known how to fix. But the door slammed before you could even find your feet. The sound echoed through the bunker,down the concrete halls, through the library, into every hollow space the two of you had filled with laughter and secrets and soft, midnight promises.

You sank to the floor, knees pressed to your chest, crying, clutching your sides like you could hold yourself together. But nothing held. Not after this. That’s when you heard a quiet knock at the door, hesitant. It opened a crack, then wider, and Sam stepped in, hair rumpled, eyes heavy with sleep and something sharper underneath. He took in the scene. The echo of the slammed door and the way you sat on the floor with your knees hugged to your chest, crying so hard you couldn’t even pretend to be okay. “Hey…” Sam’s voice was gentle, cautious, but worried. He glanced down the hallway, then back at you, piecing it together in that careful way of his. “What happened?”, he asked, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loud might make you break further.

You tried to answer, but all that came out was another sob. You shook your head, words lost somewhere deep in your chest, buried beneath guilt and pain and the ruin of everything you and Dean had tried so hard to hold onto.

Sam knelt down, keeping a careful distance, not wanting to crowd you. He waited, giving you time, letting the silence be a shelter instead of a threat. “It’s okay”, he said quietly, voice so kind it only made you cry harder. “You don’t have to talk if you can’t. I’ll just… sit here, if that’s alright”.

You nodded, shaky, curling in on yourself a little more. Sam stayed, silent and steady. He didn’t push, didn’t prod. Just waited.

-

It was 4 a.m. by the time Dean found himself standing on Jodie’s porch, knuckles raw from clutching the steering wheel the whole drive. The engine’s ticking had barely faded when he rang the bell, eyes dark and jaw clenched, shoulders hunched like the world had gotten heavier on the drive up from the bunker.

Jodie answered in a worn flannel and sweatpants, shotgun hidden just out of sight but not needed. She knew Dean’s silhouette, even in the dark. She took one look at him, at the red-rimmed eyes, the set of his mouth, the tremor in his hands and all the years she’d spent mothering half the hunters in the country tightened around her like armor. “Dean”, she whispered. “Come inside”.

He didn’t speak, didn’t even try. Just brushed past her and sank onto the far end of her battered old couch. Jodie locked the door behind him, then stood in the half-light of her living room, not sure what to do next. Dean wasn’t a crier, not even when he should be. But when he was this quiet, it was worse. Worse than blood, worse than bruises, worse than any demon wound she’d ever patched up. She sat beside him and waited.

After a while, Jodie whispered, “You wanna talk about it?”. Dean swallowed, throat bobbing, jaw clenched so tight it had to hurt. But he didn’t answer. Not a word. She reached over, her hand gentle on his shoulder. “Whatever happened… you’re not alone, okay?”.

For a second, she thought maybe he’d break, say something, let the pain out. But he just pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and shook his head, holding in a hurricane.

Jodie’s heart cracked a little more. She didn’t need to know the details to understand the kind of devastation sitting next to her. She just did what she always did. Sat quietly, kept watch, and waited for Dean Winchester to find his way back from whatever hell he’d just been handed.

-

It was the next evening when you started packing. Not everything, just the things you’d need, just enough to keep from feeling the ache of absence every time you passed a shelf or opened a drawer. The rest you left behind, more out of hope than forgetfulness. A sweater here. Your favorite mug. The photo strip from that rickety Kansas fair, you and Dean making faces, Sam’s long arms just visible behind the curtain. You couldn’t bring yourself to take it down. You tried to keep your movements quiet. Tried not to disturb the stillness in the bunker that had settled in Dean’s absence, a hush that made your guilt echo back at you in every empty hallway.

You were folding a stack of T-shirts when you heard Sam’s footsteps in the hall. He lingered at the threshold, hand on the doorframe, looking every bit as tired as you felt. “Hey”, he said gently. Like you were someone fragile now. You kept folding, not trusting yourself to meet his eyes. “Hey”.

He waited a moment, then stepped into the room, voice careful but insistent. “You don’t have to do this”. You swallowed, hands shaking a little as you tried to smooth out a wrinkle that didn’t matter. “Yeah, I do”.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, watching you in that quiet, earnest way that made it so hard to lie. “He’ll come back”, he said. “He just… needs time. You guys always figure it out, you know that”. A bitter little laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “Not this time, Sam. Not after what I did”.

He looked pained, but he didn’t argue. He just reached over and put a steady hand on your shoulder. “You made a mistake”, he said softly. “But if there’s anyone who knows about coming back from mistakes, it’s Dean. He’s not perfect either. And you love each other”.

You finally looked up at him, eyes red, voice barely steady. “Love isn’t always enough”.

Sam’s expression folded into something sadder. “Maybe not. But leaving before you’ve even talked, before he gets a chance to figure out what he wants… that’s just running away”. You shook your head, zipping up your bag. “I’m not running. I’m giving him space. I’m giving him… a way out”.

Sam stood and pulled you into a hug before you could protest, holding you tight, safe. “You’re still family”, he murmured. “Whatever happens, that doesn’t change”. You squeezed him back, a lump forming in your throat. When you pulled away, he wiped a stray tear from your cheek, awkward and gentle. “If he calls, or comes back—will you let me know?”, you asked, voice small. Sam nodded. “You’ll be the first to know”.

You shouldered your bag and took one last look around the room, at the little pieces of a life you’d built and broken here. Then you walked out of the bunker.

-

It wasn’t until the next afternoon that Jodie stopped giving Dean space. She’d watched him all morning, watched him wander her house like a ghost, not touching anything, not even sitting, just pacing between the living room and the kitchen and the porch, the same ache in his eyes no matter where he went. He hadn’t slept. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper than usual, his movements heavier. He hadn’t eaten either, the plate she’d left on the coffee table the night before was still untouched, cold scrambled eggs and toast. Dean Winchester, who always found room for pie, for burgers, for something, wouldn’t even look at food.

Jodie tried to let him be. She really did. But by afternoon, the sun hanging low and heavy in her kitchen window, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She found him out back, standing on her porch, arms crossed tight over his chest. He stared out at her little yard, jaw set, eyes so distant she wondered if he saw any of it. She walked up quietly, careful not to startle him. “Dean”, she said, her voice as gentle as she could make it. “You’ve got to eat something”.

He didn’t answer right away, just swallowed. For a second she thought he might snap at her. Old habits, pain lashing out like it always did. But when he finally looked at her, he just looked tired. Young, even, in a way that made her want to wrap him in quilt. “I’m not hungry”, he muttered, voice hoarse.

“I know”, she said softly. “But you need to anyway”.

Dean shook his head, pressing a palm over his eyes like he could hold everything in if he just tried hard enough. “Can’t, Jodie. Can’t… can’t eat, can’t sleep. Feels like my whole body’s just…”. He trailed off, searching for words and coming up empty.

Jodie stood with him for a while. She let his silence settle, not rushing him, she’d learned a long time ago that Winchester men came apart slow, if they came apart at all.

After a minute, she spoke again. “Dean, you wanna tell me what happened?”. There was no pressure, no expectation, just an open door.

Dean pressed the heel of his hand harder against his brow, fighting the urge to flinch at the question. His throat worked around the words for a long moment, jaw tight, and Jodie waited him out, as patient as the sunrise. Finally, he let his hand fall, staring at the peeling paint on the porch rail. “I screwed up”, he said. “Not just me. Her too. But I… I wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not for anyone”. He let out a bitter breath, shaking his head. “Seven years, and she just… She was with someone else. After I got back. After everything”.

Jodie’s heart broke for him, but she didn’t say I’m sorry, didn’t offer him pity. She just stepped closer, leaning her hip against the rail beside him. “Dean, you know that’s not about being enough. Sometimes people get lost, and hurt each other trying to find their way out. Doesn’t mean it’s your fault”.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Then why’s it feel like it is?”. His voice cracked, raw and small. “Why do I feel like I just—keep screwing up the people I love?”.

Jodie shook her head, gentle but certain. “You haven’t screwed anybody up, Dean. Life gets messy. Pain makes people do things they regret. But you are not a failure. Not for this. Not ever”.

Dean blinked hard, looking away, the tips of his ears flushed with shame and grief he couldn’t shake. “I don’t know what to do, Jodie. I just… I don’t even know where to go from here”.

She reached out, squeezing his arm. “One step at a time. First, you come inside and try to eat. Then maybe you get some sleep, even if it’s just for a little while. The rest…”, she smiled softly, eyes kind, “You don’t have to figure it all out today”.

-

Two days later, Dean finally pointed the Impala south and drove home. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours at Jodie’s, but he’d eaten a little, and she’d given him the kind of tough, gentle pep talk that made him realize there was nothing left to do but face what waited for him… whatever the hell that was now.

The closer he got to the bunker, the tighter his chest felt. He didn’t know what he was going to say, or if he’d even be able to get the words out without choking on anger, on hurt, on something that didn’t have a name. Mostly, he was terrified of seeing you, of looking you in the eyes and not recognizing what he saw there, or worse, recognizing all of it and knowing nothing would ever be the same.

He parked the Impala and sat there for a long minute, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the heavy steel door like it might bite. The bunker looked the same as always, but to Dean it felt different, like coming back to a house someone else had emptied while you were gone.

Eventually he forced himself inside. He half-expected to hear the scrape of your footsteps in the kitchen or the low hum of your favorite music echoing from the library. But there was nothing but the echo of his own boots and the steady drip of a leaking pipe somewhere down the hall. “Hello?”. His voice sounded strange, small and hollow against the bunker’s stone walls. He checked your room. The bed was made, a few of your things gone, but not all. Enough left behind to make his heart twist, to remind him that you hadn’t just walked away. You’d packed in a hurry, or with hope, or maybe with so much pain you couldn’t bear to touch it all.

He found Sam in the kitchen, half a sandwich untouched on the table, laptop open to research that didn’t matter anymore.

Sam looked up, worry and relief crashing together in his face. “Hey. You okay?”.

Dean couldn’t quite meet his brother’s eyes. “Where is she?”.

Sam hesitated. “She left three days ago. Said you needed space. I tried to talk her out of it, but…”. He shook his head. “She said she couldn’t stay here. Not right now”.

Dean felt that land somewhere deep, the kind of hurt you can’t even be angry at, just empty, just cold. He sank down at the table, staring at the grooves in the old wood, at your mug left beside the sink, at the home you’d both wrecked together. He didn’t ask where you went. He just nodded. But Sam being Sam couldn’t just sit there and let his brother fall apart in silence. He closed the laptop, pushed his plate away, and watched Dean like he was waiting for a sign, that this was the moment to speak, to try to glue the pieces back together. But Dean was quiet, hunched over with his elbows on the table, staring at nothing, shoulders tight enough to splinter. He looked tired in a way Sam rarely saw, like the ache was bone-deep and old. So Sam started slow, careful. “You want some coffee?”, he asked, already getting up and reaching for the pot before Dean could answer. He poured two mugs. Your mug and Dean’s, not thinking until it was too late to switch them out. Dean just stared at your mug and looked away. Sam set the coffee in front of him anyway and slid back into the seat across the table. He waited, hands wrapped around his own mug. Silence settled between them, thick and familiar. Finally, Sam tried again. “You don’t have to talk about it, man. But if you want to… I’m here”.

Dean ran a hand over his face, jaw clenched, voice rough. “She’s gone, Sammy”.

“Yeah. But not all the way. She left stuff. She left… the door open”. Sam’s voice was soft, a hint of hope threaded through it. “She loves you, Dean. She just—she screwed up. You both did. That’s what people do”.

Dean’s grip tightened on the coffee mug, knuckles gone white. He shook his head, the hurt flashing sharp and hot across his face. “I didn’t go out and fuck some other bitch, Sam”, he hissed. “I didn’t walk out when it got hard. I was here. I tried. I tried so goddamn hard—”. His voice cracked.

Sam didn’t flinch, he just let Dean get it out, kept his eyes steady, his tone soft. “I know. You didn’t. And it hurts, man. I’m not saying you have to forgive her, or even talk to her. But you can’t drink this down, or drive it off, or just sit here until you rot”. He leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. “You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to hurt. But you don’t have to do it alone”.

Dean glared at the table, jaw clenched so hard it had to hurt. “Doesn’t matter. She made her choice”.

Sam shook his head, gentle but stubborn. “She made a mistake, Dean. A big one. But you both still get to choose what happens next. You can kick her out of your life, or you can try to talk. But you have to choose. Otherwise, the only person you’re punishing is yourself”.

Dean swallowed hard, looking away, shoulders trembling from holding so much in. “I don’t know if I can ever forget it, Sam. Every time I think about her, I see him. I see them. Like it’s burned in my head”.

Sam let the words settle, knowing better than to try to sweep them away. “You don’t have to forget”, he said quietly. “But maybe you can get to a place where it doesn’t hurt as much. Maybe not now, maybe not soon. But you can try. Or you can let her go. Just… don’t sit here dying in the middle, Dean. Please”.

-

Dean went back to old habits, but uglier this time. He haunted the bunker with a bottle in his hand, pouring whiskey into coffee, then skipping the coffee altogether. He didn’t sleep much. When he did, it was on the couch or at the war table with his boots still on. Sometimes he’d disappear for a day or two, hunting anything reckless enough to look at him wrong. Sometimes he’d just sit in the Impala, fingers white-knuckled on the wheel, radio blasting rock like it could drown out memory.

When Sam tried to talk to him, Dean snapped or went silent, the hurt coming out mean, then going quiet. He was working out, pushing his body until his knuckles bled on the heavy bag in the basement.

Sometimes, after a hunt, he’d come home bruised and Sam wouldn’t ask, and Dean wouldn’t tell. There was only so much truth either of them could hold.

He never called you. Never texted. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t trust what would come out if he heard your voice. He played your favorite cassette once in the Impala, got halfway through the first song, and had to pull over on the side of the road, breathing like he was trying not to drown.

You, meanwhile, wandered through borrowed time.

You stayed in a tiny motel on the edge of town, the kind with flickering lights and a view of the parking lot. You took odd jobs, worked at a local bar some nights just to have something to do with your hands. The rest of the time you drove. Sometimes you’d end up at a lake, sometimes at the edge of the highway, sometimes you’d just find yourself sitting behind the wheel with tears running down your face before you even realized you were crying.

You checked your phone more than you’d ever admit, waiting for a call that never came. You told yourself you should be angry, should move on, but most nights you just sat on your motel bed, clutching the shirt you’d stolen from Dean’s side of the closet, one that still smelled like his aftershave.

When you tried to sleep, dreams always brought you back to the bunker. Warm sheets, the rumble of Dean’s voice and the way his arms felt around you before everything cracked apart.

Sometimes you’d get close to driving back, even went as far as the old road outside Lebanon, headlights pointed toward the bunker, just one call away. But you always turned back. You couldn’t face what you’d done. Couldn’t face him, not yet.

You called Sam once or twice, asked about hunts, about the world, about Dean. And Sam never lied. He said Dean was breathing, hurting, the same way you were. That was all you needed to know.

Days bled into weeks.

Dean kept moving, kept fighting, the anger and the heartbreak coiling together, poisoning every moment he tried to let go. Sometimes, at the bottom of a bottle, he’d almost call you. He’d get as far as finding your name in his phone before locking the screen, cursing himself for the ache that wouldn’t let up.

You kept waiting, hoping. Sometimes the pain burned clean, sometimes it numbed you out. You both dreamed about the night you shattered everything, played it on repeat until even the memory was worn thin and raw.

Neither of you knew how to come home. But neither of you really left, not all the way. Not where it mattered.

And every night, both of you lay in separate beds, hearts cracked wide open, whispering apologies into the dark, wishing the other could hear.

-

You were wiping down glasses in the corner behind the bar, just trying to make it to closing time, when you saw Dean leaning against the end of the counter, his posture cocky and loose in a way that looked practiced, not natural. He looked tired, but the kind of tired that’s angry, that makes people do things just to feel something else. There was a girl with him, barely twenty-one, long hair and a wild laugh, leaning into his space like she didn’t know what kind of damage Dean Winchester could do.

You froze, half in the light and half in the shadow of the storage room door, watching the scene play out. Dean hadn’t seen you, didn’t know you were there. Maybe he wouldn’t have cared if he did. He was putting on a show for himself, not anyone else.

She touched his arm, her hand small but so fucking bold, and he leaned into it, flashing her that smile you’d once thought only belonged to you. He said something in her ear, something that made her blush and laugh and look up at him through her lashes. Dean let her drag her nails up his flannel sleeve, slow and teasing, and his hand found her waist, fingers splaying out over the thin cotton of her dress. He drew her closer, like she was a secret only he was allowed to have. You watched his mouth brush her cheek, then lower, his breath stirring her hair. Her hands slid to his chest, then up around his neck.

When he kissed her, it was rough at first, nothing gentle. His hands gripping her tighter, pulling her flush against him as if trying to fuse all the anger and grief into something physical, something that could bleed out if he just pushed hard enough. The kiss deepened, the girl’s arms winding around his shoulders, her body pressed to his. Dean let her grind her hips into him, his hand sliding from her waist down, squeezing her thigh, his mouth devouring hers in a way that was hungry and lost and not at all the way he used to kiss you. There was no patience, no care. Just a desperate need to fill up the hollowness, if only for a minute.

You stood there, watching, your heart twisting itself smaller and smaller, like if it could just disappear, none of this would be real. You understood, though. You understood why he was doing it. If you could have hated him for it, maybe it would have hurt less. But you couldn’t.

When they finally broke apart, both of them flushed and breathless, she whispered something in his ear and Dean smirked. He took her hand, weaving their fingers together, and led her toward the door, not looking back once.

You didn’t stop him. Didn’t say a word. Just watched the man you loved walk out with someone else, letting him have his revenge, knowing you’d lost the right to ask him to stay.

You turned back to the bar, hands trembling as you finished wiping down the glasses, pretending you were somewhere else. You kept your head down, your heart buried, and told yourself it was just another kind of penance.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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