𝓼𝓸𝓹𝓱𝓲𝓮

dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.

“couples,” he says, leaning over the hood of the impala while the mechanic pokes around under it with the world’s fakest concerned face. “all the missing people were couples. newlyweds, honeymooners, road-trippers. car trouble. small-town hospitality. then poof.”

you glance toward the garage office, where the mechanic’s wife is watching you through the blinds with a coffee mug held near her mouth and not a single sip taken. “so they’re sabotaging cars.”

“yep.”

“and feeding people to whatever’s in the orchard.”

“probably.”

“great. very rural.”

dean’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay sharp. “which means we need bait.”

you already know what he’s going to say before he says it. worse, he knows that you know. the grin spreads slow and smug across his face, all dangerous charm and bad ideas, and you hate that your stomach reacts before your brain can file a complaint.

“no,” you say.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“my face is handsome and innocent.”

“your face is about to suggest we pretend to be a couple.”

he points at you, delighted. “see? this is why we work.”

you stare at him.

he leans closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mechanic can still see the shape of intimacy without hearing the words. “come on. little hand-holding, little sweet-talking, maybe you call me honey if the mood strikes—”

“i’m not calling you honey.”

“baby?”

“absolutely not.”

“snookums?”

you almost smile. “i will leave you here to get sacrificed.”

“hot. committed to the role already.”

the mechanic comes back wiping his hands on a rag that looks cleaner than any rag should coming from a garage. “looks like you folks might be stuck here overnight.”

dean’s expression changes instantly. warmer. easier. he slides an arm around your shoulders, as if the weight of him tucked close to your side is something your body has always known how to make room for.

“that so?” he asks, disappointed in a way that is almost convincing. “well, damn. guess that ruins the anniversary plans.”

you blink. anniversary.

right. you turn into him because if he wants a show, you can give him one. your hand lands on his chest, fingers spreading over the worn softness of his shirt, and you feel him inhale under your palm. almost nothing. but there.

“it’s okay,” you say, looking up at him with your sweetest, deadliest smile. “we’ll make our own fun.”

dean’s eyes flick down to yours.

the mechanic clears his throat.

you win.

by sundown, the entire town thinks you and dean are married, or engaged, or disgustingly in love depending on who you ask—because dean keeps changing the story just to annoy you. at the diner, he tells the waitress you met during a bar fight. at the motel, he says you proposed after saving him from drugs, which earns him a kick under the check-in counter hard enough to make his smile twitch. later, walking down the quiet road toward the orchard, he holds your hand because people are still watching from their porches, and you tell yourself that is all it is.

his palm is warm and rough against yours, fingers lacing too easily. every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckle, casual in a way that makes you want to accuse him of doing it on purpose. the worst part is he isn’t even talking that much now. the case has settled over him, sharpening the edges of his attention, but the fake closeness stays. shoulder bumping yours. hand firm around yours. his body angling slightly ahead when the road darkens.

“you’re quiet,” you comment.

he hums, “thinking.”

“dangerous.”

“about us.”

your heart trips.

then he adds, “our fake marriage. i think we need a dog.”

you exhale through your nose, trying not to laugh. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, you married me.”

“fake married.”

“vows are vows.”

the orchard rises ahead, black against the fading sky, rows of trees scratching at the air. the sweetness of rotting apples thickens with every step, and beneath it there’s something older—wet earth and old blood. your grip tightens around dean’s before you can stop it.

his teasing drops immediately. “hey,” he murmurs. “you good?”

he says it softly, and that’s a problem, because there’s no audience, no performance… just dean, close enough that his breath warms your temple, looking at you like your answer matters more than the thing waiting between the trees.

“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”

he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.

the town makes its move near the scarecrow post, of course. three men come out with shotguns, the mechanic among them, all apologetic smiles and dead eyes, saying things about tradition and harvest and how you seem like such a nice couple.

dean keeps himself between you and the guns, mouth running because fear and fury both turn into sarcasm on his tongue.

“hate to break it to you,” he says, backing up with you toward the field, “but our relationship is actually in a really fragile place right now. sacrificing us would be super insensitive.”

you elbow him. “dean.”

“what? communication is important.”

then the scarecrow moves. not creaks. not falls. it moves—wooden limbs snapping loose, burlap head twisting toward you, black pits where eyes should be. the townies scatter fast, cowards underneath all that civic pride, and dean shoves you behind him for half a second before you shove back because you are not decorative bait, thank you very much.

“dude,” dean blurts, staring up at the thing as it lurches out of the dirt, “you’re fugly”.

“focus,” you snap, grabbing the kerosene from his bag.

“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”

the fight is messy and fast. you duck under a swinging arm that smashes into an apple tree hard enough to split bark. dean fires salt rounds that barely slow it down, and somewhere between the shouting and the panic, he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of reach with such hard, automatic terror that it punches through all the fake feelings.

you burn the scarecrow together.

flame catches straw, then burlap, then whatever old evil is stitched into the thing. it screams in a voice made of dry leaves and bone, collapsing into the dirt while the orchard glows orange around you. dean stands beside you, breathing hard, soot on his cheek, hand still wrapped around yours.

the town is quiet now.

you look down at your joined hands. so does he.

“guess we can get a divorce now,” you say, because if you don’t make a joke, you might say something honest and ruin both your lives.

dean’s smile comes slow, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “nah,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “we survived a sacrifice. pretty sure that’s legally binding.”

you laugh, soft and breathless, and the sound shakes more than you want it to. his thumb brushes your knuckle again, not for the town, not for the case, not for anyone hiding behind curtains.

you should pull away. you don’t. and when you finally walk back toward the impala, your hand still in his, the pretend part feels a little too far behind you to reach.