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Summary: Jack Abbot gets drunk. This is rare. This is unexpected. This is apparently also how you end up standing at your bedroom window in Pittsburgh, staring down at your husband while he recites Shakespeare on the lawn like a very handsome, very intoxicated theater kid with excellent lung capacity. He is romantic. He is committed. He is loud. You are in pajamas. The neighbors may never recover. Eventually, you get him inside, get him sitting on the edge of the bed, and attempt to help him into sweatpants while he becomes deeply concerned about your honor, your reputation, and the fact that his legs “don’t match.” Jack Abbot is steady under pressure. Drunk Jack Abbot is apparently one balcony away from a community noise complaint.
Warnings: married Jack Abbot x Reader, drunk Jack, alcohol use, established relationship, romantic comedy chaos, Shakespeare recitation, public embarrassment, Pittsburgh setting, responsible spouse caretaking, suggestive humor, changing clothes while drunk, prosthetic leg removal handled casually and respectfully, soft domestic intimacy, dramatic husband behavior.
Author's Note:
This one is for everyone who has ever wondered what would happen if Jack Abbot got drunk enough to become both romantic and theatrical. The answer is Shakespeare. Outside your window. At night. You have to retrieve your husband before the neighbors start calling in noise complaints, then get him upstairs, undressed, into sweatpants, prosthetic off, and safely into bed while he behaves like a scandalized Victorian man being compromised by his own legal wife.
He is dramatic.
He is devoted.
He is very lucky he is cute.
Xoxo, Del
You were asleep when the first little tap woke you up.
At least, you were pretty sure you had been asleep. It was the heavy kind of sleep you earned after two back-to-back shifts, a shower hot enough to steam the whole mirror, and half an episode of a show you absolutely could not remember choosing.
The bedroom was dark. The house was quiet. The sheets smelled like laundry detergent and Jack’s shampoo because he had a habit of showering, crawling into bed with damp hair, and pretending he was not actively ruining your pillowcases.
Another tap near the glass.
Tiny.
Sharp.
Distinct.
You opened one eye.
For a second, you thought it was weather. Pittsburgh did weird things at night sometimes. Wind. Branches. Rain pattering sideways against the glass.
Then a third sound.
Tap.
A pause.
Tap tap.
You stared at the ceiling.
“What the fuck.” you whispered to no one.
From outside, faint but unmistakable, came a man’s voice.
“But soft.”
Your eyes widened.
Oh my god.
“But soft,” the voice repeated, louder this time. “What light through yonder—yonder—fuck.”
You sat up so fast the comforter slipped to your waist.
There was a muffled shout from outside, followed by laughter. Loud, wheezing, helpless laughter.
Robby.
You threw the covers back, crossed the room, and shoved the curtain aside.
Your husband was standing in the front yard.
Jack Abbot, attending physician, homeowner, allegedly grown man, was in the grass beneath your bedroom window with his jacket half-zipped, his hair a disaster, one shoulder slightly lower than the other, as if balance were a concept he respected but did not currently possess.
One hand was braced against his chest.
The other held what looked like a fistful of gravel from the edge of the driveway.
On the sidewalk behind him stood Robby, bent almost in half, one hand planted on his own knee while he laughed hard enough to shake. He looked drunk in the reckless, sparkly-eyed way that meant he was going to make every bad decision worse on purpose.
Shen leaned against the mailbox with the loose, happy posture of a man who was buzzed enough to be philosophical and rapidly approaching drunk enough to consider himself useful.
Crus stood near the curb beside his car, arms folded, completely sober and spiritually exhausted.
Jack saw your face appear behind the glass.
Everything in him lit up.
“Lady,” he said.
You blinked down at him.
Robby made a noise like a balloon losing air.
“Lady?” you repeated, mostly to yourself.
Jack lifted his chin with tremendous dignity. “Lady in the window.”
Crus looked up at you and mouthed, “I am so sorry.”
You unlocked the window. “Jack—”
Outside, Jack was already winding up again.
You pushed the window open.
A tiny piece of driveway gravel sailed through the gap and hit you softly in the chest.
For one perfect second, no one moved.
You looked down at the pebble where it bounced off your sweatshirt and landed on the floor.
Then you looked back out the window.
Jack stood in the yard with his hand still raised, his face draining of every ounce of drunken triumph. “Oh no.”
Robby slapped both hands over his mouth.
Shen went very still against the mailbox.
Crus closed his eyes like he had expected disaster, but was still disappointed by its form.
Jack took one horrified step backward. “I struck my lady.”
“You threw a pebble,” you said.
“I struck her.” Jack turned on Robby, devastated. “Why did you let me throw rocks at her?”
Robby’s eyes widened. “I did not authorize the courtship rocks.”
Jack looked at Robby, confused, “They weren’t your idea?”
“No!” Robby exclaimed as if he had been accused of first-degree murder.
Crus pointed at Jack. “They were your idea.”
Jack looked back up at you, appalled by himself. “I would never harm you.”
You press your lips together in an attempt to stop your smile, “I know, Jack.”
His gaze dropped to your sweatshirt.
Then his expression changed.
Just slightly. Concern stayed there. Guilt stayed there. But something else arrived.
Something drunker. Stupider.
Very much your husband.
Jack squinted. “Did that go down your shirt?”
You stared at him.
Robby inhaled sharply.
Crus shook his head.
Jack lifted one hand, very serious and very helpful. “I can get it for you.”
The sidewalk exploded.
“Absolutely not,” Crus said.
Robby bent fully at the waist, laughing so hard he nearly folded himself in half. “Chaperone! They need a chaperone! This is improper!”
Shen lifted one finger, swaying with grave importance. “A matter of decorum has presented itself.”
Jack’s face snapped from hopeful to offended. “I was being medically helpful.”
“You were offering to put your hand up her shirt,” Crus said.
Jack looked deeply wounded. “I am a doctor.”
“You are drunk,” Crus replied, rolling his eyes.
Jack frowned, as if this were technically accurate but spiritually irrelevant.
You picked the tiny pebble up from the floor and held it between two fingers. “It’s the size of a Tic Tac.”
Jack’s eyes locked onto it. His shoulders dropped in relief. Then he winced all over again.
“No more rocks!” he announced.
Robby straightened just enough to salute. “End of an era.”
Jack looked back up at you, still guilty, still giddy, still completely obsessed. “Are you sure it didn’t go down your shirt?”
“Jack.” You're warned, fighting a smile.
Jack’s brow furrowed, “Respectfully.”
“No.” You told him.
He nodded immediately, solemn as a vow. “Right. Boundaries.”
Crus pointed at him. “Hands where I can see them, Romeo.”
Jack lifted both hands. One was still full of gravel.
You raised your eyebrows.
He looked at the gravel, horrified all over again, and opened his hand. The tiny rocks were scattered into the grass.
“The rocks are retired,” Jack announces.
Shen nodded. “A noble sacrifice.”
You should have closed the window then. You should have told him to come inside. You should have reminded him that neighbors existed and that Crus looked one stern glance away from calling time of death on the evening.
Instead, your eyes drifted toward the porch.
The tiny blue light above the doorbell camera blinked steadily in the dark.
Recording.
Oh.
Oh, this was a gift.
You glanced toward the corner of the garage, where the driveway camera sat angled toward the front yard. Also recording. You folded your arms on the windowsill and tried very hard to make your face neutral.
“Go on, Romeo,” you called down.
Crus’s head snapped toward you. “Do not encourage him.”
Too late.
Jack’s face opened like you had handed him a sword and a reason.
Robby pointed up at you, delighted. “She’s making him worse.”
“She appreciates theater,” Jack said.
“You don’t know theater,” Crus said.
Jack gave him a wounded look. “I know my lady.”
Robby made a strangled sound. “Your lady?”
Jack turned on him. “Yes.”
Crus stared at him. “Your wife.”
Jack froze.
Then, very slowly, he looked back up at your window. “We’re married?”
Your smile started before you could stop it. “We are.”
His whole face lit. Not soft, exactly. Not sad. Not even sentimental.
Just pure, stunned delight.
Like someone had woken him in the middle of the night and told him he had won the best thing in the world, then pointed to you as proof.
“Fuck yeah,” Jack murmured.
Robby doubled over. “Oh, he’s happy about it.”
Shen nodded, solemn and wobbly. “As he should be.”
Crus rubbed a hand over his face. “He has been happy about it for years.”
Jack ignored all of them.
He was looking up at you again, bright-eyed and entirely too pleased with himself.
“My wife,” he said, testing it out.
You nodded, “Yes.”
His grin widened. “Fuck yeah.”
“Jack,” Crus said, “you cannot just keep rediscovering your marriage.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Watch me.”
Then he lifted one hand toward your window again, suddenly possessed by the urgent need to continue.
“But soft.”
Robby wheezed. “He’s going back in.”
Jack cleared his throat with the unearned confidence of a man about to ruin literature.
“But soft,” he repeated. “What light through yonder…”
He frowned.
The line had apparently vanished.
“What light through yonder…” Jack tried again, squinting at your window like the answer might be written on the glass. “Through yonder… house hole.”
Robby howled.
Crus leaned towards Jack, “Window.”
“I know,” Jack snapped, then looked back up at you and immediately softened. “Window.”
You leaned your chin into your hand, trying so hard not to smile too wide because every tiny bit of encouragement made him more powerful.
Jack saw anyway. Of course he did.
His grin went crooked and giddy. “She likes this.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Crus said.
“I do,” you called down.
Crus looked up at you. “You are creating a monster.”
You shrugged, “He’s already my monster.”
Jack’s mouth fell open.
Robby slapped Shen’s arm. “Oh, that got him.”
Jack stared up at you, dazzled. “I’m yours?”
“You’re mine.” You confirmed.
He turned toward the guys, almost vibrating with joy. “I’m hers.”
“We know, you’re married to her. ” Crus said.
Jack looked back up at you, needing it from the only source that mattered. “I am?”
You were laughing now. “You are.”
Jack grinned, “Fuck yeah.”
Then he remembered his mission.
His expression shifted back into concentration, but it was different now. Less performance for performance’s sake and more desperate translation. Like his drunk brain had decided regular words were not enough for what you looked like in that window, wearing his sweatshirt, smiling down at him with sleep-warm eyes and messy hair.
He did not know Shakespeare.
You were sure of that.
Jack had once referred to a sonnet as “one of those fancy rectangles.” He had complained about mandatory high school English with the same tone he used for hospital printer jams. He did not casually quote old plays.
But apparently, somewhere inside him, beneath the whiskey and whatever terrible thing Robby had talked him into ordering, a few broken pieces of Romeo and Juliet had survived.
And tonight, because he was drunk and in love and staring up at you, his brain had decided those pieces were the only tools worthy of the job.
“What light through yonder window…” Jack paused, fought for the word, and then looked offended by his own mouth. “Fucks.”
Crus sighed. “Breaks.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeply, “That’s what I said.”
“You said fucks.” Crus corrected.
Jack glared at him with a frown, “Emotionally, I said breaks.”
Shen nodded. “I understood him.”
“You are not helping,” Crus said.
Jack ignored them, his gaze locked on you.
“What light through yonder window breaks,” he said again, mangled but determined. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”
He stopped. His brow furrowed. “No.”
You tilted your head. “No?”
Jack shook his head with deep seriousness. “Not Juliet.”
Robby made a tiny dying sound.
Jack pointed up at you, eyes bright and unfocused and absolutely full of you. “My lady is the sun.”
Your breath caught around your laugh.
Jack looked frustrated now. Not with you. Never with you. With the words. With the fact that he had this whole impossible feeling in his chest and only scraps of half-remembered Shakespeare, curse words, and driveway gravel to work with.
“You are,” he insisted. “You’re the sun. And the moon is—”
He looked up, squinting into the dark sky. “The moon is fucked.”
Crus exhaled through his nose. “That is not Shakespeare.”
“It is now,” Shen said.
Jack kept looking at you.
“You’re more beautiful than the fucking moon,” he said, rough and certain. “And I don’t know if the stupid moon knows that, but I do.”
You pressed your lips together.
There he was.
Your ridiculous husband. Your drunk, swaying, gravel-holding husband, publicly destroying Shakespeare on your lawn because he loved you so much he needed bigger words than his own and kept breaking the bigger words in half.
Robby cupped both hands around his mouth. “Say more about the moon!”
Jack whipped around. “Do not tell me how to court my lady.”
Robby gasped. “Your lady?”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”
Crus sighed. “Your wife.”
Jack immediately turned back toward the window. “We’re married?”
You nodded. “We are.”
That joy hit him all over again. “Fuck yeah.”
Shen sighed dreamily. “Every time, it lands.”
“It has happened four times,” Crus muttered.
Jack was not listening. He had apparently reloaded the romance. He took one dramatic step closer to the house and nearly tripped over the landscaping.
Crus moved automatically, one hand half-raised.
Jack caught himself and pointed down, “Sabotage.”
“That is a shrub,” Crus said.
“A treacherous shrub.” Jack glared down at the shrub.
Robby staggered a step and caught himself on Shen’s shoulder. “This is the best night of my life.”
“You threw up behind the bar,” Shen reminded him.
“Second-best night of my life.” Robby amended.
Jack cleared his throat.
The yard went quiet.
He looked up at you, full of giddy purpose.
“Tell them to leave,” Jack said, without looking away from you. “I’m courting you.”
You leaned against the window frame. “You live here.”
Jack visibly brightened. “Then let me in.”
“Use your key.” You replied.
Jack patted one pocket. Then the other. Then his jacket. Then his jeans again, with increasing distress.
His face fell. “I left it in the carriage.”
Shen lifted one hand. “He means the car.”
“The Honda,” Robby added.
Crus pointed toward the curb. “The car he escaped from at a red light.”
“It was stopped,” Robby said.
Crus turned to him, “At a red light.”
“That’s stopped,” Robby argued.
Jack ignored them. He was still staring up at you, wounded. “I don’t have my key.”
You looked down at him, “I can see that.”
“I would like to come inside.” He said, lower lip pressing out.
You gestured down at the lawn. “You were courting me.”
“I can court you indoors,” Jack replied instantly.
Robby’s head snapped up. “Oh,” he said.
Crus immediately said, “No.”
Robby pointed at Jack, drunk and thrilled with his own incoming damage. “Wait. If you’re courting a lady, you need a chaperone.”
Jack froze.
You covered your mouth.
Robby nodded, warming to the bit. “Historically. Otherwise, it’s improper.”
Shen pushed off the mailbox, eyes bright with buzzed seriousness. “There would be whispers. Her honor would be ruined amongst high society.”
Jack went completely still. Then his face changed.
Horror.
Betrayal.
Moral outrage.
“No.” He breathed.
Shen blinked. “No?”
Jack pointed at him. “You take that back.”
Shen looked genuinely confused. “The whispers?”
“The honor,” Jack answered.
Robby whispered, delighted, “Oh my god.”
Jack lifted his chin. “I will duel Shen for inferring an insult to her honor.”
Crus’s mouth tightened. “Implying.” He stepped forward. “No one is dueling anyone.”
Jack whipped around and pointed to him, “Don’t correct my vows of violence.”
“I was defending her honor,” Shen said, pressing a hand to his chest.
“You said it could be ruined,” Jack argued.
Shen looked over to Robby, “By Robby’s fake chaperone rules.”
Robby held up both hands. “I stand by the rules.”
Crus pointed at him. “You are not helping.”
Jack looked back up at you, devastation written all over his drunk, beloved face. “He spoke of your honor.”
You were laughing so hard that you had to grip the window frame. “He was being dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic.” Jack gestured to himself. “He was being defamatory.”
Shen turned to Crus. “Is he using legal words correctly?”
“No,” Crus answered.
Robby nodded. “I think he’s doing great.”
Jack took one unsteady step toward Shen.
Crus moved fast, catching the back of Jack’s jacket in one fist. “Absolutely not.”
Jack kept pointing. “Pistols. At dawn.”
Shen straightened, solemn and swaying. “I accept.”
Crus rounded on him. “You do not.”
“For the lady’s honor,” Shen said.
Jack gasped. “Do not speak of the lady.”
Shen looked up at you, then back to Jack. “You challenged me on behalf of the lady.”
“She is my—”
Jack stopped.
His eyes widened like he had almost said something important and lost it.
Robby saw the opening.
“Wife,” he supplied.
Jack turned immediately toward your window. “She is?”
You nodded, grinning helplessly. “I am.”
The joy detonated across his face. “Fuck yeah.”
Then, without missing a beat, he pointed at Shen again. “But I’ll still duel him.”
“No, you won’t,” Crus said.
Jack turns back to the window, “For her.”
“Jack,” you said, fighting laughter, “baby, I don’t need you to duel Shen.”
Jack looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “You deserve to be defended.”
“I am very defended.” You assure him.
Jack beamed, “By me?”
“Yes.” You answer.
That settled him.
Some of the outrage eased from his shoulders. He looked pleased, softened by the idea that he had done something right. Then he turned back to Shen with one final warning finger. “You’re lucky she is merciful.”
Shen bowed toward your window. “Her mercy is noted.”
Robby tried to bow too, immediately lost his balance, and grabbed Crus’s shoulder. “Long live the lady of the window.”
Crus shoved him upright. “Everybody shut up before the neighbors call the police.”
Jack looked back up at you.
“My lady,” he said softly, then brightened again. “My wife?”
You nodded. “Your wife.”
Jack smiled, “Fuck yeah.”
You were going to save the security footage forever.
Jack’s face shifted suddenly. He had a new thought. That was never good.
He looked back up at you, deeply serious. “Wait.”
“Oh no,” Crus said.
Jack ignored him.
“If I’m courting you,” he said carefully, “does that mean we can’t have sex?”
The entire sidewalk exploded.
Robby made a sound like he had been shot.
Shen turned away, shoulders shaking.
Crus stared up at the sky like he was asking God why he had been assigned this shift.
You pressed your lips together. “Jack.”
“What?” Jack demanded, offended by everyone’s reaction. “I’m asking respectfully.”
You stared at him, “You are yelling in the yard.”
“I need to know the rules.” Jack frowned.
You shook your head, “We’re married.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “We are?”
You stared at him for one beat.
Then you softened, because God help you, it was still so funny. Every single time.
“We are.”
His grin came back, immediate and brilliant. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby crouched on the sidewalk, laughing so hard he had one hand braced against the concrete.
Shen nodded with great emotion. “The sacrament remains intact.”
“Do not help,” Crus said.
Jack looked back up at you, still concerned. “So?”
“So what?” You asked, tilting your head.
Jack frowned deeply, “So what about the chaperone rules?”
You leaned farther out the window. “No chaperone rules.”
Jack looked relieved. Then pleased.
Then a little too pleased.
“But no sex tonight,” you added. “You’re drunk.”
Jack’s expression sobered instantly. Well. As much as it could.
“Right,” he said, nodding hard. “Boundaries.”
“Exactly.” You agreed.
“I respect my lady,” Jack added.
You nodded, “I know.”
“My wife?” He asks, so hopeful.
You smiled. “Your wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grinned.
Robby booed from the sidewalk.
Jack spun so fast he almost lost his balance. Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket.
“Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”
Robby pointed at him. “You just checked if she was your wife!”
Jack pointed right back. “And she said yes.”
Shen lifted one finger. “A valid argument.”
Crus muttered, “I hate all of you.”
Jack tilted his head suddenly, studying the side of the house.
Your smile faded a little. You knew that look. It was the look he got when he decided a patient was lying about taking all their antibiotics. The look he got when a vending machine stole his money. The look he got when Robby said something so stupid that Jack had to pause before answering because violence had become a real possibility.
Determination.
“Oh no,” Crus said again.
Jack pointed up at you. “I’m coming up.”
You straightened immediately. “No, you are not.”
Jack nodded enthusiastically, “I am.”
“Jack.” You warned.
He pointed at you, “Romeo climbed.”
Robby, delighted, whispered, “Did he?”
Shen squinted at the house. “I don’t think that’s structurally sound.”
Jack ignored them. “I will climb to you.”
“No,” you said, louder this time.
He looked wounded. “You don’t believe in me?”
“I believe you are drunk.” You replied.
He raised a fist in the air, “For love.”
“For whiskey.” You corrected.
Robby lifted one finger. “And tequila.”
“And tequila,” you add.
Jack nodded solemnly, accepting the record. Then he took a step toward the house.
Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket. “Absolutely not.”
Jack tried to keep walking and got nowhere.
For one ridiculous second, your husband simply leaned forward, legs moving slightly, while Crus held him in place like a misbehaving golden retriever.
Robby lost what little remained of his composure.
Shen put both hands over his mouth.
You slapped a palm against the window frame. “Jack Abbot, stop trying to climb the house.”
Jack looked up at you, betrayed. “I’m courting you.”
You pointed at the lawn, “You can court me from the ground.”
“I’m too far away,” Jack said with a frown.
You sighed, “You are twelve feet away.”
“Exactly,” he said, with heartbreaking seriousness, “it is unbearable.”
And there it was.
The stupid, sweet thing under all the chaos.
You looked down at him.
At your husband, drunk and swaying and ridiculous, held in place by the back of his jacket, still staring up at you like the whole world had narrowed to your face in the window.
You sighed, mostly for show. “Stay there. I am coming down to open the door.”
Jack went very still. Then his whole face lit up. “You’re coming down?”
“Yes.” You confirmed.
His eyes widened, “To me?”
You nodded, “Yes, Jack.”
He turned toward the guys, triumphant. “She’s coming down.”
Robby wiped tears from his eyes. “Yeah, Romeo. Because you tried to scale the house.”
Jack shrugged, “Love requires risk.”
Crus tightened his grip. “Love requires you not making me go into the ER on my night off.”
Shen nodded. “A noble point.”
Jack looked back up at you. “Don’t rush. I’ll wait forever.”
Crus said, “You could not wait through a red light.”
Jack did not miss a beat. “That was different. My lady was in the house.”
Robby opened his mouth.
Jack immediately looked up at you. “Wife?”
You laughed. “Wife.”
Jack nodded, “Fuck yeah.”
You closed the window before he could see what that did to your face. By the time you got downstairs, the front yard had only gotten louder.
You opened the front door just as Robby said, “I still think chaperone rules apply.”
Jack, standing at the bottom of the steps with Crus’s hand still fisted in the back of his jacket, gasped like he had been stabbed. “My wife said no chaperone.”
“I did say that,” you confirmed.
Jack turned.
The second he saw you in the doorway, everything else disappeared from his face.
He looked at you like he had forgotten the house, the street, the guys, the gravel, the moon, the duel, and every failed line of Shakespeare.
“There she is,” he said.
It was quiet.
Too quiet for the amount of chaos that had come before it.
Your smile softened. “Hi, Romeo.”
Jack took one careful step toward you. Crus released his jacket but stayed close, ready.
Jack made it up the first porch step. Then the second.
He stopped in front of you, swaying slightly, eyes warm and unfocused and giddy all over again.
“I was wooing you.”
“I noticed.” You replied.
He leaned in, “Did it work?”
You looked past him at the yard.
Robby was giggling now. Shen was leaning against the mailbox again, smiling like he had witnessed something sacred. Crus stood on the walkway with the dead-eyed patience of a man who had kept three drunk medical professionals alive and received no thanks for it.
Then you looked back at your husband.
At his messy hair. His flushed cheeks. The tiny piece of gravel was still stuck to his palm. The stupid, pleased hope in his face.
“Yes,” you said. “It worked.”
Jack’s smile went bright. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby groaned. “God, marriage is disgusting.”
Jack turned just enough to glare at him. Then he paused.
Slowly, he looked back at you. “We’re married?”
You laughed, unable to help it. “Yes.”
His delight was immediate. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby pointed at him. “See? Disgusting.”
Jack turned back. “You’re alone.”
Robby clutched his chest. “Low blow, Romeo.”
“Go home,” Jack said. “I have been received.”
Crus looked at you. “Please take him.”
You smiled, “I’ve got him. Thank you, Crus.”
Jack immediately leaned toward you, pleased by the words.
You caught him with both hands against his chest. “Shoes off inside. Water. Bed. No climbing anything.”
He nodded seriously. “Boundaries.”
“Exactly.” You agreed.
Robby booed from the sidewalk again.
Jack spun so fast he had to grab the doorframe. “Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”
Then he glanced down at you. “My wife?”
You patted his chest. “Still me.”
“Fuck yeah.”
Shen lifted both hands. “I would never boo boundaries.”
“I still might duel you,” Jack said.
“For defending her honor?” Shen asked.
Jack glared, “For bringing it up.”
Crus hooked a hand around Robby’s arm and started dragging him toward the car. “We’re done.”
Robby waved at you. “Send the security footage!”
Jack froze. Slowly, he turned toward the doorbell camera.
The little blue light blinked back at him.
Then he looked at you. You smiled.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “How long has that been recording?”
“The whole time.” You answered.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Robby screamed from the curb, “Director’s cut!”
Crus shoved him toward the car. “Get in.”
Shen bowed one more time toward you. “Goodnight, lady of the window.”
“Goodnight, Shen.” You called back.
Jack pointed at him. “Respectfully.”
“Respectfully,” Shen agreed.
You slipped your hand around Jack’s wrist and tugged gently. “Inside.”
Jack followed immediately.
The second the door closed behind him, the night noise muffled. The laughter outside faded toward the street. Crus’s car doors opened and shut. Robby shouted something unintelligible. Shen answered with something that sounded like philosophy but was probably nonsense.
Inside, the house was warm and dim.
Jack stood in the entryway, blinking like he had crossed into another realm.
You took the last piece of gravel from his palm.
He looked down at it. “My rock.”
“You’re done with that.” You replied.
His eyes found yours, “It worked.”
“It hit me.” You said.
His face fell all over again. “I know.”
“Very gently.” You added with a smile.
Jack frowned, shaking his head. “I wounded my lady.”
“You booped my sweatshirt with gravel.” You corrected him.
His frown deepened. “Still bad.”
You softened despite yourself and held up the pebble between you. “I’m keeping it.”
Jack stared at it. Then at you. “You are?”
“Yes.” You answered.
His entire expression brightened. “The courtship rock.”
“The courtship rock,” you agreed.
He looked very pleased with himself for about half a second.
Then he looked toward your chest again. “Are we sure it didn’t—”
“Jack.”
He nodded, “Right. Boundaries.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and dropped the pebble into the small ceramic bowl where you usually kept keys.
Jack watched you do it. Then he looked at the bowl. Then at you.
“Do I live here?”
You stepped closer, unzipping his jacket. “Yes, Jack.”
“With you?” He asked.
You pulled the zipper free. “Yes.”
His face lit again, tired and pleased and still so delighted by the answer. “Fuck yeah.”
You laughed under your breath and pushed the jacket off his shoulders. “Arms.”
He obeyed, but only barely. His balance was not great, and he kept watching you like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.
You hung his jacket over the railing.
“Shoes,” you said.
Jack looked down at his feet. Then back up at you. “I have shoes on.”
“You do.” You confirmed.
Jack nodded gravely, “Good.”
You guided him to sit on the bottom step.
He dropped heavily, then immediately reached for your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and clumsy. “Are you mad?”
“You threw rocks at our window.” You replied.
Jack tilted his head, “Courtship rocks.”
“You hit me with one.” You countered.
His face crumpled. “My greatest shame.”
“You tried to climb the house.” You added.
Jack looked at you, “For romance.”
“You threatened to duel Shen.” You replied.
Jack sighed deeply, “For your honor.”
You huffed a laugh, “You forgot we were married at least six times.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “But I asked you,” he said.
You looked down at him.
He was smiling up at you, drunk and tired and so pleased with himself for that one piece of logic.
“You did,” you said quietly.
“You know the true things.” He murrmed.
“I do?” You asked.
He nodded gravely. “Wife things.”
You smiled and bent to untie his shoes. “Wife things.”
He brightened. “My wife?”
You looked up at him. “Yes.”
His grin came back, softer now but still giddy. “Fuck yeah.”
And that was the problem with Jack.
Even when he was a public menace with gravel.
Even when he mangled Shakespeare in the front yard.
Even when he almost started an honor duel with Shen, he tried to scale the siding like the house was a castle wall.
He always managed to say one thing that slipped under your ribs and stayed there.
You bent and kissed his forehead.
His eyes closed immediately. “There,” he murmured.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “There?”
He nodded, eyes still closed. “My lady.”
You softened.
Then he opened one eye. “Wife?”
You nodded, “Yes, Romeo. Wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grinned.
You got him up the stairs with significant effort. Mostly because Jack was determined to be helpful in ways that were not helpful. He tried to remove his shoes while standing, even though you had already removed them. You stopped him. He tried to take off his shirt halfway up the stairs. You stopped that, too. He paused on the landing to tell you, very sincerely, that the moon had deserved what he said.
By the time you got him into the bedroom, Jack was mostly upright through sheer stubbornness and your hand at his waist.
“Sit,” you said, guiding him toward the edge of the bed.
Jack dropped onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, then looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “Wife voice.”
You paused. “What?”
He pointed at you, swaying slightly even while seated. “You used the voice.”
“I used wife voice.” You confirmed.
His face softened immediately. “Wife?”
You smiled. “Wife.”
His whole expression lit. “Fuck yeah.”
You knelt in front of him and reached for his belt buckle.
Jack looked down, scandalized. “My lady.”
“I’m taking your belt off.” You replied, pulling the leather through the loops.
“My love,” he said, lowering his voice like the room might be bugged by high society, “we are alone.”
“We live together.” You told him.
He gasped softly. “Scandal.”
“Marriage,” you corrected, loosening one shoe.
Jack blinked. Then he looked at you, hopeful. “We’re married?”
You nodded, “Yes, baby.”
“Fuck yeah.” He murmured.
You slipped the belt free, then set it beside the bed. Jack watched the whole process with the solemn focus of a man witnessing a ceremony.
Then his gaze dropped to his legs.
He stared for a second. His brow furrowed. “My legs don’t match.”
You pressed your lips together so you would not laugh directly in his face.
“No,” you said gently. “They don’t.”
Jack looked up at you, eyes wide with drunk discovery. “Did you know?”
“I had noticed.” You answered.
He absorbed that with grave importance. Then nodded once. “Good.”
“Good?”
“You’re observant.” His hand landed clumsily over his heart. “Good wife.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t make good wife sound cute right now.”
Jack smiled, pleased and unrepentant. “My wife.”
“Yes.” You touched his prosthetic side lightly. “Leg?”
He nodded at once, all trust. “Leg.”
That was the thing that always got you.
Not the jokes. Not the ridiculous courtship act. Not even the way he kept rediscovering your marriage like it was the best news anyone had ever given him.
It was the trust.
The way he let you close without bracing for it. The way he let your hands move through a routine that had become as ordinary as turning down the sheets or setting water on the nightstand.
You knew what to do.
You had done it a hundred times.
You eased the fabric out of the way, found the release with practiced fingers, and carefully helped him out of the prosthetic, setting it where he could reach it in the morning.
Jack watched you, quieter now.
For one second, the drunk performance softened at the edges.
“There,” you said.
He looked from the prosthetic to you. “You take good care.”
Your chest warmed. “So do you.”
Jack considered that. Then frowned. “I threw rocks at you.”
“Tiny rocks.” You corrected him.
Jack nodded, “Courtship rocks.”
“One courtship rock.” You replied.
He winced. “My shame.”
You smiled, “You survived it.”
“You were merciful.” He said.
You nodded once, “I was.”
He reached for your hand, warm and clumsy, and squeezed your fingers. “My lady is merciful.”
You smiled. “Your wife is tired.”
His eyes lit again. “Wife?”
You lifted your left hand.
He stared at your rings, then lifted his own hand so you could see his wedding band.
“We’re married,” you said.
Jack’s grin came back, bright and helpless. “Fuck yeah.”
You stood and reached for the button of his jeans.
Jack’s hand flew to his waistband. “My lady!”
You looked up at him.
His eyes were wide and deeply, drunkenly solemn. “My love, you must restrain yourself.”
You inhaled, “Jack.”
“We must consider your honor.” He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, as if Robby might burst in with a chaperone contract. “Your reputation.”
“Jack, baby, we are married.” You reminded him.
He froze. Then slowly turned back to you. “We are?”
You lifted your left hand again and wiggled your fingers.
His eyes locked on your rings. Then you took his left hand and held up his. His wedding band gleamed in the bedside lamplight.
Jack stared at it. Then at yours. Then at you.
His grin spread, slow and delighted. “Fuck yeah.”
“Exactly.” You patted his knee. “So let me help you change before you fall asleep in jeans.”
He considered this. Then nodded gravely. “For comfort.”
“For comfort.” You agreed.
“And marriage.” He added.
You nodded, “And marriage.”
“And not dishonor.” Jack continued.
“No dishonor.” You agreed.
Jack relaxed his hand from his waistband with great dignity. “Proceed.”
Once you had gotten Jack successfully into his sweatpants, you got him water from the bathroom. He drank half of it, made a face like water had personally wronged him, then drank the other half because you raised your eyebrows.
Then you helped him under the covers.
He rolled onto his side and reached for you before you were even in bed.
“No sex,” you said, climbing in beside him. “You’re drunk.”
Jack’s eyes opened with sudden seriousness. “Right. Boundaries.”
“Right.”
Jack nodded gravely, “I respect my lady.”
You nodded, “I know.”
“My wife?” He asked, bright and hopeful.
You smiled into the dark. “Your wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” His arm settled around your waist, heavy and warm. He tucked himself closer, his face pressing into your shoulder, all that theatrical devotion quieting into simple contact.
Outside, Crus’s car finally pulled away.
The house settled again.
You stared into the dark, one hand resting over Jack’s forearm.
His breathing slowed.
Just when you thought he had fallen asleep, he mumbled, barely audible, “Still the sun.”
Your throat tightened. You covered his hand with yours. “Go to sleep, Romeo.”
A pause.
Then, soft and satisfied against your shoulder: “Fuck yeah.”
The Next Day...
Jack woke up to consequences.
The first consequence was pain. His head was splitting. His mouth tasted like old tequila and poor judgment. One of his eyes did not want to open all the way. The room was too bright despite the curtains being mostly closed, and someone had apparently replaced his bones with sandbags.
The second consequence was you.
You were sitting beside him in bed, already showered, wearing leggings and one of his old sweatshirts, sipping coffee with the kind of suspicious cheerfulness that made every instinct in his body go cold.
Jack stared at you through one open eye. “Why are you smiling like that?”
You took a slow sip of coffee. “No reason.”
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then buzzed again. Then again.
Jack closed his eye. “No.”
Your smile widened. “Jack.”
“No.” He said instantly.
You raised a brow, “You should check the group chat.”
“I’m resigning from the group chat,” Jack said.
You shook your head, “You can’t resign from a group chat.”
“I can resign from medicine,” Jack replied.
The phone buzzed again.
Jack groaned and reached for it with the despair of a man approaching his own autopsy report.
The first message was from Robby.
ROMEO ABBOT: THE DIRECTOR’S CUT
Below it was a video.
The thumbnail showed Jack in the front yard, one hand raised toward the bedroom window, mouth open mid-sentence, body angled with what appeared to be tragic nobility.
Jack stared. His stomach dropped. “What,” he said slowly, “is that?”
You leaned closer, bright-eyed. “Art.”
He pressed play.
On the screen, his own drunk voice rang out. “But soft—what light through yonder house hole—”
Crus’s voice corrected, “Window.”
Jack stopped the video. Silence.
You sipped your coffee.
Jack set the phone very carefully on the blanket. “I’m deleting Robby from my life.”
You smiled into your mug, “You also tried to duel Shen.”
His eyes closed. “I need to be buried.”
“You called them courtship rocks.” You added,
He opened one eye. “What?”
You pointed toward the dresser. Sitting atop it, in a tiny ceramic dish, were three pieces of driveway gravel.
Jack stared at them. “You kept them?”
You smiled, “Of course I kept them.”
His face changed, just slightly.
Even hungover, even mortified, he softened.
Then he noticed one pebble sitting separately in the center.
His brow furrowed. “Why is that one in the middle?”
“That’s the one that hit me.” You answered.
Jack stared at you. Then at the pebble. Then back at you. “It hit you?”
“Gently.”
His face went pale. “Where?”
You smiled over the rim of your coffee. “My sweatshirt.”
A memory seemed to crawl through the hangover.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Then closed. “Oh god.”
“You asked if it went down my shirt.” You said, enjoying the memory.
He did not move.
You pressed your lips together. “You offered to get it.”
He pulled the blanket over his face.
From underneath it, muffled and ruined, came, “I was trying to be helpful.”
“You were very respectful when I said no.” You told him.
The blanket lowered just enough for one eye to appear. “I was?”
“You were.” You assured him.
That seemed to make him feel marginally better.
Then his phone buzzed again.
You picked it up before he could stop you. “Oh, good. Robby sent another angle.”
Jack went still. “Another angle?”
“We have the doorbell camera too.” You explained.
His head turned very slowly toward you. “No.”
You nodded, “Oh, yes.”
“You have security footage?” He asks.
“From two angles.” You replied happily.
“Two?”
You nodded again, “Doorbell and driveway. I sent them to Robby.”
Jack lowered himself back onto the pillow and covered his face with both hands.
A long silence. Then, muffled, “I’m leaving.”
“You live here.” You told him.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “With you?”
“Yes.”
He watched you for a beat, hungover and miserable and somehow still hopeful. “We’re married?”
You smiled. “We’re married.”
A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Fuck yeah.”
You laughed and leaned down to kiss his temple.
He accepted it with a little hum.
Then he muttered, “Did I at least do okay?”
You looked at your husband.
At the man who had jumped out of a car at a red light because he could not stand being two blocks away from you. The man who had thrown rocks at your window, accidentally hit your sweatshirt, threatened an honor duel, tried to climb the house, and rediscovered your marriage with fresh joy every single time.
You brushed your fingers through his hair. “You wooed me.”
regency!jack abbot is so good and i love him. throwing the rocks? quoting what he can still remember from shakesphere? defending your honor? preparing to duel? all of it, perfection 🤌
and the constantly needing to be remidned that your married? idk if you posted this before or after "where the hell is my husband" but it's just so cute how the reader and jack have such similar responses when they remember that they're married to the other person. "hell yeah" meets "fuck yeah" and it's wonderful!
Summary: Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies. But after spending far too much time with nothing more than a couple lingering touches—you’re getting a little frustrated. Too bad Dean can’t seem to take a hint.
CW: Barely any plot, quickies, unprotected PIV, hot library sex (mmm), reader is a little a lot frustrated, Dean’s a major cock block, getting caught (so, accidental voyeurism? I guess?), and no, they’re not into it… sorry!
WC: 4.6K
Based on this request!
Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies.
It’s a fact that you’ve, rather unfortunately, become painfully aware of over the past year. One that can make you melt one moment, and lose your mind the next.
Because when it comes to you, Sam takes his time.
If he had it his way, every night spent with you would stretch long past midnight, bodies tangled beneath motel sheets while the rest of the world seems to fade into nothing. He’d kiss you so slow that your lungs would run out of air, and you’d have to drag it back in between gasps as he touches every inch of your skin with careful hands. There’s nothing rushed about the way Sam loves you, and nothing careless, either. He makes damn sure that you’re nothing less than spoiled, left boneless and worshipped against his chest, drifting in the hazy bliss of exhaustion as his heart thumps beneath your cheek.
And God, you love him for it. Most of the time.
But the downside of dating Sam is that his life comes with a permanent, trauma-bonded punishment attached at the hip, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester.
You love Dean. You really, really do. He’s family, always has been, and always will be—that’s just a fact of life. But there’s moments, usually when you haven’t spent more than five uninterrupted minutes alone with your gorgeous boyfriend in over a week, that fantasizing about wringing out the older man’s neck like a dish towel becomes your go to form of stress relief.
The two of you need to run some errands? Dean has the impalas keys in his hand before either of you can speak.
Need to interview some witnesses for a case? Well, apparently, the only thing better than two fake FBI agents is three.
Want to stop at some cute diner you noticed for a bite to eat? Oh, you’ve just read Dean’s mind, because he’s been dreaming about pie since last week.
It’s endless, and it’s starting to become unbearable. Especially when you’ve spent the last two weeks with nothing more than a little heavy petting, and it’s starting to feel like some forced dry spell. By day fifteen, you’re pretty sure Dean’s doing it on purpose.
Maybe not meticulously, or even consciously, but either way, you’re going a little insane. For a man so sex-oriented, you’d think he’d be less oblivious about how much of a cock block he’s become; and there’s only so many interrupted moments and unwanted third-wheeling a woman can take before she starts making up conspiracy theories.
Like tonight, for example.
You and Sam had finally managed to peel away after dinner under the excuse of breaking into the local library past close, and digging through some lore archives for your case of the week. Your plan to jump your adorably clueless boyfriend, and climb him like a fucking tree, was in full swing.
And God, it almost worked. It should have worked. Dean had barely looked at you over his burger as he waved the two of you off, mumbling something about not wanting to join in on your little nerd club.
But, of course, fate had other plans. Because not ten minutes later, he’d had some stupid change of heart. And coupled with Sam’s inability to say no, your sweet little library date had turned into a three-person job.
So, you sit wedged beside Sam in an old rickety chair, pressed close enough to rest your shoulder against his, as Dean slouches across from you looking bored out of his skull. Honestly, you’re just grateful he’s finally stopped bragging about his alarm disarming abilities after the three of you busted in through the back door. The silence that’s settled in in the aftermath, though, only makes you twitchy.
Sam’s warm at your side, his thigh brushing against yours every time his leg bounces against the dusty floor. To his credit, he really is researching, which doesn’t surprise you one bit. There’s that familiar, deep furrow in his brow, accompanied by a look of intense focus lighting up his hazel eyes as he scans each page. You, on the other hand, haven’t flipped a single page of your copy of ‘Daemonologie’ in over twenty minutes.
Because Christ, it’s pretty damn hard to focus on mind numbing lore when Sam’s so close, and smells like fucking heaven.
It’s a little stupid, really, how a few dry weeks have managed to wound you up so tight, that you’re vibrating in your seat like a bitch in heat. But that revelation sure as hell doesn’t stop your foot from tapping restlessly against the floor, or do a damn thing about the way you’re practically salivating over the scent of Sam’s shampoo. But, hey, you’d thrown away subtle nearly ten minutes ago, the moment Sam’s beautifully long fingers started tracing the faded ink of some demonic sigil, and you had to resist every primal urge to lick the veins on his hand.
You’re about five seconds from drooling when you break the silence.
“Alright.” You slam your hands down on the table, spooking an unsuspecting Dean, who’d just laid his head down over his forearms—Sam’s head snapping towards you. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Dean groans his agreement, shoving away the book that he hadn’t touched since he’d sat down. “…Thank God. Y’know, I saw a dive a few blocks over. We should—”
“—There’s a microfilm reader in the back,” you interrupt smoothly. “We can flip through old newspapers, look for an actual, visible pattern.”
Dean’s mouth clicks shut at your words, and you swear you’ve never seen him look quite so betrayed. He blinks at you, before throwing his head back like he’d just been sentenced to life in prison.
Sam, on the other hand, folds his book closed with silent care, tilting his head towards you in silent question.
“Microfilm?” he echos, raising a brow, before offering a shrug. “I mean. Beats sifting through physicals, but…”
You shoot him a less than friendly look, one he must some-what understand (bless his soul), because his mouth snaps closed before he can finish his sentence.
“…Right,” he amends.
“Whatever, sweetheart,” Dean grumbles, already moving to stand. “Let’s all go stare at some ancient newspaper clippings ‘til our eyes start to bleed.”
And oh. Oh, absolutely not.
“Dean,” you say flatly, “you hate microfilm.”
He freezes halfway to standing, argument already on the tip of his tongue, but you’re faster.
“Last time, you almost smashed the damn thing before Sam took over.”
You stand quickly, too quickly, knee thumping against the table in your haste, your hand falling to plant firmly on Sam’s shoulder.
“You stay here, Dean. Keep watch, take a nap, or whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing for the past half an hour. We won’t be long.” You give Sam a soft squeeze. “Right, Sammy?”
Sam lifts his head to meet your gaze, staring at you with those big, earnest puppy eyes, wide and slightly confused. He looks unfairly pretty in this light, all messy hair, sleepy focus, pink lips slightly parted in silent question.
He glances at your hand on his shoulder briefly, then back to your face, like he’s trying to piece together why you’re suddenly so intent on getting him alone. Which, unfortunately, is a fair question. Not that you care.
“Uh,” he buffers quietly. “Yeah. ‘Course.”
Dean plops back down in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, kicking up both his feet. He doesn’t even pretend to read this time, just watches you with narrowed eyes full of suspicion, and, well. Maybe mild annoyance.
You spare him one last mostly well natured smile as Sam stands, but you don’t let him get another word in before you’re practically herding his brother across the library with far too much enthusiasm to be casual. The back room is quiet, dimly lit, and just far enough from the main library to fall out of earshot. Perfect. The door groans in protest as you pull it shut behind you, creaking loud enough to make you wince. And then you notice it.
No lock.
The realization gives you pause for exactly half a second before it’s buried beneath need so thick you have to swallow it down to keep it momentarily contained. Because honestly, now that you finally have Sam alone… a flimsy detail like that is nothing but an afterthought.
Sam, the sweetheart, who somehow still hasn’t managed to connect the dots, moves instinctively towards one of the desks in a few short strides. He leans over the tabletop, bangs falling lazily over his forehead, his hand moving for the knob.
“What are you doing?” you ask, unable to keep amusement from creeping into your tone. His finger hovers halfway over the microfilm reader’s power switch, eyes flicking from it to you. That big, Stanford brain of his trying so hard to decipher where he’s missed a cue.
“What?”
The question comes out a little croaked, and the puppy-eyed sincerity of it damn near brings you to your knees.
“Sam.” You take one slow step forward, tilting your head with an almost innocent smile. “I thought my eye-fucking was getting a little obvious.”
He freezes. Not dramatically, no, more like a slow, dawning realization washing over him like a wave. That sweet, dumb face of his finally cracks into something else, something warm. Something darker. The kind of look that makes your stomach flip, and heat coil low in your core.
His hand slides away from the switch in a slow, teasing drag, as he pushes himself back up to his full height, stalking towards you in a few measured steps. Shadows fall over his features, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose—and that gorgeous dimple that’s just begun to show itself with the heated smirk that spreads across his lips.
“Oh?” he breathes, voice rougher now. “Really? Here?”
“Yeah,” you purr, and there’s nothing subtle about the way your gaze drops to his lips before flicking back up. “Here.”
You don’t let him think too hard about it before your fist is curling around his collar, and his lips are crashing against yours.
It’s not slow, or testing, or soft. No, it’s immediate hunger. It’s you pouring weeks of desperation and need into a single action, mouth devouring his with every ounce of frustration you’ve bottled up tight enough to burst. He exhales into it, a warm puff against your cheek, as those big hands that have been haunting your fantasies slide up to cradle your jaw with infinite levels of care. His fingers splay over your cheeks, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as he tilts your face closer to his like he can’t get enough.
He pulls back just long enough to drag in a breath, the taste of him still heavy on your tongue.
“We’re in a library,” he reasons, your noses brushing, breaths mingling.
“We are.”
“Dean’s just outside.”
“He is.”
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, and you can tell he wants to drag this out. Make it last. Take you apart so slow that you’ll be shaking in his grasp, and the only word left on your tongue is his name.
But right now? That… that just won’t do. You part again with a slick pop.
“…And you’re sure about this?” he asks, of course he does, and your heart squeezes tight in your chest.
You raise a brow, moving for another kiss, but he dodges you with a chuckle. You can’t help but glare.
“That’s not an answer, baby.”
“Been soakin’ wet since you bitched out that asshole cop earlier,” you tease, raising one palm to trace down his chest. “That an answer?”
He pauses for a moment, considering, then his expression breaks out into a sweet, cocky grin, and then he’s crushing his lips back on yours. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the surface. Like he wants nothing more than to drink you down and swallow you whole. One arm loops around your waist, cradling you closer, spinning you until you’re caged between him and one of the cold, veneer-lined desks. His tongue slips between parted lips, exploring your mouth with a hunger that belies the tenderness of his touch.
“Up,” he murmurs between licks, tapping your hip with two calloused fingers, before hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting. You squeak, a sound that earns you the world’s most panty-dropping snicker, your ass hitting the desk with a thud. The heat of your core contrasted by the cool surface sends a new spark of want through your system, left sizzling beneath layers of pesky fabric.
Hot, feverish kisses pepper your throat not a moment later, as he splays his palms over your thighs, nudging them apart until they bracket his hips. Massive hands hold you in place, heavy and warm and so damn close to where you’re aching for him. A shiver rips through you like lightning as his lips trail up your neck, soft and wet against heated skin. He finds that sensitive spot, the one just below your ear, lingering on it with slow, open-mouthed kisses, nipping gently before soothing the sting with a lap of his tongue. Sparks climb up your spine like a kindling fire, a poorly-stifled moan whirling from your lips.
You’re already panting, heart slamming against your chest, your fingers sliding to tangle in his messy hair to keep him right where you want him. Your other hand drags swiftly down his front, pressing into the butter-soft expanse of his chest, finally palming at his belt with fingers that have already begun to tremble.
His lips disconnect with your neck with a sharp inhale as he straightens up, meeting your darkened gaze. You almost fucking whine at the loss.
“Woah, hey.” His large hand covers your wrist, not pushing you away—thank God—but turning it over gently in his grasp, thumb sliding to rest over your racing pulse point. Even that simple touch has you squirming. “Easy, baby. ‘M gonna take real good care of you first, yeah?”
It’s sweet. Really sweet.
In fact, it’s so sweet, that your pussy clenches around nothing, and that simply won’t cut it. The only thing it really does is make you want him even more. As in, like, as soon as fucking possible. You pinch your eyes shut, forehead thumping against his chest, before looking back up at him with the most pleading look you can muster.
“Sam. Sweetheart. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before Dean barges in here ‘cause he’s bored,” you argue, and the tight-lipped, almost shy look he gives you almost has you melting right there. “Just need you. Right now. Please.”
Sam swallows hard, pulse thumping so hard in his throat that you can practically see it. The man is quite literally vibrating with need, a shaky breath escaping him as his eyes drop from yours, traveling back to your kiss-bitten lips. If he was attempting to be nobly subtle, he unfortunately fails. Miserably.
“…I don’t wanna hurt you,” he lands on, and it’s so Sam that you have to fight the primal urge to shut him up with another kiss.
“You won’t.”
He opens his mouth again, probably to argue, or say something far too responsible for your liking, but instead, he loses. His mouth surges firmly back onto yours with such force that your head gets tilted back, and you let out your second embarrassing sound of the night, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. His tongue shoves right back through the seam of your lips, licking hot against yours with such fever that the situation in your jeans starts to become a little unbearable.
“Okay,” he concedes, mostly to himself, tugging his belt open in one sharp movement that probably shouldn’t make you nearly as stupid-horny as it does. You want to complain about not being able to do it yourself—but you forget every word of protest the second he tugs down his zipper, and your gaze lands on the throbbing bulge in his boxers.
Yup. You’re going to be wet for fucking weeks.
“C’mere,” he purrs, his big, grabby hands scooping around your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the desk until you have to white-knuckle his shoulders to stay upright. He chuckles, the sound vibrating straight through you, his nimble fingers popping the button of your jeans, helping you to shimmy them away. You wiggle and squirm until they fall somewhere beneath Sam’s feet, and he kicks them aside, taking a greedy handful of your now bare ass. “So fuckin’ pretty.”
He latches his lips back just below the curve of your jaw, licking and suckling at your skin as his fingers squeeze hot over your thigh. Your eyes flutter closed, consumed by the arousal flooding your senses, and finally, fucking finally, you feel two thick fingers pull your ruined panties to the side.
The fabric peels from your core, sticking to your drenched pussy as Sam’s fingers replace it swiftly, and oh, it’s electric. His breath comes faster than before, warm against your neck in punched-out puffs as your body reacts to him, arching into his touch. Two tough finger pads glide easily as he parts your folds, applying a ghost of pressure over your clit for one heavenly second before he’s circling your entrance. You’re dripping. Clenching around fucking nothing. And still—he’s teasing you slow with those unfairly hot dimples popping on his cheeks.
“Sam,” you scold, but God, it’s weak. Real fucking weak. And when one finger dips into your weeping cunt, you damn near cry. “Please, baby. C’mon...”
“Shhh…” he croons, sneaking a quick, mean kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Just makin’ sure you’re ready f’me.”
You don’t get to complain before he’s adding another digit, curling just right, dragging across that spongy, fluttery spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back, and has a broken gasp tearing from your lips. It’s like he intended to shut you up, and it absolutely worked.
“You weren’t kiddin’ about the cop thing, huh?” he teases, and you squeeze his fingers like some sort of warning. He full body shudders like you’ve just done it around his dick. “Soaking wet. Musta’ been a little uncomfortable, baby.”
“You have no idea.”
Your twitchy fingers snake right back between the two of you, this time dipping below his waistband. Your fist circles around his thick cock, and you relish in the very sexy groan he spills into your ear. He’s hard enough to hurt, leaking onto your palm, and he drags his fingers out of you just to help you free his throbbing dick in one quick movement. You can’t help but ogle as you pump him once, twice, nudging that fat cockhead between your folds, his thumb holding the soaked gusset of your panties to the side.
“Ready?” he asks, just one more time, those dark, blown pupils studying yours, glittering with arousal.
“Shut up n’ fuck me already.”
Whatever hesitation he was holding onto snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. He kisses you hard, a rough collision of teeth and tongue. One hand braces on the edge of the desk while the other guides his dick through your dripping pussy, collecting the slick that’s practically caked to your core. When he finally presses forward, it’s slow. So damn slow.
So slow that you feel every bit of the delicious stretch, and his pulse pounds against you in more ways than one. Your back bows into the feeling as your chest presses against his, heat exploding through every nerve ending.
You’re panting by the time you take half of him, and when he’s fully seated, you have to suck saliva back in through your teeth before you drool dumbly. Sam’s thumb slides off from your panties, opting to splay his full hand along the expanse of your inner thigh, holding you as wide as you can go. The pressure in your belly coils so hot that for a moment, you wonder how the hell you’ve survived over two weeks without this.
A groan rips out of him, unfiltered and raw, and the second it hits your ears, it’s already vibrated through his chest and yours alike. Sam’s eyes slam shut for half a second like he’s just been electrocuted by the tight squeeze of your walls so perfectly around him. It’s beautiful, really, a sight that would have you dripping if you weren’t already. His jaw clenches hard, tendons standing out on his sweat-slick neck, fighting for control. His hips shift just slightly then, a gentle, testing rock that has fire licking up your spine.
“Fuck, yes,” you gasp, fingers curling around his strong forearm. And oh, that’s all he needed.
He pulls back gently, before snapping forward in a deep, enthusiastic roll. The desk creaks beneath you like it’s threatening to break, and suddenly, he’s not being so careful anymore.
You wiggle in his grasp, a plea for more, and he doesn’t spare a single moment. He scoops one leg up high over his waist, hips canting into you with a new kind of fever. The pace he sets is dizzying, desperate, damn-near sob worthy, his thick cock splitting you in half so fucking perfectly that stars explode behind your eyelids. Each thrust presses you harder into the desk, his breath huffing ragged against your neck. You reach for him instinctively, fingers splaying everywhere you can reach, taking greedy fistfuls of Sam.
“Y’take me so well,” he chokes, as he leans back to fuck you in powerful, measured strokes, driving you higher and higher with every slap of skin. His muscled abdomen clenches taut as arousal pulls at his belly, and you can feel the tension beneath your palm. “So—so fuckin’ good, just for me.”
White-hot pleasure crashes through you in waves with every ruthless pound. You barely have it in you to hold yourself upright, raising your hands so your fingers can dimple hard into the meat of Sam’s shoulder for even the slightest lick of leverage. Your cunt sucks him in like it was made to, the heavy upward curve of his cock brushing right fucking there, over and over and oh fuck, you can only hope the room is soundproof.
“S-Sam, don’ stop, p-please—”
Gasps and moans and pleas tear from deep in your chest, ecstasy bubbling through you so hot, that you have to bury your face in the crook of Sam’s neck before you wake up the entire city.
He hums into your hair, a smooth, comforting rumble, such a contrast to the way his cock bullies your sweet spot with every brutal thrust. Your lips find his throat, sucking sloppy kisses to his heated skin, but busying your mouth sure as hell doesn’t stop the string of cries from spilling into his ear.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, one arm slipping around your back to tangle in your hair, holding you tight to his chest. It leaves little space between you, if any at all—his hips snapping in quick, short thrusts that hit so deep that you swear you can taste it. “Feels so good, doesn’ it? So full? Tha’s what you needed, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm,” you manage, but it’s broken. So broken. It’s hard to remain coherent when you’re being fucked dumb, and Sam isn’t exactly leaving room for mercy. He squeezes his hand between you, thumb finding your clit with expert-level accuracy, and suddenly, you’re done.
You’re right there. Right fucking there. You tumble closer, closer, closer, until you’re teetering on the edge, dangling off, Sam’s perfect fingers and his perfect cock about to push you over, and—
“What the hell?!”
The sharp, deep voice of Dean-fucking-Winchester stops your orgasm cold like a silver blade slicing through flesh. Shock tears through you as you squeeze Sam tighter than a vice. His hips snap forward hard, way too fucking hard, his body enveloping yours as his palm slaps over your mouth to muffle your forced-out cry.
Sam’s torso practically crushes yours, sparing most of your dignity (thank God for those damn shoulders), your forehead thumping against his chest as his hand slips from your face. Your heart pounds like a snare drum against your ribcage, the strangest combination of sexual frustration and utter mortification washing through your veins.
“Get. Out,” Sam barks, quick, his strained voice sharp as he turns his head towards his brother. You’re suddenly incredibly thankful for your haste—because, hey, at least Sam’s jeans never made it below his waist—but yours sure as hell did, and your only cover is Sam’s body. You tilt your head just enough to peek through the sliver between Sam’s arm and his side, and oh. Oh God.
You’ve never seen Dean look like that before.
He’s white as a fucking sheet, and if you weren’t completely horrified, it would probably be hilarious. Standing in the doorway, he looks entirely scandalized, jaw hanging wide open, eyes threatening to pop right out of his skull, before he snaps out of it long enough to throw a hand over his eyes, turning his head away.
“Yeah, I—don’t you think I’d freakin’ love to?” he spits, shaking his head like he’s seconds away from losing his mind completely. “I mean, Jesus, what are you two, high schoolers? You’d think—”
“Dean,” you choke, and Sam flinches like he’d forgotten you were there entirely. Which, well, is unlikely, considering the fact that he’s still buried to the hilt inside of you.
“We’ve gotta go. Now. Apparently my, uh, alarm disarming skills are pretty rusty,” he stammers, the hand that isn’t covering his eyes reaching for the door. “Put your freakin’ pants on, and go. There’s goddamn cops outside.”
Well, shit.
If that isn’t just worst case scenario, you’re not entirely sure what is.
He finally stomps out of the room, muttering an irritated “seriously!” as he goes, and the second he does, a long puff of air floods from your lungs in a ragged sweep. Every cell in your body is practically vibrating for you just crawl in a hole, and never return—but there’s another part of you that’s just pissed. Because Christ, after waiting so fucking long, is a little bit of relief really that much to ask for?
You’re busy wallowing in your newfound despair, attempting to shuffle your ass backwards to get up, when two warm palms plant firmly on your cheeks, tilting your face up to look at his. Sam’s eyes are wide, undoubtedly panicked, brows pinched so hard that a sharp crease has formed between them.
“Fuck—‘m so sorry. Are you—you okay?” His thumbs swipe at the sweat beading at your temples, touch gentle now, fingers shaking where they cradle your face. “Did I hurt you?”
“What? I’m fine, Sam,” you grumble, but that sure as hell doesn’t ease the look of pure concern on his sweet face. Still, you push yourself back just a little more, and he takes the hint, pulling out so tenderly that you barely even hiss at the feeling. “…Physically, anyway.”
“You’re sure? I just, Jesus, just fuckin’ manhandled you, baby.”
Somehow, that makes you laugh despite everything. “Pass me my jeans,” you snicker, and he moves quickly, following your command without another word. His free hand fumbles with the zipper of his pants, and you hop off the table on wobbly legs.
But that fire in your core?
Apparently, a two-week dry spell turns you completely insatiable.
Sam stands again, passing you your now wrinkled jeans. But instead of taking them back right away, your hand lifts, curling around his collar again, pulling him close until only a lick of distance remains between your lips.
“We’re not done,” you whisper, and God, you watch his pupils swallow all colour in his eyes in real time.
“…Later?” he purrs.
“Later.”
AN: So, I’d actually planned to post something else, and then got distracted and wrote this in a couple of hours. My bad. Needed something fun 🤣
I’m going to take this opportunity to apologize for my very, very slow writing skills… there is so much going on in my life right now, it’s driving me crazy, and I can’t focus on my word porn as much as I’d love to. But hey, gimme a couple weeks, trust the process!
omg this was fantastic!!! you did wonderful my love, be proud of yourself!!!!
sam winchester doesn't do quickies
strongly agree this boy wants to take his time and love you plus we all know this man is big and will make sure you're ready for him
apparently, the only thing better than two fake FBI agents is three.
this made me giggle lol. the winchesters are, infact, co-dependent puppy dogs. you can't love one without loving the other. and i honestly agree that dean would need reminders about boundaries and space, even though he's very happy that you and sam are together.
i found it so funny that he couldn't read social cues in this fic
you'd thrown away subtle nearly ten minutes ago, the moment Sam's beautifully long fingers started tracing the faded ink of some demonic sigil, and you had to resist every primal urge to lick the veins on his hand.
REAL
Y'know, I saw a dive a few blocks over.
as much as i wanted sam smut, dean was (unfortunately) so funny and i couldn't help but love him
me waitign for dean to leave so i can jump my man:
That big, Standford brain of his trying so hard to decipher where he's missed a cue.
oh my sweet boy. i choose to believe the only reason he wasn't ready to jump us as badly was because he's always so focused on being good, doing good, and saving people that he loses sight of his own needs when he's on a case.
and that gorgeous dimple that's just begun to show itself with the heated smirt that spreads across his lips
y'all i genuinely get feral when he smirks so yeah i would jump him in the library
He exhales into it, a warm puff against your cheek, as those big hands that have been haunting your fantasies slide up to cradle your jaw with infinite levels of care.
so on a serious note, i loved this. i can always imagine the way he would genuinely do this so it's a great line to describe sammy.
on a slightly less serious note, HIS HANDS!!! like what do i need to get him to hold my face like that
We're in a library...Dean's just outside
it's just his brain catching up bc all his blood went somewhere else
this was also so funny to me bc he knows what he's about to do and i know what we're about to do. like babe just throw me on the table and take your pants off NOW
Been soakin' wet since you bitched out that asshole cop earlier
He's just so hot when he's fighting with authority figures. Like he doesn't care about their "power," he cares about what's right. He's hot all the time but you get my point.
"Up"
okayyyyyyyy
You squeak, a sound that earns you the world's most panty-dropping snicker
sam winchester gets off on his partner making noises and no one can convince me otherwise. whether you just make them or he has to coax them from you, it makes him insanely cocky and proud and that just makes him hotter so it's a never-ending cycle.
'M gonna take real good care of you first, yeah?
he would be the kind of guy to insist on taking his time despite being in an unlocked room in a building you broke into with his brother. idk if this is what you intended, but (to me) it reads as if he just loves you so much and he's such a dedicated lover that it all leaves his brain when he's with you.
"You weren't kiddin' about the cop thing, huh?" he teases
ugh he's such a smart ass and a tease. i love him your honor.
seriously, smug sam is just criminally hot, like he melts my brain
sam's eyes slam shut for half a second like he's just been electrocuted by the tight squeeze of your walls so perfectly around him
poetry
his jaw clenches hard, tendons standing out on his sweat-slick neck, fighting for control. his hips shift just slightly then, a gentle, testing rock that has fire licking up your spine.
the pace he sets is dizzying, desperate, damn-near sob worthy, his thick cock splitting you in half so perfectly that stars explode behind your eyelids
"y'take me so well," he chokes, as he leans back to fuck you in powerful, measured strokes, driving you higher and higher with every slap of skin
i have no words
"feels so good, doesn' it? so full? tha's what you needed, huh?"
he's so fucking smug but i love him for it
Get. Out.
i know we just got caught, but that was so hot
you've never seen dean look like that before
first of all, i genuinely can't believe that you edged me like that. i was genuinely surprised that we got caught before finishing, but it was funny
i also found dean being so scandalized to be kind of cute because he's usually so nonchalant about talking about sex with sam but him reacting like this was like a testament to how he views us (the reader)
like he cares about us as individuals and as sam's partner
Jesus, just fuckin' manhandled you, baby
hell yeah you did and it was great. the way he just switches between such gentle care and being confident and smug gives me whiplash but it's also one of the reasons i love him–and you write it fantastically.
so, in conclusion, this was great and i need him to throw me on a desk and finish what he started.
lol i literally work at a library and i'm going to be thinking about this every time i'm alone for the closing shift.
if you got this far and you know how to resize photos on Tumblr please share bc i feel like they look HUGE and idk if that's a me problem or a tumblr problem (tumblr please don't get mad, i love you)
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I was going through my likes so I could repost a fic (I like to do my reposts on my computer so I can type and add photos), and I cannot believe that I didn't like this one
It's a jack abbot x virgin!reader. They've been dating for a while, and the reader says something like "don't you think it's weird we haven't had sex yet?" and Jack just says that he's been waiting for the reader to make a move and that he would be okay if they never had sex
He's really sweet and calm about the whole conversation, and he asks if they want to ask him any questions. I remember one of the questions being about what he does with his leg, and he says he takes it off for most positions but keeps it on for some
if anyone could help find it i would be eternally grateful!! i'd like to give it the like and repost it deserves (and reread it obviously)🫶
Summary: A night out with Robby, Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, and Mel takes a turn when you get drunk, refuse to leave the bar, and start loudly demanding to know where your husband is. Santos calls Jack. Jack arrives. Unfortunately for everyone in the bar, you are drunk and do not immediately recognize him as your husband.
Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, suggestive jokes, reader being extremely horny for her own husband, Jack being responsible and not engaging sexually while reader is drunk, soft caretaking, lots of teasing, lots of “hell yeah.”
Author's Note:
I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes a woman gets drunk, forgets she is married, and tries to hit on her own husband in public. Sometimes that husband happens to be Jack Abbot. Sometimes he has to provide ring verification every five minutes while trying to get her to drink water.
This is love.
Xoxo, Del
By the time Santos called Jack, you had been singing for twenty-three minutes.
Not continuously.
There had been pauses.
Important pauses.
One pause to tell Robby he was doing the background vocals wrong. Another to inform Whitaker that his attempt to close the tab was “emotionally hostile.” Another to point at a man near the jukebox and announce, with deep conviction, that he was not your husband because your husband had better shoulders.
Mel had tried water.
Javadi had tried fries.
Whitaker had tried logistics.
Robby had tried joining in, which had only made everything worse.
And Santos, because she had the glare of a woman who had spent years keeping doctors from making stupid choices, and no patience left, finally pulled out her phone.
You were standing beside the booth with one hand braced on the table, swaying to the beat of a song that was no longer playing.
“Baby! Woo-hoo, where the hell is my husband? Woo-hoo! What is takin' him so long to find me? Woo-hoo!”
Robby lifted both hands as if he were conducting you. “Great projection.”
Santos pointed at him. “Stop encouraging her.”
Robby shrugged, “She’s an artist.”
“She is refusing to leave a bar because she thinks her husband has been misplaced,” Santos replied.
You turned sharply. Too sharply. Mel caught your elbow before gravity could make a compelling argument.
“He is not misplaced,” you said.
Santos lowered the phone slightly. “No?”
You frowned, “He is missing.”
Javadi nodded from the end of the booth, phone in hand, filming with the calm detachment of someone documenting history. “The distinction is important.”
Whitaker rubbed both hands over his face. “It is not.”
You slapped one palm gently against the table. “My husband is handsome and tall and sexy and has doctor hands.”
Robby leaned toward Mel. “Doctor's hands is specific.”
Mel nodded. “And accurate.”
“And,” you continued, because you were not finished and everyone needed to understand the scale of the emergency, “he has very serious pecs.”
Santos closed her eyes.
Robby whispered, “Here we go.”
You pointed at him. “Respect the pecs.”
“I do,” Robby said immediately.
Whitaker slid your glass of water toward you. “Can we respect the pecs from the parking lot?”
You shake your head quickly, “No.”
“Why?” He groans.
You point towards the door, “Because my husband is not in the parking lot.”
Santos pressed Jack’s contact and lifted the phone to her ear.
You gasped. “Are you calling him?”
She nodded, “Yes.”
“No!” You exclaimed.
Santos looked at you. “No?”
You shook your head, “I don’t want to call him.”
“You have been singing for him for twenty-three minutes,” Santos said.
You rolled your eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I want him to appear.”
Robby slapped the table once. “That is marriage.”
Santos ignored him and turned slightly away as the call connected.
Jack answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
His voice came through low and alert, and you froze.
Santos looked at you.
You stared at her phone like it had become sacred.
“Abbot,” Santos said.
There was a small pause on the other end. “Santos?”
“You busy?” She asks.
“At home.” Jack’s voice sharpened. “Is she okay?”
You grabbed Mel’s wrist and whispered very loudly, “Is that my husband?”
Mel patted your hand. “Yes, honey.”
You looked down at your left hand.
Your wedding rings gleamed under the warm bar lights.
You gasped. “I have wife jewelry.”
Robby bent forward with a wheeze. “Wife jewelry.”
On the phone, Jack went quiet. “What was that?”
Santos looked at you as you lifted your hand in front of your face and admired your rings with genuine awe.
“She is okay,” Santos said carefully.
Jack exhaled. “Define okay.”
You turned toward the booth again, apparently remembering your mission. “Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?” You pick up your song.
Jack went silent.
Robby threw his head back and supplied a terrible echo. “Woo-hoo!”
Santos pinched the bridge of her nose.
Jack said, “Is that her?”
“No,” Santos said. “That is the jukebox haunting me.”
Jack sighed, “Santos.”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Is she hurt?” He asked.
“No.”
“Sick?” He continued.
“No.”
Jack exhaled, “Crying?”
You pointed at a man near the pool table. “Not him. My husband has a better ass.”
Mel covered her mouth with a hand.
Santos stared at the ceiling. “No. Not crying.”
There was a pause.
Then Jack said, dry as hell, “Did she say something about my ass?”
Robby lunged across the table, trying to get closer to the phone. “Tell him she said better.”
Santos shoved his forehead back with two fingers. “She is refusing to leave until her husband comes to collect her.”
You leaned toward Santos’s phone. “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants.”
Santos pulled the phone away from you. “Absolutely not.”
Jack made a sound that might have been a cough. “I’m leaving now. Send me the address.” He was already moving.
“All right,” Santos said. “I’ll send it.”
In the background, Robby shouted, “Tell him she’s been reviewing his ass for twenty minutes!”
Jack went silent again.
Santos closed her eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”
You reached toward the phone. “Wait, I want to talk to him.”
“No,” Santos said, ending the call.
Your lower lip trembled, “But he’s missing.”
“He’s on his way.” She told you.
That stopped you. Your mouth fell open. “He’s coming?”
Santos slid her phone into her pocket. “Yes.”
You laid a hand on your chest, “To me?”
“Yes.” Trinity nodded.
You pressed both hands to your cheeks. “Oh, fuck.”
Whitaker nodded toward the door. “Great. Now we can go.”
“No,” you said immediately.
His shoulders dropped. “Why not?”
You looked at him like he had just asked the stupidest question in recorded history. “I have to be here when my husband appears.”
Robby raised one hand. “I support her.”
Santos snapped, “No one asked you.”
You sat back down in the booth and folded your hands on the table like you were waiting for a job interview.
Mel slid the water toward you again. “Drink some water while you wait.”
You stared at the glass.
Then at Mel.
Then at Santos.
“What if he gets here and I’m drinking water?” You ask.
Javadi tilted her head. “Would that be bad?”
You frowned, thinking hard. “No. Hydration is sexy.”
Whitaker looked at the ceiling. “Thank God.”
You picked up the glass, took one sip, and set it down with a proud nod.
Then you leaned toward Robby. “Do you think he knows he’s my husband?”
Robby’s face lit with dangerous joy.
Santos pointed at him. “Do not.”
Robby held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
Her eyes narrowed, “You were about to.”
Robby frowned deeply, “I have never done anything wrong in my life.”
Javadi looked up from her phone. “There are videos.”
You tapped your rings against the table, watching them sparkle. “I’m going to ask him.”
Mel smiled. “Ask him what?”
“If he’s my husband.” You answer.
Whitaker muttered, “This will be efficient.”
“It will not,” Santos said.
And it wasn’t.
Because when Jack walked in seven minutes later, everything in you stopped working.
He came through the door in jeans, sneakers, and a dark hoodie under his jacket, like he had pulled on the first clothes he found and driven over without thinking about anything except getting to you. His hair was messy, his expression serious, and his eyes scanned the bar once before landing on your booth.
On you.
You stopped mid-hum.
Your hand tightened around Mel’s wrist. “Oh no.”
Mel followed your gaze. “What?”
You pointed. “That man has pecs like my husband’s.”
Robby twisted in his seat so fast he nearly knocked over Whitaker’s drink.
Santos sighed. “That man is your husband.”
You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on Jack as he crossed the bar. “No.”
Javadi kept filming. “Denial phase.”
Jack reached the table and looked you over first, quick and clinical, because he was Jack. No visible injury. No tears. No panic. Just you, drunk and bright-eyed and staring at him like he had been sent from some divine catalog of bad ideas.
His shoulders eased. “Hey, baby.”
You blinked. Then slowly turned to Santos. “He called me baby.”
She nodded slowly, “Because he is your husband.”
You whipped back toward him. “You are?”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
He lifted his left hand without hesitation.
His wedding band caught the bar light.
You looked down at your own rings.
Then back at his.
Then at your rings again. “Oh, my god.”
Jack’s face softened. “Yeah?”
You beam. “We match.”
“We do.” He replied.
You looked him up and down, with a long pause at his chest. “Hell yeah.”
Robby slammed both hands on the table. “And we’re off.”
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Don’t.”
You leaned toward Mel, still staring at Jack. “He has very serious pecs.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
Mel’s shoulders shook. “I know, honey.”
“Do you think he works out?” You whispered to Trinity.
Santos answered before Jack could. “Occasionally.”
You nodded solemnly. “It’s working.”
Jack opened his eyes. “Okay. Time to go.”
You frowned. Then looked him up and down again. “Hey, soldier.”
The whole booth went quiet.
Jack stared at you.
Santos slowly turned her head. “Oh, my god.”
You gave Jack what you clearly thought was a seductive smile. “You come here often?”
Jack’s mouth twitched again, despite his best efforts. “To retrieve my drunk wife from a bar? No.”
Your eyes went wide. “Wife?”
He lifted his hand again.
You looked at his ring.
Then yours.
Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”
Javadi, still filming, said, “The verification system remains functional.”
Jack looked at her phone. “Are you recording?”
“Yes.” She answered instantly.
Jack groans, “Why?”
“Documentation,” Victoria answered.
“It’s behavioral science,” Robby added.
Jack ignored all of them and reached for the water glass instead of you. “Drink.”
You froze. Then you sat up straighter, eyes suddenly sharp with drunk discovery. “Huh.”
Jack paused. “Huh?”
You pointed at him. “Attending voice.”
Robby made a delighted noise. “Oh, she clocked it.”
Jack gave him a flat look. “Do not participate.”
You leaned toward Santos, whispering very loudly. “He said drink like he was about to order labs.”
Santos nodded. “He did.”
“I did not,” Jack said.
Mel patted your shoulder. “You kind of did.”
Jack pushed the glass closer. “Three sips.”
Your lips parted. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Please just drink the water.”
You picked up the glass with both hands, still staring at him. “You’re very bossy for a stranger.”
Jack opened his eyes. “I’m not a stranger.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Then you looked down at your rings again.
Jack lifted his hand.
You inspected his wedding band with deep seriousness.
“Right,” you said. “Husband.”
“Yes,” Jack confirmed.
You took one sip.
Jack nodded once. “Good.”
You set the glass down too hard. “No.”
His brow furrowed. “No?”
“You can’t say ‘good’ with attending voice.” You frowned.
Robby dropped his forehead onto the table. “She’s right.”
Jack pointed at him. “Not another word.”
You finished the water because Jack stood there with crossed arms and serious eyes, and the world had become a place where hydration was suddenly compelling.
When you set the glass down, Jack picked up your coat. “Arm.”
You inhaled sharply.
Santos pointed at him. “That one was attending voice.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “I need her arm in the sleeve.”
You looked at him, dazed. “You need my arm?”
Jack took a slow breath. “Baby.”
You melted back against the booth. “Oh, Jackie.”
That got him. Just a little. His expression shifted, the stern line of his mouth almost breaking.
Santos saw it immediately. “Don’t reward her.”
“I’m not rewarding her,” Jack said.
“You liked Jackie,” Santos replied.
Jack held the coat open and looked at you. “Arm.”
You stared at him. Then slid one arm into the sleeve. “Bossy.”
He guided the coat around your shoulders. “Other arm.”
You looked at Mel. “He wants the other one too.”
Mel nodded, fighting for her life. “Coats usually do.”
You gave Jack your other arm. He pulled the coat into place and zipped it halfway with careful, practical hands. You looked down at the zipper. Then up at him. “That was hot.”
“It was a zipper.” Jack deadpanned.
You sighed happily, “You did it like a procedure.”
Robby lifted his head. “Sterile field: wife edition.”
Jack did not turn around. “Robby.”
“Sorry.” Robby lowered his head once more.
Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she proposes to him.”
You froze. Then your head turned slowly toward Jack. “I proposed?”
Jack’s expression softened at once. “No, baby.” He lifted his left hand before you could even ask, wedding band, catching the bar light. “I proposed.”
You looked down at your rings. Then at his. Then up at him, stunned and pleased and drunk-happy. “You wanted to marry me?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still do.”
Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”
Robby dropped his forehead back to the table. “They’re disgusting.”
Jack crouched slightly in front of you and offered his hand. “Stand up.”
The booth went silent. You stared at him. Then you looked at Santos. “Attending voice.”
Santos nodded. “Full attending voice.”
Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling. “I am trying to get you upright.”
You nodded, “You’re doing it with authority.”
“You are drunk in public,” Jack replied.
You clicked your tongue, “You’re hot in public.”
Mel made a small sound into her hand.
Jack’s ears went faintly pink.
You saw it. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “Jackie’s blushing.”
Jack shook his head, “I am not.”
“You are.” You squeal with delight.
Jack’s hand stayed steady in front of you. “Up.”
You pressed one hand dramatically to your chest. “Fuck.”
Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she discovers a military kink.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “Santos.”
She shrugged, “What? She’s halfway there.”
You tilted your head, considering. “A what?”
“Nope.” Jack took your hand and helped you stand. “We’re going home.”
For one glorious second, you were upright and triumphant.
Then the room tilted. Jack caught you by the waist.
Your entire body went still. “Oh, fuck.”
“Balance,” he said.
You stared up at him. “You said that like an order.”
“It was an explanation,” Jack replied.
You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”
“No,” Jack answered immediately.
Robby lifted his head. “She’s not wrong.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him.
Robby lowered his head again. “Withdrawn.”
You touched Jack’s chest lightly with one finger. “Responsible soldier husband.”
Jack looked down at your hand. Then at your face. “Doctor husband. Former soldier.”
You nodded solemnly. “Doctor husband with command voice.”
Mel laughed into her hand.
Jack took a slow breath. “Arm over my shoulder.”
Your eyes went wide. “Jackie.”
“Arm,” he repeated, then pointed to his shoulder. “Here.”
You looked at Santos. “He pointed.”
“I saw.” She answered.
You licked your lips. “He pointed and said here.”
Trinity nodded solemnly, “You’re going to survive.”
You shook your head furiously, “You don’t know that.”
Jack guided your arm over his shoulders.
You held on to him and immediately looked delighted. “I’m touching him.”
Santos nodded. “You are.”
“Legally?” You asked, looking to Jack, bright and hopeful.
Jack lifted his left hand in front of your face.
You checked his ring. Then yours. “Hell yeah.”
Jack slid an arm around your waist and pulled you carefully against his side.
You went very still. Then you looked down at his arm. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack sighed. “Please walk.”
You looked up at him, eyes wide and delighted. “Can you say it again, but like bossier?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Absolutely not,” Santos said at the same time.
Robby lifted his head just enough to gasp for air. “I can’t believe it. This is foreplay with witnesses.”
Jack pointed at him without loosening his hold on you. “Not foreplay.”
You leaned into his side and whispered loudly. “But later?”
Jack closed his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
You nodded, “But later, when I’m not drunk?”
“Later,” Santos said quickly, “is between you, Jack, and God.”
Javadi nodded. “And possibly the HOA, depending on volume.”
You looked at Jack. “Do we have an HOA?”
He shook his head, “No.”
You leaned closer to him, “Then later?”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Walk.”
You inhaled sharply. “Oh, that was better.”
Santos threw both hands up. “Door. Now.”
Jack started moving.
You went with him, tucked carefully into his side, one arm over his shoulders, his arm secure around your waist, your coat half-zipped and your dignity somewhere under the booth.
You made it three steps before he said, “Watch your feet.”
You looked up at him. “Attending voice.”
“Safety voice.” He corrected.
You shrugged, “They’re cousins.”
“Eyes forward,” Jack replied.
You sighed dramatically, “Oh fuck me, that one too.”
Santos followed behind you, laughing now despite herself. “This is the worst evacuation I’ve ever seen.”
Jack kept you tucked firmly against his side. “It is not an evacuation.”
“You’re using evacuation posture,” you said.
He looked down at you.
You smiled up at him, drunk and delighted. “I like it.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”
Halfway to the door, you twisted carefully to look back at the table.
“Everybody be cool,” you announced. “I’m leaving with my husband.”
Robby raised both hands. “Hell yeah, Mrs. Abbot.”
You stopped.
Jack stopped with you, patient but visibly suffering.
You looked down at your rings.
Then grabbed his left hand and checked his.
The band was still there.
You smiled, delighted all over again. “Hell yeah.”
Jack’s face softened.
Then you glanced behind him one more time.
“And he has a great ass!” You cheer.
Jack immediately started walking again.
“Goodnight,” he called over his shoulder.
Santos waved. “Hydrate her.”
Mel added, “Text when you get home.”
Whitaker pointed at Jack. “Do not let her order fries.”
You gasped. “Traitor.”
Javadi lifted her glass. “The record will show we tried.”
Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ask him to walk bossier!”
Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder and guided you into the cool night air.
The second the air hit your face, you sighed dramatically and leaned a little more heavily into his side.
Jack adjusted his hold. “You okay?”
You looked up at him.
The bar lights spilled behind him, catching the edge of his jaw, the tired concern in his face, the little pinch between his brows that meant he was trying to figure out if you needed water, food, sleep, or all three.
Your drunk brain, unhelpfully, sorted those options into one category.
Husband.
“Jack?” You asked quietly.
Jack looked down at you, “Yeah, baby?”
“You’re really my husband?” You whispered the question.
He lifted his left hand between you before you even asked.
You looked at his ring.
Then down at yours.
Then up at him.
Your smile went soft and bright and drunk-happy. “Hell yeah.”
Jack shook his head, but he was smiling now. “Yeah,” he said, guiding you toward the car. “Hell yeah.”
You made it halfway across the parking lot before you stopped again.
Jack looked down. “What?”
You stared at him very seriously. “You came when I sang.”
His mouth twitched. “Santos called.”
“But I sang.” You persisted.
Jack nodded, “You did.”
“And you appeared.” You added with delight.
“I did,” Jack replied.
You nodded, deeply moved. “Powerful.”
Jack opened the passenger door and kept one hand at your back. “In.”
You looked at the seat. Then at him. “I like it when you give directions.”
Jack almost smiled, “I have noticed.”
“Can you say ‘in’ again?” You asked, looking up at him.
His answer comes quickly, “No.”
“Meaner?” You tried.
This answer was faster: “Absolutely not.”
You sighed and got into the car anyway, mostly because Jack’s hand was warm at your back and he looked like that, and you were only human.
He leaned across you to buckle your seatbelt.
You went very still.
Jack paused immediately. “Okay?”
You nodded, eyes wide. “You smell good.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and clicked the seatbelt into place. “You’re drunk.”
“You smell good when I’m drunk.” You amended.
Jack shook his head, “That’s not how that works.”
“It is for me.” You replied with a happy shrug.
Jack braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at you.
His expression was amused. Tired. Fond in a way he would absolutely deny if Robby had been there to witness it. “You need water when we get home.”
You pointed at him. “Bossy.”
“You need sleep.” He added.
You smiled. “Oh, fuck.”
“And no flirting with me until you can walk in a straight line.” Jack continued.
Your mouth fell open. “You’re denying your wife?”
Jack held up his left hand.
You looked at his ring automatically.
Then at yours.
The distress vanished.
You nodded, “Hell yeah.”
He smiled despite himself. “And yes. I’m denying my drunk wife.”
You considered that, then nodded slowly. “Responsible husband.”
He smiled softly, “Trying to be.”
You looked him up and down from your seat. “Hot.”
Jack shut the door before you could say anything else. You watched him walk around the front of the car. The parking lot lights were doing very good things to him. His shoulders. His hoodie. His jeans. When he opened the driver’s side door, you were still staring.
He slid in and caught your expression immediately. “No.”
You frowned deeply, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” Jack commented.
You looked out the windshield, dignified. “I was admiring privately.”
You looked at his hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, fuck.”
He closed his eyes. “Baby.”
You looked down at your rings.
Then, at his hand on the wheel, wedding band visible under the passing sweep of the parking lot light.
“You called me baby.” You sighed happily.
He pulled out of the parking space. “I’m your husband.”
You smiled at his ring. “Hell yeah.”
The drive home was mostly quiet. Mostly.
You hummed under your breath until Jack, without looking away from the road, said, “No more husband song.”
You turned your head toward him. “I like it when you’re bossy.”
“I know.” He replied.
You sat up straighter, “Say something else.”
“No.”
“That was something.” You mumbled.
He sighed.
You smiled out the window like you had won.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, your energy had softened around the edges. The feral husband appreciation was still there, obviously, because Jack existed and you had eyes, but it had gone warm and sleepy.
Less bar announcement.
More gravity.
Jack came around to your side and opened the door.
You looked up at him.
He looked down at you. “Out.”
Your mouth parted.
Jack pointed at you. “Do not.”
You pressed your lips together, nodding seriously. Then whispered, “Attending voice.”
He helped you out anyway.
You wobbled once on the driveway, and his hand found your waist immediately.
You leaned into him. “Good catch.”
He gave you a little grin, “Good wobble.”
You gasped. “You praised me.”
“I should not have,” Jack replied, regretting his choice immediately.
You smiled up at him, “I liked it.”
Jack looked down at you, “I know.”
Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Jack locked the door behind you, then turned back to find you standing in the entryway, looking down at your left hand again.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Checking?”
You lifted your rings toward the hall light. “Still married.”
Jack held up his left hand. His wedding band gleamed.
Your smile went loose and delighted. “Hell yeah.”
He took your coat off first.
Not because you helped.
You did not help.
You got distracted halfway through by the flex of his forearm when he pulled the sleeve down your arm. “Oh, fuck.”
Jack paused. “What?”
You didn’t look up, “Your arm.”
“My arm is removing your coat,” Jack said.
“Yeah.” You stared at it. “That’s the problem.”
Jack exhaled through his nose and hung your coat on the hook. “Kitchen.”
You looked at him sharply. “Attending voice.”
Jack sighed, “I’m getting you water.”
“You said kitchen like an order.” You argued.
Jack inhaled, “It was a destination.”
“A hot destination.” You corrected him.
He pointed down the hall. “Move.”
You inhaled. “Jackie.”
“No.” He said instantly.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” You said with a whine.
Jack gave you a look, “I do.”
You followed him anyway, because his hand settled at the small of your back and your drunk brain apparently classified that as a life-altering event.
At the kitchen counter, he gave you more water and two crackers.
You stared at the crackers. Then up at him. “Are you feeding me?”
“I am preventing tomorrow from being worse,” Jack replied.
Your eyes went wide and affectionate, “You provide.”
“I provide saltines.” Jack amended.
You picked one up and took a dramatic bite. “Sexy.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Chew.”
You froze. Then pointed at him with the cracker. “Attending voice.”
Jack tilted his head, “Chewing is not optional.”
“Oh, my god.” You fan yourself with the cracker.
He dragged a hand down his face. “Please eat the cracker.”
You did, mostly because he watched you with that serious, focused Jack expression, and you had already learned at the bar that being perceived by your husband while he gave basic instructions was dangerous.
After water and crackers, he got you upstairs.
Barely.
There was a brief negotiation on the landing because you stopped to admire his butt from a lower step and whispered, “Perspective,” like you had made a scientific discovery.
Jack looked over his shoulder. “Keep walking.”
You gripped the railing. “Attending voice.”
“Stairs voice.” He corrected you.
You shrugged, “Same family.”
When you finally reached the bathroom, Jack set your makeup remover, toothbrush, and face wash on the counter as if he were preparing for a procedure.
You leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “You’re setting up supplies.”
Jack nodded, “I am.”
“Like an attending.” You add.
“Like a husband who knows you’ll sleep in mascara if I don’t help,” Jack replied.
You gasped and looked down at your rings.
Jack lifted his left hand immediately.
You checked. Satisfied, you nodded. “Verified.”
He handed you a makeup wipe. “Face.”
You took it, then blinked. “Huh.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“You said face.” You answered.
Jack nodded, “I did.”
“Very direct.” You replied with a crooked smile.
Jack looks over your face, “You have makeup on it.”
You touched the wipe to your cheek, still watching him. “Bossy skincare husband.”
Jack leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. That was a mistake.
You stared at his chest.
He noticed. “Face,” he repeated.
You closed your eyes. “That was worse.”
“Makeup off.” He tried again.
You threw your head back in defeat, “Oh, fuck.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the wipe.”
You handed it over without thinking. Jack stepped closer and gently tipped your chin up with two fingers. The bathroom went very quiet. He wiped beneath one eye with slow, careful strokes, his other hand steady at your jaw. His face was close enough that you could see the tired fondness in his eyes.
You swallowed. “Jackie.”
His thumb stilled for half a second. “Yeah?”
“You’re really good at this.” You whispered.
He smiled softly, “At taking off mascara?”
“At being mine.” You said, almost breathless.
His expression softened.
Then, because you were drunk and incapable of letting tenderness survive unbothered, you added, “Also, your pecs are close.”
Jack closed his eyes. “There she is.”
You smiled.
He finished with your makeup, then handed you your toothbrush.
“Toothpaste,” he said.
You looked at the toothbrush. Then at him in the mirror. “Attending voice.”
“Toothpaste voice.”
You brushed your teeth while glaring at him with exaggerated suspicion.
Jack watched you in the mirror, arms crossed, trying and failing not to smile.
When you finished, he pointed to the sink. “Spit.”
You blinked around the toothbrush. Then slowly looked at him. “Jack.”
“What?” He asked.
Your eyes widened, “You can’t just say spit like that.”
His jaw tightened. Not anger. A smile he was trying to kill. “I am asking you to brush your teeth.”
“You are issuing commands in a bathroom.” You say, mouth foamy.
Jack looked down at your mouth, “You have toothpaste in your mouth.”
You pointed the toothbrush at him. “Dangerous.”
“Sink.” He commanded.
“Oh, fuck.” You spat, rinsed, and accepted the towel he handed you.
“Good,” he said.
You pressed the towel to your mouth and froze.
He sighed immediately. “I forgot.”
“You said good.” You grinned.
He sighed again, “I did.”
“With the voice.” You say, eyebrows raised.
Jack shrugged, “It slipped.”
You lowered the towel and pointed at him. “Dangerous.”
“Bed,” he said.
You stared. “Jack.”
He pointed toward the bedroom. “Now.”
Your mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack muttered something under his breath and guided you into the bedroom.
He found one of his old T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts from your drawer. Then he turned back to you, clothes in hand. “Can I help?”
You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Then down at your rings.
Jack lifted his hand before you could ask. You checked his wedding band.
“Okay,” you said. “Husband verified.”
He nodded once, “Good.”
You pointed at him immediately. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did not.” He replies innocently.
You pouted, “You weaponized good.”
“I am trying to get you into pajamas,” Jack replied.
Your frown deepened, “Domestic warfare.”
He helped you sit on the edge of the bed. Then he crouched in front of you and touched the hem of your top. “Arms up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Is this a trick?”
He smiled, “No.”
Your brow furrows, “Because I’m drunk.”
“Exactly.” Jack agreed.
You look at him suspiciously, “You’re not going to be weird.”
“I’m not going to be weird,” Jack promised.
You leaned closer, whispering with great seriousness. “I might be weird.”
His mouth twitched. “I know.”
You lifted your arms.
Jack changed you with the careful efficiency of a man determined not to let his drunk wife turn pajamas into a legal incident. Shirt off, sleep shirt on. No lingering. No teasing. No letting his eyes go where drunk you absolutely wanted them to go.
Which, naturally, offended you. “You’re very respectful.”
“I try,” Jack replied.
You groan, “It’s annoying.”
“I know.” He said.
You sighed, “It’s hot.”
“I know that too.” He said with a smile.
He helped you step into the shorts while you held both hands on his shoulders for balance.
The second your palms settled there, you sighed. “Shoulders.”
“Balance,” Jack corrected.
“Shoulders.” You repeated dreamily.
He pulled the shorts up to your hips and patted your side once. “Done.”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. “You dressed me.”
Jack shrugged, “I helped.”
“You’re like a sexy pit crew.” You say with a wink.
Jack stared at you.
You nodded, pleased with yourself. “Fast. Focused. Good with hands.”
He stood and pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”
Your eyes went wide. “Attending voice.”
He continued to point, “Bed.”
You looked at him desperately, “Oh, Jackie.”
“Do not make bed weird.” He groaned.
You pouted, “You made it weird when you pointed.”
He pulled the blanket back. “In.”
You climbed under the covers, mostly because the single syllable nearly took you out.
Jack tucked the blanket around your waist, then set the water on the nightstand.
“You need sleep,” he said.
You looked up at him, suddenly softer. “You’re staying?”
His expression shifted. “Yeah, baby. I’m staying.”
You looked down at your rings one more time. Then reached for his hand.
Jack gave it to you.
You checked his wedding band, slower now, your thumb brushing over the metal.
“You proposed?”
He sat on the edge of the bed beside you. “I proposed.”
“And I said yes?” You asked happily.
His mouth softened. “You said yes.”
You smiled, sleepy and bright. “Hell yeah.”
Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.
“No sex,” You murmured. “I’m drunk.”
Jack huffed a laugh against your temple, “I know, baby.”
Your eyes closed. “It sucks, though, because you have amazing pecs. And a great ass.”
He laughed quietly and brushed your hair away from your face. “Go to sleep.”
You sighed into the pillow. “Attending voice.”
“Husband voice,” he corrected, softer.
Your smile was almost gone with sleep. “Jackie.”
“Yeah?” He answers quietly.
“Still hot.” You murmur into your pillow.
He stayed there until your breathing evened out, his thumb moving once over your rings before he let go. Then he slipped into the bathroom, changed, came back, and climbed into bed beside you. You rolled toward him automatically, even in sleep, one hand landing against his chest like you were verifying he was still there. Jack covered your hand with his. Your rings pressed lightly against his skin.
The Next Day...
In the morning, you woke up to pain, sunlight, and consequences.
Mostly consequences.
Your head hurts. Your mouth was dry. Your body felt like it had been assembled incorrectly. For one blessed second, you remembered nothing after the second round of drinks.
Then your phone buzzed.
You opened one eye.
On the nightstand, your screen lit up with a message from Robby.
MRS. ABBOT LIVE AT THE BAR: WHERE IS MY HUSBAND TOUR
You closed your eye again. “No.”
Beside you, Jack was already awake.
You could feel it.
You turned your head very slowly.
He was lying on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, watching you with the calm, devastating expression of a man who knew everything.
You swallowed. “How bad?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Define bad.”
You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.
He reached over and tugged it down just enough to see you. “You reviewed my body in public.”
Your eyes closed. “Oh, my god.”
“Pecs got mentioned several times.” He added.
“Jack.” You whined.
He grinned, “Butt got a standing ovation.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I need to leave the country.”
“You also called your rings' wife jewelry.”
A pause.
You peeked through your fingers. “That’s kind of cute.”
Jack nodded, “It was very cute.”
Your stomach softened despite the hangover.
Then he added, “You made me show you my ring every time someone told you we were married.”
You lowered your hands. “I did?”
He lifted his left hand. His wedding band gleamed in the morning light. Your eyes flicked down to your own rings automatically.
Jack noticed.
A smile started at the corner of his mouth.
You pointed at him. “Do not.”
He raised both his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked smug.” You replied, eyes narrowed.
Jack tilted his head, “I’m allowed.”
“You are not.” You argued.
Jack smiled, “You kept checking.”
“I was drunk.” You defend.
Jack looked down at his ring. “You were thorough.”
You groaned again and rolled onto your back. “I hate myself.”
“No, you don’t,” Jack said.
You stared at the ceiling. “I hate Robby.”
“That’s fair.” Jack agreed.
Your phone buzzed again.
This time, Jack picked it up before you could stop him.
“Jack.” You warned.
He looked at the screen. Then his mouth twitched.
“No.” You groaned.
He turned the phone toward you.
The video thumbnail showed you in the booth, hand dramatically raised, mouth open mid-song. At the same time, Robby performed backup vocals, and Santos looked as if she were reconsidering friendship as a concept.
You stared.
Then slowly turned to Jack. “Delete it.”
“It’s not on my phone.” He replied.
You groaned, “Tell Robby to delete it.”
“I will,” Jack answered.
You narrowed your eyes.
Jack’s expression stayed too innocent. “After I watch it once.”
You huffed, “Jack.”
He pressed play. Your own drunk voice filled the room with devastating commitment. On-screen, Robby echoed you terribly.
Then the video shifted as Santos muttered, “I’m calling Abbot.”
Your face lit up. You grabbed Mel’s wrist and shouted, “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants!”
Jack paused the video. Silence. You stared at the ceiling. Jack stared at the phone.
Then he looked at you. “The gray sweatpants?”
You pulled the blanket over your face again. “I was unwell.”
“You were specific.” Jack corrected you.
“I had a medical condition.” You attempted to explain.
“Being horny for your husband is not a medical condition,” Jack replied.
You slowly lowered the blanket.
Jack’s eyebrow lifted.
You pointed at him. “You’re a doctor. Diagnose it.”
He laughed then. Really laughed. Warm and low and unfairly pleased.
You groaned, but you were smiling too. He set the phone aside and leaned over you, bracing one hand near your shoulder. Your eyes flicked to his arm before you could stop yourself.
Jack noticed that too. “Still?”
“Shut up.”
His smile widened.
You looked down at your rings, partly because you were embarrassed and partly because the habit had apparently survived the alcohol. Then, quietly, Jack lifted his left hand beside yours.
The rings caught the same strip of morning light.
Your chest softened. “We match,” you said, voice rough from sleep and singing and terrible decisions.
Jack’s expression went gentle. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “We match.”
You stared at the rings for a second.
Then at him.
Even hungover, even humiliated, even with video evidence waiting in the group chat, you could not help it.
ahhh this was so cute and funny i loved it!!! the way that jack just continues to take care of us and reminding us that we're married? hell yeah
edit: apparently i just love drunk jack or drunk reader fics lol. bc yes i love the one that i mention hear (in the original post) but i didn't realize that you also had a drunk!jack fic already. that one is clearly the perfect pairing since you have your own interpretation of the two characters and their dynamics ("hell yeah" meets "fuck yeah" 🥹💗)
i cannot believe that i can't find it, but there's a fic here (on tumblr) where jack is the one who gets drunk instead of the reader.
he goes out with robby and shen and comes home wasted, and doesn't recognize the reader as his wife. so the whole time, he's refusing her help and won't let them touch him bc his wife is amazing and will kick their ass. when he wakes up, he realizes that the reader slept in the guest bedroom bc he wouldn't let them sleep with him and apologizes profusely. later they show up at the hospital everyone is scolding him or making fun of him for forgetting his wife.
(if anyone knows it, please let me know so i can reblog it!!!)
but i was thinking of that fic when i read this fic description. together, i feel like they're a great pairing lol
I was going through my likes so I could repost a fic (I like to do my reposts on my computer so I can type and add photos), and I cannot believe that I didn't like this one
It's a jack abbot x virgin!reader. They've been dating for a while, and the reader says something like "don't you think it's weird we haven't had sex yet?" and Jack just says that he's been waiting for the reader to make a move and that he would be okay if they never had sex
He's really sweet and calm about the whole conversation, and he asks if they want to ask him any questions. I remember one of the questions being about what he does with his leg, and he says he takes it off for most positions but keeps it on for some
if anyone could help find it i would be eternally grateful!! i'd like to give it the like and repost it deserves (and reread it obviously)🫶
this blog was meant to be a place for reblogs in an effort to keep my main organized/focused on one character...but now i have a 600+ wc headcannon that i'm working on for jack abbot
i just couldn't help myself 😭
and also to any author who has gotten a request from me, or anyone who has visited my main, now you know i mean it when i say my ideas get away from me
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: It's a hard life to lead, when you're in love with your roommate and bestfriend and you know you're never going to be able to have him. But when Dean asks you to be his fake-girlfriend for his brother's wedding, you start to see things you'd never seen before.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, roommate!Au, friends to lovers, angst, pining, Dean Winchester needs to talk about his feelings and get a hug, fake-relationship that's not so fake, fluff, shameless smut (oral f!receiving, dirty talk, body worship, p in v sex), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: based on an anon request! i had so much fun with this one it's very important to me plz enjoy it thank you <3✦
The light moves, when he walks.
You noticed it the first time you met. You’d walked up to the building, shifting on your feet and peer at the buttons, and he’d elbowed right past you with a grunted apology.
“Sorry, gonna be late- Shit-“
He’d walked right into the glass.
You like to think of yourself as at least an okay person. The kind that helps someone, when they run into a door like a bird. But you’d still almost laughed, at the dazed expression on his face as he stumbled back. You’d laughed, and you’d caught his arm to steady him. It had made you falter a little bit as well, because he’d been a lot heavier than you expected—even for someone so taller—and you’d sunk your nails into his arm. His bicep had flexed under your hand.
He’d grabbed your wrist with a grunt, both of you finding footing at the same time, and looked you right in the eyes.
He’d had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen in your damn life. His lashes might be longer than yours, the dark green almost hypnotizing, and his face-
You hadn’t known men were allowed to look like that. You’d been so sure that the face looking at you was from a dream. Full lips and strong features, a slightly crooked nose and, sharp clean-shaven jaw.
You’d blinked at him slowly. Held on a little tighter, in case this was a dream. Morning mist had bitten at your fingers, but his body had been warm. The haze of it all made it feel like a dream, and you’d leaned a little forward, but-
There had been ice under your feet. You’d slipped with a tiny yelp.
He’d grabbed you quickly. Wide eyed with an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. Your ankle had hurt—not a dream—and his breath had turned to fog over your face. Only a foot or so apart, something magnetic pulling you closer, something louder in your brain—call it a survival instinct—making you place a hand on his chest to stop yourself from melting into this complete stranger.
His mouth had curved into a small grin. The light had moved.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” You’d swallowed. “Are you-“
“I’m good.” He’d shrugged lazily. Still looking at you. “You?”
That had been a lie. You’d never felt anything like this, that made your heart go to your ears and your whole body sing. Light by an electric fire, sparking when his thumb brushed a small line over your waist.
He might’ve seen right through you. His smile had grown.
“You slip on ice while standing a lot?” He’d teased.
“You run into glass doors a lot?”
He’d stared at you for a second. You’d bitten your tongue. You didn’t need to be that angry, that defensive, you didn’t even know him and he probably thought you were some kind of standoffish bitch-
He’d laughed. Loud and clear, the first note of a song you’d been waiting to hear all your life. Your heart had skipped in your chest, and fallen into a beat you’d never felt before. It had felt right. He, with his arm around you and a wide smile on his face, had felt right.
Then he’d pulled back, grabbing your arms to make sure you were steady on the ground, before coughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Still smiling. Still so close.
“Guess I don’t. Was just in a rush to get inside, I think I got someone waitin’ on me- Not like that.” He’d added quickly, ears going red. “I live upstairs, and my friend moved in with her girlfriend, and my brother was crashing with his girlfriend but they found a place and now I- Never mind.” He’d shaken his head, making a face that at the time you hadn’t fully understood.
Even now, you don’t understand. He’s only ever made the face when he’s talking to you. You know, because you watch everything he does.
Just to see if he knows he has your heart. That it’s wrapped around his hands, to pull and play with however he pleases. That he grabbed it when he caught you slipping, and he’d left a depression on your body where he’d touched you so easily. Fit so perfectly. You watch him all the time, because there’s nothing better than just watching someone you love.
You hadn’t known you loved him then. You’d only known that he’d seemed nervous, and it had been sweet. That his face had been confused and adorable, even if you were able to place why.
He’d extended his hand, an almost sheepish smile on his face. “Dean Winchester. That’s- My name.”
You would’ve giggled, if you hadn’t been so busy panicking. You’d heard that name before. It was saved in your phone, along with the ad.
And when you’d said your own name, you’d seen it hit him too. You’d slip your hand into his, fingers shaking—the cold or nerves, you’re still not sure—and he’d still felt right. So right. His fingers and wrapped, safe and firm around yours, and in another life you wonder if he would’ve pulled you forward into his arms.
But you don’t live in that life. You live where he needed a roommate, and you needed a place to live, and that was more important than anything else. That wasn’t something you had the luxury to jeopardize, even for Dean.
And you know now. You’d jeopardize a lot of things for Dean.
“I think you’re supposed to be waitin’ upstairs for me.” He’d rasped, and you’d laughed weakly.
“I couldn’t get in the building.”
“Oh- Uh- Right.” He’d glanced at the doors. Still holding your hand.
You hadn’t wanted him to let go.
“At least you’re not late.” You’d said with a smile, and he’d look back to you.
His eyes had shined, and in the mist, he’d still looked like an angel. A little more solid and real, but somehow less tangible. A little further away, but right in your hands at the same time. The light had moved. He’d chuckled, and it had moved something deep in your chest. Something final, shifting where it was supposed to be, as you flushed under Dean’s gaze.
“Yeah.” He’d said. “I guess I’m not.”
You have this whole life, in your head.
It’s a habit you built when you were a kid. It’s not a good one. Enough ghosted therapist have told you that for you to know. But knowing has never been your issue.
You know a lot of things. You know yourself. You know that living where no one else can see makes you lonely, and you know that you can’t complain about the silence when you never speak. You know that every time someone asks you if there’s something going on there and you say no, it’s a lie you feel in the pit of your stomach. You know every time you hear soft laughter from his room and smell the perfume in the morning, it makes you so sick you might just vomit your guts all over the floor to see if he’ll clean them up.
But you also know Dean. And you can’t tell anymore. If that makes it better or worse.
You know him so well he might as well just be another part of you. You know what kind of shampoo and toothpaste he uses, because you buy it for him at the corner store. You know he likes hot sauce but can’t handle it as well as he claims, because you’ve watched him eat a hundred burritos with a proud smirk, only for his face to go red and his voice to get rough as he pretends he doesn’t want milk.
You know he wears boxer briefs, because you do his laundry. You know he can’t sing for shit, because you hear him in the shower. You know he’s an amazing cook, because he makes you breakfast, and lunch, and dinner.
You’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that. He always rolls his eyes, and ignores you, and you’re more grateful for it than you’ll ever be able to say.
You never want him to stop doing it. It feeds your small little world—the one you entertain at night before you sleep, the one that keeps you going when you walk into the apartment, and he’s on the couch with some random girl with a smile that’s brighter than yours and words that are softer—because they don’t get to have that part of him.
Not one girl that Dean lets into his bed—the one place in the whole damn apartment you’re not allowed to be, the one place you’d trade anything to be given just a glimpse—gets to stay until morning. They leave with a stomping feet and a slam of the door, and you hug your sheets as you hear Dean shuffle around outside your door.
He’ll sigh loud enough to be heard through the walls. The shower will run, and you’ll bury your face in a pillow, hiding the shame of your arousal from the ceiling.
You have no right, to picture him naked under the water. To imagine his broad chest and strong legs, the ripple of his muscles as he stretches to wash his hair with the shit you bought him. How he might bow his head to stare at you, if you massaged the soap into his soft, spiky hair. How close he’d be, how he might lick his lips, how his big hands would land on your hips.
How you’d sink to the floor, and run a hand up his thigh. How you’d tilt your head, pressing your cheek near his groin, how he might mutter your name and cradle your head as his chest began to rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm.
No right. You hump the sheets like some pathetic animal, and you muffle moans of his name into your sheets long after he’s back in bed, but you have no right.
You don’t know how you look him in the eyes, in the morning, but it might be something about how it’s just you. His nightly company is gone. There’s a vulnerability, in how he shuffled around in hot dog pants and presents you with breakfast.
“Pancakes.” He mutters, ears red. “You, uh- Bought all those bananas. I cooked ‘em into it. Lemme know if it’s shit.”
You hum, pulling the plate closer. “It won’t be shit, Dean-“
“Could be. One day I might lose my touch.”
“No, you won’t.” You roll your eyes, and he smirks.
“Stop back talking and eat the damn pancakes.”
“That wasn’t back talking-“
“I’m sharing my fears, and you’re being invalidating-“
“Oh, shut up, I taught you what that word means.”
“That was your mistake.” He grins, leaning over the counter. Eyes locked on yours, hair still messy from sleep.
The light moves.
“You gotta know I don’t like lessons, sweetheart.”
You flush, and look down to the pancakes. You never know what to do, when he uses that voice on you. The deep one that makes your face heat, that feels like he’s testing a line you’ve told yourself you’re not allowed to cross. It’s the voice he uses on his company, and you know it’s just teasing, but it feed your dreams. It feeds the world you know isn’t real, that he’s never allowed to see.
“You made these with banana?” You say after a long silence, your face burning. “I love banana.”
Dean coughs, and when you look up, he’s making that strange face.
“Yeah, uh- I know. I gotta go- Bathroom. Need to piss. And- Shit.”
You blink at him, and he almost takes off down the hall.
“I didn’t need to know that!” You call after him, and he shouts back.
“Yeah, but I wanted you to!”
You laugh despite yourself, and look back to the pancakes. It’s just food. He’s just cooking for you, which he does all the time, but it’s still something that’s only yours. The smallest part of Dean that you get to keep.
Food. The only part of him that’s only yours. It’s priceless to you. It’s the most important thing in the world.
Because you live in your head. And in your head, you dream about a life where he loves you back. Where every time he comes home he walks over to you and picks you up. Kisses you on the counter, then pushes you down and eats you out like you’re the only dinner he’d ever possibly need. Where when you do his laundry, he comes up behind you and kisses your neck. Mutters something about you wearing his shirt, or wishing you’d just leave everything dirty so he could have you naked all the time.
In your head, you never have to turn on the shower to cover your tears when he brings another woman home. You never have to stare at yourself in the mirror, and pick apart your every feature and expression to try and rationalize why it’s not you. Why you don’t get to have him, why he’s out there touching someone else, what they can give him that you can’t. You give him everything. You’d give him more, if he let you.
But he doesn’t. And jealousy burns. It scars. It worms its way into your heart and festers, until you’re glaring at his door and curling your fists, fighting the urge to slam on the walls when you hear a high, pitchy whine of Dean through the wall. Some nights, the jealously turns in your stomach and you find yourself over the toilet bowl, literally sick with it.
The worst part is that he’s not doing it to be cruel. To mock or taunt you. He’s just not thinking of you at all.
After about a year of living with him, something in you had snapped. He might not think of you, but all you do is think of him, and if you’re going to be suck in the lonely and violent cycle, you might as well even your own playing field.
Dean doesn’t know it, but you’ve turned it into a sick kind of game. It’s not a healthy one, or one you’re ever going to win, but winning isn’t the point.
Numbing is the point. Escaping. Being anything but a toy that doesn’t get played with, stuck on the other side of the wall and picking at your skin until it bleeds.
You start going to bars. Not the one down the street—that’s where Dean goes—but one a few streets up. It’s next to a club made of suffocating heat and too many bodies that aren’t safe—aren’t Dean—but it does just fine. Some nights you go to the bar. Some you go to the club.
But you always come home with some nameless body attached to your hip. Kissing over your throat and mumbling your name. Touching your skin in a million different ways but never leaving a single dent. You let them sleep in your bed to one up Dean, but kick them out before he’s up. You wash their hands off in the morning, because your skin burns every single place they touched.
Dean notices. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he notices. His flow of women seems to pick up, but you can’t prove it.
You stop fucking yours at the apartment. You find beds all over the city, and stumble home in the morning with mess hair and your shoes in your hand. Then you push your way through the door one morning, and find that Dean’s girl from last night-
She’s still there. Sitting at the counter drinking coffee, wearing his shirt.
“Oh, hi.” She blinks at you slowly. “Um- Dean?!”
“Yeah?” He pokes his head out from the bathroom, damp hair stuck to his brow.
His eyes find yours. They’re strangely blank. You give him a weak smile, and his nostrils flare, his mouth twitching down.
“You’re back.” He grunts. “You take the bus?”
You toss your shoes onto the mat. “I walked.”
“You walked-“
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
Dean works his jaw, still staring at you. The girl clears her throat.
“Sorry, who are you?”
You open your mouth, but Dean beats you to the punch.
“She’s my roommate.” He mutters. His eyes tear away from yours, onto the girl. He looks her up and down, something sour in his expression that she seems to miss.
“Hm.” She gives you a look of distain that makes you feel small. “I didn’t know you lived with a girl.”
“Wasn’t something you need to know.” He runs a hand over his face, looking down to his watch. “Shit- You eaten yet?”
You and the girl both say no at the same time. She looks like she wants to murder you. You want to run back outside, but your legs are rooted in place, so you just pray the floor will open up and swallow you whole.
“I haven’t eaten yet, Deanie.” She looks back to Dean, lashes fluttering. “And you really worked up my appetite.”
There it is again. The sickness. You already drank too much, and you can barely remember last night, and you’re going to scream at the floor while all your love spills out with your bile-
“There’s a cafe down the block.” Dean shrugs. “Stop there on your way out. They got good muffins.”
The girl blinks in confusion, opening her mouth, and Dean slams the bathroom door closed. Leaving you stuck with this woman in his shirt, in your home, shattering the small sanctity you’d built up, the last thread that maybe Dean thought about you enough to keep his nights shielded from your eyes.
There’s really no reason why he would. He has no idea, that your love for him runs so deep you suddenly can’t stand to be wearing the socks the guy from last night lent you. They feel wrong on your feet. Like bricks, pulling you down, down, down.
You walk past the furious girl, not meeting her eyes. When you hear Dean out in the hall, saying something to her in a hushed voice, you slip out of your room and into the shower without a glance in their directions. You don’t vomit. You do scrub your skin so hard it burns.
And you can’t keep up the charade of just fucking around. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, when you just spend every night picturing Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s body. When every voice is blocked out in favor of imagining Dean’s. You’re not built for whatever corner you’ve backed yourself into. It’s going to eat you alive from the inside.
When you get out of the shower, the girl is gone. Dean’s still in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. You sit at the counter, and try not to feel too aware of the space she’d been in. Try not to wonder if he’s feeling her absence, the same way you look around the clubs and bars, glance up and down every strange hallway and street, and hope that maybe he’ll appear out of thin air and catch you when you’re not even falling at all.
Not falling in a way he can see, at least. But you are. Further and further, the wind gone from your lungs, your heart beat still drumming that same song. Dean, Dean, Dean. Not yours, not yours, not yours.
“You want pepper?” He cuts through your thoughts, and you look up at him with a frown.
“What?”
“I made eggs.” He’s not looking at you. His ears are red. “I, uh- I kinda already salted them, but- You always take them with salt. I can start over. If you don’t like it.”
You blink at him. Shake your head slowly. He cooked for you.
The space where the other girl used to be suddenly doesn’t feel like anything at all.
“Salt is good.” You whisper, and he looks over his shoulder.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” You smile at him. His mouth twitches up, and something foolish and unbreakable soars in your chest. “I’m sure.”
He stopped sleeping around.
And maybe he’s just hiding it better than before, but you choose to believe that he isn’t. That he’s home every night because he wants to spend time with you, rather than a girl he’s going to kick out in the morning.
You were friends before. You’d become friends the day he helped you move in and he made a stupid joke that you laughed at. He’d grinned so widely it made your gut flutter, and then asked what kind of movies you liked. You’d told him, and made a tradition out of watching at least one movie, every Friday night.
It was a holy night, Friday night. Even when you’d been forcing yourself into painful shapes to fit in others arms, and he’d been pulling women through the door without a glance in your direction, you’d both still honored movie night. You’d curl up under a blanket together, and switch back and forth between who chose what. Dean would hold the popcorn in his lap, and you’d allow yourself close enough to get drunk on his leather and spice smell, to absorb the feeling of his shoulder bumping yours and let it all carry you through the week.
Sometimes you’d yell at the screen together. Sometimes you’d both get quiet, genuinely entranced by the film. But you always ended up with your thighs pressed together under that blanket. Always talk after, for about an hour, before something would shift and you’d both just stare. The dark wasn’t dark enough to hide how handsome he was. The warmth of the blanket became nothing compared to the heat of your face. The heat in your stomach. The haze of the TV made you feel like you were back in that misty dream, and Dean-
He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed.
And he never does that. You know he never will. But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave.
“What’s your favorite animal?”
You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”
“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”
“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”
You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze.
“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”
You stare at him for a second. “Me?”
“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”
“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”
“On a favorite color?”
“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”
Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”
You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“
“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”
“I owe you-“
“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”
You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know.
“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.
“I hate cats.”
“What?” You sit up. “Why?”
He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”
“So?”
“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”
You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”
He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”
“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”
He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm.
“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”
“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.
“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”
“No.”
“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“
“Make a better one.”
He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles.
“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.
“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”
“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”
You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. He has no idea.
That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence.
“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.
“Reading and eating?”
He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”
“A… Book?”
That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”
“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”
Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”
Again. He’s not joking. So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation.
You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.
“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”
You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying.
A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. Right next to him on the couch.
And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch.
Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares.
You didn’t know he had nightmares. Apparently his mom’s family was kind of crazy, and his dad himself wasn’t much better. He enlisted in the marines to make his Dad proud. Got honorably discharged, after an accident that put him in a coma for a few weeks.
“You never told me that.” You murmur, staring at your shot glass. He sighs.
“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”
You swallow, looking up at him. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid.
Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized.
If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.
How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep.
But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”
He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction.
The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life.
“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back.
You mean it. Almost. There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know.
But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t.
So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world.
It hits you at the worst time. The realization. Dean’s not just the hot roommate you’re in love with anymore.
He’s your best friend.
It’s terrifying. It somehow makes everything better and worse all at the same time. He’ll be in your life for a long, long time. You can’t imagine a world without him anymore, and you think whatever gap he left when he took your heart, he’s filled up so well your body might just stop working if you ever lose him.
It solidifies what you already knew. You can never tell him, because it might make him walk away.
But one day he’s going to find someone else. They’re going to get married. Maybe have babies. They’re going to build a part of his life that you’re allowed to witness, but never be a part of. It’s going to kill you, but you quickly decide that you’ll let it if you must. You’d rather have him then loose him.
And at least this way, you can try to move on. And you really try to move on.
You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face. “Alright.”
You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that.
“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”
Dean doesn’t smile. “Sure. Have fun.”
You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained.
“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”
It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing.
He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore.
You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went.
But only this night. Because the pattern repeats. You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment.
Far enough that he meets Dean. And that’s where it all falls apart.
Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices.
And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl.
“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.
“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”
You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up.
Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well.
“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”
“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”
“Really?”
“Mhm.”
Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name.
“Yeah?”
Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough.
“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”
“Why? We’re just-“
“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“
Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“
“He’s my friend-“
“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”
You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police.
He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”
You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out. Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again.
But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone.
He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb.
He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.
“You okay?”
You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here.
And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with.
All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light.
“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light.
You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”
“Anytime.”
There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile.
Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away. After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there.
You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know. You’re not going to be able to move on.
“I need a favor.”
You look up from your cereal with a frown, the spoon already in your mouth. “Huh?”
A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.
“Son of a- Jesus, woman.” Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’m not trying to.” You grumble, wiping your shirt. “And no being mean, you said you needed a favor.”
“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“
“Dean.”
He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like you’re not actively planning his murder.
“You still got something.” He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. “You know I’m helping you, right?”
“Fuck you.”
“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“
His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as he’s drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face that’s a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile.
“Shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. “Goddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-“
“It’ll be fine.” You push to your feet with a shrug. “Come on, I can wash it.”
You start down the hall, and don’t realize that Dean isn’t following until you’re at the bathroom door. You look back, and he’s just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.
You frown. “Dean, come on. The longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”
You wave him forward, and it’s like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression. You’re not sure what’s going on with him. It’s just a bathroom.
“Sit.” You point to the floor next to the tub. “Put your head back, and take off your shirt. I’ll wash it later.”
Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldn’t be that hard.
It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.
Dean’s shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, you’d be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp.
He’s staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side. Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. You’re supposed to be cleaning him up.
You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. It’s so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like you’re invading on yourself. Like you’re doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair. You’d been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft. When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex.
You can’t keep looking at his body. It’s dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say.
“What’s the favor?” You mumble, and Dean grunts.
“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”
You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. “Dean. What’s the favor.”
“I said never mind-“
“Dean Winchester.”
He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. “You can’t get pissed. If you don’t wanna do it, just- Say no. And we’ll forget it. Okay?”
You bite your lower lip, but nod. “Oh- Okay.”
“So.” He coughs. “Y’know how Sammy’s gettin’ married?”
“Mhm.” You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. He’d called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. You’d been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. “You want me to water the flowers?”
He chuckles softly. “Not exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.”
“You bought them.”
“‘Cause you were sad about not gettin’ a cat, and- Never mind.” He takes a deep breath. “My thing is- it’s next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothin’ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought I’d ask, even if you didn’t wanna-“
“Dean.” You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs.
“Right. Sorry. Just- Here’s the deal.”
He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. He’s dragged his eyes open again, and they’re fixed so nervously on yours. He’s grabbed your knee with one hand. Like he’s worried you’re going to kick him, or run away.
“My whole family’s gonna be there.” He mutters, searching over your face with every word. “They’ll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doin’ that.” He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. “And I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe… The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.”
You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place.
Your mouth falls open. “Are you asking me to-“
“Yeah. But- Only if you want to.” He gives you a small, boyish grin. “But I’d owe you. Big time. Like- I’d pay the whole rent for two months big time.”
You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“
“I’m serious, I really need this-“
“I know but, that’s so much money, and-“ You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do… that.”
He squeezes your knee again. “We’d figure it out. Together.” Another charming smile. “How about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.”
You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. He’s giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You don’t know how you’re going to say no, but-
All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all you’ve craved, for so so long, is Dean. And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with. Pretending to be Dean’s girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.
“Why me?” You ask softly, looking back to his hair. It’s filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. “I mean, there’s Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, she’s nice-“
“My mom already knows you.” Dean cuts you off with low words. “Easier sell, than some random chick she’s never heard of.”
A lump forms in your throat. “Your mom knows me?”
“Yeah. I talk about you.”
You flush. It’s an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful.
“Aw, you love me-“
“Shut up.” He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal.
“Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins up at you, and he doesn’t sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. “But- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.”
You really shouldn’t agree. You shouldn’t. It’s going to back fire. The love that’s been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive.
But he said please.
“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins.
You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing. It made Dean smile.
“I hate this.” He mutters. He hasn’t sat down since you got through security. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“
“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”
“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“
“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”
Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating.
It should. You’ve been practicing.
“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.
“Okay.”
He scowls. “I’m not.”
“I said okay.” You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat.
“I hate this.”
“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.
Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort.
But still not real. In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake.
“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts.
“We’re gonna die.”
“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night.
You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane.
It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door.
You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly.
“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.
“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”
“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“
He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.
“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand.
Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.
“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”
He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane.
You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay.
If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all.
He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious.
He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.
“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack.
You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart.
Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.
Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged.
“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but- Please.”
“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter.
And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods.
“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”
“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”
“I hope so.”
“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises. You don’t mind.
“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”
For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.
“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“
A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.
You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.
“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”
And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes.
“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. “He’s the best.”
It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.
“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin. “We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”
You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking.
And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch.
To seeing his family. To seeing his dad.
Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it.
But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.
You’re important to him too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to stand so close and ask you for such intimate favors.
Probably not close enough to trump his dad.
So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either.
“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”
“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all.
“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“
“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“
“Five minutes. Promise.”
And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone.
Bed. Single bed. Fuck.
Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”
You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either.
He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family.
He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.
“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward.
You think he drugged you that. That that single kiss did something to your mind and body, because suddenly you’re stumbling after him and everything is all a fever dream.
Dean’s hugging his Mom. Exchanging a tight nod and awkward shoulder clap with his dad—who, at the very least, grabs Dean’s arm and nods back—before turning to the impossibly taller man next to the empty seats, and shouting Sammy so loud some of the glasses seem to shake. Sam stands—you’ve never seen him in person, he’s somehow even taller than you thought—and drags Dean into tight hug, muttering something that makes Dean laugh. You smile, because it’s impossible not to when he seems this happy.
Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river.
Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.
But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place.
They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and-
“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”
You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.”
Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground.
“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar.”
“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary.
She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum.
And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too.
“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”
“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“
“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”
“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog.
This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face.
And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-
“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”
“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space-
Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.
“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”
“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”
“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”
Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”
“Sam-“
“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”
Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.
You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean.
But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift.
Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-
Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you.
But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.
“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”
“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“
“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”
The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped.
Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.
In your cover story, you don’t live together. But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti.
“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”
You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“
“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.
He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.
“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”
Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far.
“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”
You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out.
Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down.
“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“
“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”
“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“
You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.
“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect.
He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”
“Ah. The lowest bar.”
He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.
For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge.
“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”
“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.
“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”
You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless.
That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. It’s not the story Dean says.
“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”
You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago.
You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.
There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation.
But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it.
What if it hadn’t faded. Why does he remember.
Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it-
“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again.
You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”
“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.
“Dad, c’mon-“
“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”
“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“
“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow.
“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”
“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”
“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight.
This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.
But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. “You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“
“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding.
“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“
“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”
Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.
“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“
“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.
“Dad, don’t use us for this.”
John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“
“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”
The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter-
“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”
Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles.
“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”
John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this.
Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“
“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table.
You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams.
Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat.
It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-
“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow.
He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. Not real. So unfairly not real.
You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show.
He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again.
You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. It’s been a really long day.
You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.
You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back.
You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back.
But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real. i
“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“
“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”
He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“
“I know.”
“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“
“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”
Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”
“Dean-“
“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”
You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me.
“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”
That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”
“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”
“And you didn’t do anything about it?”
“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”
“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.”
You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”
Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“
“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”
He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”
You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“
“And I said I’m gonna.”
“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”
He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.
“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”
“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“
“Yeah, you do.”
Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“
“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away.
You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips.
“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”
His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench.
He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire. Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face.
Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.
He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.
Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that-
There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks.
Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.
“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.”
“Dean-“
“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”
You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back.
Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh. Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask.
And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real.
Whatever it was, it was far, far too real.
The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s a ten minute to get through the brush fields and small wood to anything else.
You’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to go see it. That you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’d gotten away with it the first day, just lounging around the room and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out.
“You good?” He’d ask every hour or so, even just poking his head in without grabbing anything else.
“Mhm.” You’d mumble, tucked under the covers.
He’d frown. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“
“No, thank you.” You’d pull the blankets tighter, and he’d sigh. Stare at you for another moment.
Then Sam would call his name, and he’d shuffle away. Neither of you had spoken about last night. At rehearsal dinner, he’d started off touching you a little less than before, and you’d plastered a wide smile on your face, trying not to let it affect your show. Hands still held, but without fingers woven together. Elbows touching while you sat and ate, Dean offering you some of his whine and you adjusting his tie, but no casual stroking of his hair or secret laughter.
He’d given a sweet toast that made you smile at him stupidly. No matter how strange things were, you still adored him.
You’d glanced down the table and found John staring at you. Eyes narrowed, posture stiff. Dean must have talked to him. You’d looked back to your plate and bitten your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just looked like an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech.
He’d looked at you when he finished it. You’d smiled back, and something had flashed in his eyes. His hand had come up to touch your chin. Just like in bed.
You’d swallowed, and grabbed his wrist. The crowd has read it as romantic. You’d meant it as a silent, panicked plea for him not to play with you like this. But you don’t know how he read it. Dean had just sat down when he was done, wrapped his arm around your body, and kissed the side of your head.
It had been the first hole, punched in the dam. Now, in the morning, you can still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin.
You’d wiped some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then sucked it clean. He’d kept his arm around the back of your chair. You’d both drank, relaxing slowly. A few people came up to you. Spoke mostly to Dean, no matter how he tried to include you in the conversation. He’d started to get tense about halfway through the night.
You’d taken a risk. Placed your hand, right on his thigh, and rubbed gently. He’d jerked slightly, and you’d started to move away.
He’d stopped you. You’d looked at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he’d offered you the first real smile of the night. You’d smiled back, and that had been real too.
Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster.
Instead, you wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket. It smelled like him.
You’d shoved it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up.
The plan had been to waste the day the same way as before. Dean runs around doing wedding things. You sit here and fester in your own guilt, indulging in your secret world where all of this was real. You tried to tell Dean that was your plan, when he got up.
He’d made the executive decision that it wasn’t. That town wasn’t that far, and if he had to go out with Jess and Sam, you did too.
“But they know, we don’t have to sell it-“
“Yeah, but I want you to come. Just to hang out.”
“I want to stay in bed-“
“C’mon.” He’d said your name, giving you a winning smile. “We’re still friends, right? Friends hang out, and support other friends when they gotta go shopping with their brothers.”
You’d narrowed your eyes. “Friends do each other favors, like fake dating for a wedding.”
Dean had sighed. Winced, like you’d actually hit him, then retreated with a muttered agreement. And you had been right. You’d almost gotten away with staying in bed, and Dean wasn’t going to push you.
But he’d looked so sad. And he wanted you there. All you ever want is to be wanted by Dean.
You’d gotten changed, shoved on your shoes, and stomped out into the room with a scowl. Dean had said your name in surprise, and you’d grabbed the keys out of his hand.
“I wanna drive.”
His face had split into a wide, open grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
It’s a ten-minute drive into town, and you really have to learn how to resist Dean’s puppy eyes. You feel out of place again, trailing after them and smoothing your clothes whenever they stop to talk about something. You’re staring at the pavement, out of place in their lives, counting the cracks and trying to find an excuse to stay home-
Dean links his arm through yours. Doesn’t even look down, just holds you at his side and drags you into the conversation.
You smile to yourself. Let yourself lean into his side, and decide it’s for the small amount of guests you’ve seen milling around the town as well. Not because, just for now, you’re allowed to have him and you don’t want to waste a single second by letting go.
“Do you like flowers?” Jess asks, leaning down to look at some pots on the street.
You shrug. “I mean, I guess.”
“You guess?” She rises back up. “Well, what does your boyfriend get you.”
Next to you, Dean tenses. You glance up, and he’s still deeply engrossed in a conversation about horses or something with Sam. You shake it off, and turn back to Jess.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You shrug, fixing your gaze on a bee buzzing near the pots.
“Really?” Sam says suddenly, and you blink. “I thought Dean told me you were seeing this guy named- Uh- Steve? Right?”
He looks to Dean for confirmation. Dean looks at him like he’s plotting a murder.
“It was Shawn.” You offer, placing a light hand on Dean’s bicep. “And we broke up a while ago.”
“Oh.” Jess exchanges a look with Sam. “Well, what did he get you?”
“Um- He didn’t, really. He wasn’t- It didn’t mean that much.”
Jess frowns. “That much.”
“Yeah. You know. Flower much. But-“ You glance back over to Dean, who’s started glaring at the sidewalk. “I have some flowers that Dean grabbed for our place. Those are nice, I just- Dean, what are they called-“
“Hyacinths.” He grunts, hand flexing on the table, and squeeze his arm.
“Okay. I like those.”
His eyes flick up to yours, nostrils flaring, and he wipes his mouth with a tight, controlled movement. You offer him a smile—he’s so tense you’re worried he’s going to have an aneurism, even if you don’t understand why—and his lips twitch.
Jess clears her throat. “How long were you and Shawn together?”
“Like, three months?”
“Oh. Hm.” She shoots a look at Sam. “I just thought- Never mind. Why’d you break up?”
You stare at her, your brain suddenly fogged and moving too fast all at once. A demand to know why she’d think you and Shawn were together for a while—it had barely been a month—almost spills out like vomit, but it’s blocked by the lump rising up in your throat. The thick, tense reminder that Shawn called it off the same reason they all do. The same reason you never get to flowers.
It’s Dean. It’s always Dean. Still rigid and silent next to you, but also still holding you right against his side. Your fingers have started mindlessly tracing his bicep, the sunlight moving around him and narrowing the whole world down again, and Jess asked you a question, but- You can’t answer it in front of Dean.
You could just lie. The halo forming around Dean is hypnotizing. You can’t stop staring at him, and can’t remember how to lie.
He’s looking back at you now, brow furrowed, and you’ve been silent for way too long. But his eyes are shining, and you don’t know why he’s this close, but you really don’t want him to move away, and this is another thing that’s too real. Dean’s looking at you like he’s trying to work out the answer, but it’s written all over your pathetic face for him to see, and the heat from his body is going to melt you into something sweet for him to either devour or kick into the gutter-
Sam coughs. Neither of you look away.
“So, uh- While we’re talking about exes, and everyone’s in a good mood.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Lana’s coming. To the wedding.”
Dean’s eyes shoot away from yours, wide and burning, his jaw ticking the way it does when he’s really angry. His grip on you tightens, and it somehow douses you in ice-water as the moment is broken, all while rekindling a different, tighter heat. He’s holding onto you, so, so tight. Reaching around to grab your further arm as he glares at Sam, and you’re really not sure what’s happening, but it takes a titanic effort not to give into the hazy fever of his proximity, and drop your brow on his chest.
“Sam.” Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth. “What the hell-“
“It was Dad!” Sam protests, and you glance back to see him retreating fast. Literally hiding behind Jess with his hands raised in surrender.
“Dad? You’re willing to push him, Sammy, we both know you got no problem with that, but Lana is where you cave like- Like a fuckin’ pussy-“
“He’s still friends with her dad, Dean.” Sam whines, and Dean’s lips curl like he tasted something sour.
“And you’re carin’ about that over me?”
Sam winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Jess sighs.
“Sam did try to push, but your dad was really aggressive about it.” She offers. “You know how he is, and we did what we could. She’s in the back of the room. You won’t even see her.”
Dean glares between them, still holding you tight, then gives the tiniest shake of his head.
“Whatever. C’mon.” He squeezes your arm tightly, still glaring at Sam. “They got Italian ice cream down the block.”
You blink at him, stumbling slightly as he starts to pull you down the street. “You- You mean gelato?”
“Yeah.” He steadies you, not breaking pace. “That.”
Sam calls after you, and Dean flips him off over your head, never releasing your grip. You shoot Sam an apologetic look, but don’t fight Dean as he half-carries you away.
You end up sitting in the small parlor, Dean beating up his gelato with a spoon while you open and close your mouth, trying to think of an acceptable way to ask what the fuck that was about. His knee is pressed firmly against yours, his attention flicking up every few seconds before dropping back down with a deeper scowl. Something starts to wither in your chest the longer the silence goes on. You look down to your own gelato with your lips pressed tight, trying to swallow down that painful lump and breathe through your nose until your head clears.
The world is blurring a little bit. There’s dusty light swirling around the parlor, and it makes Dean look like an angry polaroid photo, and you feel a little sick as pointless tears prick at your eyes-
“Lana’s my ex.” He grunts suddenly. “Wasn’t even that serious, but still ended like shit. Used to be that every time I dropped home, we’d hook up.”
The lump grows. “Oh.”
Dean’s silent for another moment, and you can feel something worse than the silence burning under your skin. It’s seeping in, toxic and hot, rushing through your blood to your head, an ugly feeling twisting in your chest, and-
“Stopped doin’ that last year.” His voice is a little stronger. He looks up at you with that strange expression you can’t read. “When I headed back in August. Remember, I called you to tell you about running into my math teacher at the bar?”
“Yeah.” You smile despite yourself. “You were wasted, you spent fifteen minutes telling me about your crush on her. And your teacher kink-“
“Hey, hey-“ He kicks you lightly under the table, the light creeping back into his eyes. “That was a secret, sweetheart, don’t shout it for everyone to hear-“
“You never told me it was a secret.”
“It’s a fuckin’ kink, smart ass. I don’t run around shouting about all of yours-“
“You don’t know mine.” You shrug, and that was the wrong this to say.
Dean’s eyes glimmer, something dark crossing over his face that you’d been trapped under that first night on the bed. There, it might’ve been a trick of the night. A little too much drink and stress from dinner, real but in the same was of smoke and mirrors.
Here, it’s inescapably real. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“You think that.” He drawls, leaning over the table. “Don’t you.”
“Um-“ Your voice is getting weirdly high. “Yes?” That was weak.“Yes. I do.”
“Hm.”
You frown. “Hm?”
Dean shrugs. Smirks at you, as he takes a large bite of his gelato. “Hm.”
“You- You don’t-“
“Don’t I?” He teases, and your mouth falls open.
“No. You- I’ve never told you any-“
“Words aren’t everything, baby.” Dean pokes your gelato cup with his spoon. “Eat up, we gotta get back to Sammy and Jess before they start manhunting us.”
You blink at him, he smiles back—wide and charming and doing nothing to help the haze in your head—and you start to eat your gelato slowly. Dean waits for you to have one bite, then two, and smirks. Presses his knee further against yours, dropping his voice to something low and dangerous and hot.
“Good girl.”
The spoon slips out of your hand. Your eyes widen in embarrassment, panicked shame wrapping around your heart, but Dean’s smirk just widens. He keeps eating his gelato, an almost innocent expression on his face, and you might’ve imagined it. Maybe your fantasies and the strange, blurred lines of this week are getting to your head. Maybe it’s the heat, and you’ve started to hallucinate.
But you’re sure that it was real.
And there’s no faking Dean’s arm wrapping around your low back when you leave the shop. His hand splayed on your hip, his posture relaxed and grin wide again. When you find Sam and Jess again and Dean doesn’t try to throttle anyone, they give you looks like you drugged him. You just grimace and smile weakly, because you don’t know what happened either. He was mad and sullen, then you were jealous, and now you’re… Here.
Drinking in a bar, Dean’s smile wide on his face, his body around yours as he fails to teach you how to play pool for the millionth time. His lips brushing over your ear as he speaks, sending a shiver up your spine that he seems far too smug about. He squeezes your hip too close to your ass, when you draw the cue back. It makes you grind back into him like some wanton whore, and he makes a deep sound from his chest, and you feel like you’re going insane.
You’re a little tipsy—everyone started drinking the moment you got to the bar—but this is real. All of it is real. Whatever had been bothering Dean about Lana is gone, and he seemed to have taken your own worry with it.
She was the kind of thing that should’ve freaked you out. That would’ve freaked you out, if he told you back home. It would’ve sent you out to the club a year ago, would’ve locked you in your room to cry last week.
But Dean’s gaze isn’t wandering from you for more than a moment, and all you can think about is his smug expression from earlier. How it hasn’t wavered all afternoon, how he’s teasing you the same as always, but slowly crossing boundaries that have always been open to him.
He kissed the side of your head, when you sunk a ball at the table. Let you go back to the bar with the single victory, but squeezed your hand before you walked away. He’s still looking for you through the crowd, every few moments. He smiles when he sees you, and you don’t know what’s happening.
“He talks about you.”
You blink over at Sam, who’d been silently sitting next to you for a while. “What?”
“Dean.” He shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He talks about you.”
“We… Live together.”
“Yeah. You do.” Sam watches you strangely in the shadows of the bar. “He didn’t talk about Charlie, though. I mean, he’d tell me stories about stuff they did. But he didn’t talk about her.”
You frown. “That’s the same thing-“
“No. Not for Dean.”
“No, like, semantically, it’s the same thing-“
“No.” Sam says firmly. “It’s not.”
“Sam-“
“It’s- Look. When he and Lana were dating, I never heard about her. He’d say he was going out, say he had a date, tell me that she didn’t like things or wanted Dean to do something. Can I tell you the first thing he said to me about you?”
You nod weakly, and Sam sighs. Smiles slightly, like he’s fond of the memory.
“He said she likes my waffles. I did them with the strawberries. Think I’m gonna try banana next.”
“I- That’s-“ You frown at him. “Why do you remember that?”
Sam takes another long drink of his beer, making a face like he’s thinking far too hard about what should be a simple question.
“Ask Dean what the first thing I said about Jess was.” He says finally, something shining in his eyes. “He remembers that.”
Dean’s supposed to stay with Sam tonight. Something about keeping him on lockdown, the night before the wedding.
The room feels bigger without him. Even if he would’ve only slept on the floor, the bed is colder. You pace for an hour, still lost in the events of the day, still turning Sam’s words over in your head.
You hadn’t asked Dean. There hadn’t been a good time. You’d gotten back to the hotel, and he’d gone with Sam. Kissed your forehead, then gone with Sam. And that might’ve been for the show of it. There had been a few cousins and family friends in the lobby. It had barely been a graze of his lips over your hairline.
But his hand had also squeezed your hip. And he’d smiled at you so softly after, and Sam’s claim was still ringing in your head. He talks about you.
Dean talks about everything. Sam said that like it meant something, but Dean literally never stops talking. It doesn’t mean anything.
None of this is supposed to mean anything. Not to him. It means everything to you, but you’re in love with him. You’ve spent hours turning him over in your head, fantasying about the way he’d feel and taste, about a world where you just get to hold his hand, and life where you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder and he smiles at you like you’re sharing a secret. Where he doesn’t even think about other girls, because he’s too busy with you, the same way you’ve never been able to really think about another man.
A life like this week. But it’s not real. It still feels real. And that’s nothing, but it’s everything, and you’re so confused.
You have the room to yourself. Your legs get tired from pacing, so you take a hot shower. You pull on one of Dean’s shirts and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to make sense of anything in your own head. Most of your usual daydreams are blurring with reality, and it’s almost all to jumbled to lead anywhere but more confusion.
Almost. One thing is burning through the rest.
The heat. Dean’s voice drawling good girl like he knows. His hand on your hip, your lower back, your stomach. His crotch pressing against your ass, his weight around your shoulders, pinning you to his body. His lips brushing over your skin, teasing and so hot.
Your core aches, and you realize your body has started to move of its own accord. You’re grinding into the sheets, one hand under your shirt to palm at your breasts. You pinch your nipple and a soft moan leaves your mouth, your fingers slipping between your thighs. Your underwear is soaked. Your body shudders, when you press your clit, and a soft moan escapes your lips.
“De- Dean…”
The sheets still smell like him. You roll over, pressing your face into the mattress, and start to hump into your hand like an animal in heat. It’s so easy to pretend that it’s his big, rough fingers slipping into your pussy. How they’d fill you up, scissor you open as he pressed behind you like at the pool table. The pad of his calloused thumb swiping your clit back and forth, his deep voice right in your ear as he’d kiss up your spine.
“Good girl, baby, so fuckin’ pretty, takin’ my fingers so good, gonna be nice and ready for my cock-“
You moan again. Louder this time, barely muffled in the pillow. Your ass rises higher into the air as you try to get a better angle, the sheets sliding off your body, and you’re so close-
There’s a soft knock on the door, and you freeze. Flip onto your back, sitting up in a second, brushing your hair from your eyes as you take short, breaths.
“Ye- Yeah?” Your voice wavers, your thighs still rubbing under the sheets.
Dean calls your name from the other side of the door. His voice is so strangely soft. Almost nervous, and it clears your head fairly fast. You push to your feet, mind narrowing down to only Dean, and making sure that he’s okay.
You open the door, and find him slouching in the hallway. His head is bowed, expression open and vulnerable, eyes drooping. The low light of the hotel makes the shadows on his face seem longer, the red on his face clearer.
“Dean?” You whisper, your hands itching to reach out and touch him. Just trace his face, make sure everything is in the place it’s supposed to be. “Are you okay?”
He’s silent for a moment. His gaze slowly drags up your body, the red of his face deepening, and you forgot to put on pants. You swallow, wrapping an arm around your stomach, but still smile softly when his eyes meet yours. His throat bobs, tongue flicking out over his lips. He shakes his head.
“Yeah, uh-“ He shakes his head. “Yeah. Just-“ His throat bobs, and he takes a step back. “Never mind. I’m gonna- Sorry-“
“Wait, Dean-“ You grab his hand, and he freezes.
Stares at you like a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling too fast.
You drop his hand. “Do you wanna… Come inside.”
He’s silent for another moment, then gives the tiniest nod. You step to the side, and he stares at you. Looks into the room, face twitching strangely, then back to you.
“If you- You’re busy-“
“I’m not.” You say quickly. “And- It’s your room too. You don’t have to knock.”
It’s a good thing he did knock. But right now, your own at wearing his shirt and nothing else save for soaked panties doesn’t outdo your worry for how fucking tired he look. And those words make him smile tightly, makes something relax in his shoulders, so you’d call it more than worth it.
He shuffles over to the bed, but just stands at the edge of the mattress. You grab his hand, and gently guide him to sit down. He doesn’t resist you. Almost molds over you, the moment you have him down. Leaning against you, his head carefully angled away from your body, and you’re so worried.
You slowly pull him closer. He lets you. Watches you in the dark with that same, vulnerable expression. His body curls over your lap, his legs tangled in your own. His arms wrap around your stomach when you guide them there. His head rests on your chest, between your breasts. He lets out a ragged breath. You brush your fingers through his hair, and his body shakes.
“Nightmare?” You whisper, and he nods.
He doesn’t seem to be willing to move from your body, not even enough to speak. You sigh, and rub his spine.
“Okay.”
You lean down, and kiss the top of his head. Dean makes a low, sad sound like a wounded animal, and holds you tighter.
Time passes slowly, or quickly, but it doesn’t really matter because nothing matters more than Dean in your arms. It could have been five minutes or three hours, and it all feels the same. You keep touching him gently, and his body slowly relaxes. His breathing evens out. You’d think he was sleeping, if he didn’t shift every few moments with a heavy sigh.
When he rasps your name, you only hum. You don’t want to risk breaking the moment, or spooking him away.
“You ever dream?”
You pause. “Dream? Like- Instead of-“
“No, not like-“ He sighs, hand splaying on your back. His face presses further into your body, words vibrating pleasantly over your skin. “Like- The future. Ever think about the future.”
“Oh.” More than he can imagine. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. I, um- Yeah.”
Dean’s silent for a moment. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.“ You laugh nervously, tipping your head back against the headboard. “A lot of things, I guess. What does anyone think about, with that? What do you think about?”
“Family.” He answers so fast, it makes you look right back down.
He’s staring at you in the dark. Eyes lined with red, drooping but fixed on your surprised expression.
“Family?” You echo, and he nods. You swallow. “Like what?”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “You know. What it’ll look like for me. Who it’ll be. That kinda shit.”
“And-“ You bite your lip, but it’s not enough to hold back the words. “What does it look like?”
“Hm.” He sighs, thumb drawing small circles on your back. “You really wanna know?”
You nod, a little too frantic, and a smile ghosts over his face.
“I like my job. Pays better than it should-“
“You work hard-“
“I make money for a hobby.” He corrects, and you frown.
“It’s not a crime to like your job. I like my job.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but you should make more than I do, but- if you like it.” He sighs. “Guess it’s good I make so much. Keeps us afloat. Makes it all easier.”
You blink. “I- I guess-“
“And I got better insurance. Better in the long run. Plus, it’s gonna save a lot on certain costs, like when the kids need their own cars.”
“The- The kids?” You whisper, and Dean nods. Yawns, and turns his face back into your stomach.
“I’d like five.” He mutters. “But I’ll go down to three. Four, if I can pull it off.”
Your mouth falls open. “Four kids-“
“They’re gonna look like their mom.” He mumbles, and you carefully try to move his face. Try to get a good look at him, to work out if he’s fucking with you.
But when he turns, he’s just staring at you strangely under long, pretty lashes, his eyes slightly glazed. Tired, still clearly a little drunk, face more open than you’ve ever seen it.
And that expression. It’s almost reverent.
“We’ll need a bigger house.” He mumbles, and you swallow.
“We don’t own a house, De.”
“Yeah. Shit.” He yawns, mouth pulling into a smile. “I’ll work on that.”
“Work on… A house?”
“Mhm. I’ll make sure we got a backyard. And- Big room. Big bed. Lotta space.”
“Do you want space?” You whisper, and he hums.
“Nah, but in case you get sick of me.”
“I- don’t. Ever.”
He’s silent for a moment, eyes shining on yours. “Yeah?” He finally rasps, and you nod.
“Never. I- I don’t think I could.”
He smiles again. Wide and affectionate and real. “Awesome.”
“Dean…” Your heart is beating in your throat. “Can- Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.” He mutters, and it’s so sincere it almost splits you in half.
“What was the first thing Sam told you about Jess?”
He chuckles, then yawns, turning his face back into your stomach without an answer. “Weird question.”
“I- I know, just- Can you answer it. Please?”
Dean nods, but still doesn’t speak. His hands are wandering over your body, slowing down to a drag, his breathing growing deeper.
“Dean-“
“She called me sweet.” Dean murmurs. “Said she liked the book I was readin’, then called me sweet.”
“Oh- Okay.” You blink, tearing burning behind your eyes. “And- Why do you remember that?”
“‘Cause.”
“Cause why-“
“Sammy’s my baby brother. I know ‘im.”
“I know, but-“
“Never heard him in love before.” Dean mumbles, and your breath catches. “Was nice. Gonna remember it.”
You can’t think. Can’t speak. Can barely breathe.
In love. Dean’s first snore rips through the air, and he’s out in your arms. You take a shaky breath, and press your head back, lips pursed tight.
In love. The words ring in your ears, until you fall asleep. In love.
The day moves too fast. You’re starting to get trapped in your own head.
Dean’s up before you are. Wiping his eyes and groaning as he comes out of the bathroom, running a hand through damp hair and giving you a sheepish grin as you blink at him.
“Gotta go get Sammy ready.” He says. “You can go back to bed, you got time.”
You nod slowly, scanning over his face to try and test if he remembers anything at all. If it meant anything at all.
He’s out the door before you find the words to ask. You’re left sitting alone, the sheets tangled around your body, wide awake as the days start to play back in your head. A broken record you’re trapped in. A world you’re not even sure is real, because it’s far too close to everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you’d been so certain you’d never get to have.
Dean spoke about the future like it was for you. He touched you like he was for you. Smiled at you and kissed you and it can’t have all been for the show—there wasn’t even an audience to perform for—but it being for you feels far too good to be true.
He said keep up afloat. He said he wanted kids, said the kids like they’d be yours too, said he’d get to work on a house, and in love, and this was such a bad idea. You should’ve told him no, when he asked. Shouldn’t have given into your instinct to please him, should’ve held your ground for the sake of your sanity, let him come here alone so you could wallow in bed about a future you’d never to have-
A future he might want. With you. There had been no one for him to say that for, but you. In love.
And if you’d let him come alone, he’d be alone with the ex that he has sex with. Stopped having sex with. Seemed to stop thinking about all together, when he started teasing you.
You take a shower, hoping the water will wash away the spinning in your head. It doesn’t. You just end up smelling Dean’s shampoo and thinking about him in this same shower a few hours ago. How the water might’ve ran down his bare chest. How he might’ve smelled your shampoo, how his broad frame would take up so much of the space, how he’d crowd you if you shared the water.
How he’d hold your hips like yesterday. Hold you against his chest. Brush his mouth over your neck, and whisper low praise as you writhed on his hand. Good girl.
He said that. Actually said that. It wasn’t just another fantasy your mind conjured up, those were words that left Dean’s mouth.
You stare at yourself in the mirror for half an hour, before the reminder alarm goes off on your phone, and you actually have to get ready.
He picks you up in his suit. His eyes gleam as they take you in, and you flush under the attention. You don’t even remember getting ready, but suddenly you’re here and Dean’s smirking at you like you’re a something lewd.
“You look awesome.” He says with a wide grin, and you swallow.
“You- You too.” You whisper, because he really does. He always does, but right now it’s like the world is finally just tunneling down to Dean, and he’s the last fixed point that keeps the world from slipping out from under your feet.
He fills out the suit in a way that makes your mouth water. His tie is a little crooked, and he grins down at you when your fingers shakily adjust it.
You blink up at him. “Hi.”
“Hi.” His tone is a little mocking, but not mean. Just bright and clear and comfortable. The rest of the world is just shadows, compared. “Ready?”
You nod weakly, and Dean folds his fingers through yours. Swoops down and kisses your cheek, before herding you out of the room. To the wedding.
And you might be blacking out. All you’re certain of are moments where Dean’s hand is in yours. He kisses the back of it, then lets go to stand with Sam at the alter. You’re sure the wedding is lovely, but you can’t remember a single detail but Dean’s eyes, burning into yours as Sam and Jess say vows. Your heart thunders in your ears and drowns them out. All the sunlight seems to bend into Dean, until the world is truly only you and him, staring at each other through the whole ceremony.
It’s too easy to think about what it would be like if he was right across from you. If the small smile on his lips was because it was your wedding. The one you’ve dreamed about in your head, so many times. The one that drags you away from the moment, until people are cheering and Dean looks away, and suddenly you’re at the wedding party.
Dean’s holding your hand again. You don’t look anywhere but him, as he leads you around through the crowd. He’s introducing you to people. You can’t hear yourself when you speak, can’t really focus on anything but his presence at your side.
You dance together. Dean holds you like you are his, but you’re not. You are in the eyes of the crowd, but it’s just a lie, but it doesn’t feel like a lie, and it’s somehow more confusing and clarifying than anything else.
He tells you that you’re beautiful like a secret he wants to keep to himself. You smile. The cool lights of the party are moving around him, making him look like one of your countless dreams, and you just drop your face into his neck. He sighs, and keeps guiding you through the dance. You’ve had this dream.
It’s not a dream. Dean smiles at you, his nose bumping yours but without a single kiss, and it’s so real. How he holds you. Looks at you. Makes a soft joke that you giggle at, even if you feel like you’re getting high and crashing down all at once.
In love. That strange look. He looks at you like he’s in love, and the world is crumbling around you.
Mary corners you after the speeches and dinner. You smile at her sweetly. Hold Dean’s hand so tight it hurts, and he pulls you close. Rubs your back, as he talks to his mother about work.
“Did you get any ideas?” She asks you. “For your turn? I mean, I love the winter wedding in a sunny place, but Dean- I’ve always pictured him getting married in the fall.” She laughs to herself. “Probably because that’s what John and I did. And he gets my mother’s ring, which goes with fall the most. But it’s up to you, honey, right? Are you thinking of the fall?”
You’re not. You’ve always pictured the spring. But you can’t speak. Not even on auto pilot. Not about wedding, to Dean, like it’s real and not something you’ve sworn to keep confined to your head and the walls of your bedroom, and-
“Jesus, Mom.” Dean cuts in for you, and you blink at him with a desperate expression. “Let me propose first, you’re gonna spook her.”
Mary laughs, and says something about you not seeming like they type to spook easy. You stare at Dean.
He looks back, worry furrowing in his brow at your slack expression.
“You good?” He murmurs as John wanders over, saying something to Mary your brain doesn’t care to process.
You nod weakly, and his frown deepens.
“You wanna go for a walk?
You shake your head, and he looks really worried now.
“Sweetheart-“
“Hey, Dean?” Sam appears from nowhere, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and giving you a small grin.
You don’t smile back. You just stare at Dean, who seems to be trying to stare back, but keeps getting distracted by Sam. He’s dragged away to talk about something allegedly important, and tries to take you with him, but Mary grabs your shoulder and says something about bonding.
You black out again, the moment Dean’s arm leaves your body. You might tell her about your idea of the future with Dean. The one you’ve sworn not to tell anyone, but pours out of you with every question, because your skin feels like it’s about to fly off your body. Your every nerve is wired and buzzing and raw. You’re running on a thin, fraying line of electric, and if you’re touched, you spark.
Maybe you tell Mary you love Dean. You don’t know.
Then, suddenly, you’re alone in the middle of the room and everything is dark. You’re swaying on your feet. Lost at sea, the only lighthouse the same siren that lured you here, and now you’re confused and sweating and alone-
Someone says your name, in a voice you don’t recognize. It’s cold, and mocking, and when you turn it’s like you’re in a waking nightmare.
You’ve never met this woman before, but she’s all too familiar. You’ve seen her, a million times before. Inverted in the mirror, glowing with a confidence you’ve never been able to find. Smiling not softly, but like a beautiful monster that knows it’s got its claws in something. Put together like she rolled out of bed like this, her every feature swallowing and casting the shadows.
She’s every girl you heard Dean fuck through the walls, every girl you pretended not to care about, everything you’ve craved to be while never being able to figure out how.
She doesn’t need to introduce herself. You already know who she is.
“Lana.” You say, your voice faraway. She smiles.
“He’s told you about me.” She holds out her hand, and you can see yours moving to shake it. Your skin burns at her soft touch.
“Sam did.”
“Hm. Sam.” There’s something cold in her voice. “He’s always so annoying, isn’t he. Has he told you’re not good enough yet? This family, I swear-“
“No.” You breathe out. “Sam’s been nice.”
Something venomous flashes across Lana’s beautiful face. “Hm.”
You smile at her, but it makes your face hurt. You shouldn’t have worn heels. It would’ve been easier to run.
Lana’s still holding your hand tight in hers. When she lets go of it, she wipes her hand on her elegant dress. Like she knows the foul, selfish things that go out in your head, and they’re leaking all over her perfect skin.
“So you’re the new toy?” She looks you up and down, lip curling. “Dean’s lowered his standards. Or maybe he just… hit his head. Would explain why he turned me down last time.” She sniffs. “For you.”
You blink at her. His name cleared your head a little. Those last words make everything sharp.
“He what?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. This sweet little bunny routine doesn’t work on me. He might think he’s loyal right now, but he always thinks that. Then he gets sick of it, and comes back to me. It’s just taking a little longer this time.”
“He-“ You take a deep breath. Loyal. For you. In love. “Lana-“
She smirks. “Aw. You say it like Dean does.”
Your eyes narrow. This is something that would’ve folded you in a second, just a few days ago. Before all the touches and whispers and slowly stripped away veil. The light that might still be warping the world, but at least isn’t blinding you anymore.
It’s helping you see. He turned her down last time. Months ago. For you.
“What exactly.” You take a large step forward. “Did Dean say to you about me?”
Her nose twitches. She raises her chin. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back to me-“
“If it doesn’t matter.” You counter smoothly. “You should have no problem telling me.” She recoils, and you raise your voice. “Did he turn you down for me, last time?”
Lana scoffs. “Like you don’t know. But you were worse than I was, just stringing him along. At least I love him-“
“I didn’t even know who you were.”
She blinks like you slapped her, and you take a step forward. Things are falling into place too fast, a perfect storm that’s going to sweep you away in a moment. But right now, the sky is clear. Your head is quiet.
And you have no doubt about which parts are real, as you hold Lana’s gaze.
“He’d never told you about me, until this weekend.” You say softly. “And I do love him. I love him, and I like him, and- He won’t get sick of me. But he seems a little sick of you.”
Lana’s eyes narrow. Her tongue flicks over her lips, and you hold her gaze. But her lips twitch up. Cruel and hateful. Her voice cold.
“It’s so sweet that you think that.” She coos. “But girl to girl, I should tell you I was trying to warn you. About how he thinks he’s loyal.” She takes a step forward, voice dropping to a hushed taunt. “But he was in my room last night.”
You blink at her, the words ringing in your ears, and it’s like she pulled on a single thread. It unravels fast, the whole world going with it. Months and months of doubt, of fear, of the reality you’d taught yourself to pick apart and dissect, suddenly merged with your fantasy, unspooled into your greatest fear.
You take a step back, eyes wide, and Lana’s smirk grows. Dean isn’t there to ground you, as the world slips from under your feet. And you-
You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. You can’t be here anymore.
The pillows still smell like Dean. It clears your head, after a few hours of crying into them.
You hadn’t had enough strength to just run. You’d stumbled out of the wedding and back to your room, mostly just trying to get away from the flashing light, noise, and sound of Lana’s voice. Your intention had been to leave. To pack your bags, text Dean that you needed to go home, and leave. Instead you’d found your clothing mixed with Dean’s and your knees had started to feel weak. You’d collapsed on the bed with shallow breaths and tears streaming down your face.
It had smelled like Dean. So you’d ripped the dress off your body, buried yourself under the covers, and sobbed.
It helped. It usually does. Dean couldn’t have gone to Lana last night, because he was with you. He wouldn’t have go to her first after a nightmare, especially because he’s told you that you’re one of the only people that knows he had them. It’s you, Sam, and his mom.
And you trust him. You really do. He wouldn’t do that. Not after being so disgusted just by Lana’s name. She’d just wanted to hurt you. Something you understand. You’d like to hurt the other girl’s you’ve seen with Dean too.
But now you’re the girl. The one he danced with, and brought to his brother’s wedding. Who he crawled to in the dead of night, and ran out the moment she got scared.
You mostly just feel stupid, now. You’d felt stupid for trusting him, then not trusting him, then stupid for hiding and stupid for being so confused over something so dramatic, stupid for caring, stupid for crying, stupid for being unable to do anything but cling to him all night, and stupid for hugging his pillow to your chest like some lovesick teenager.
And stupid for falling back into old patterns. Because you have this habit, when you’re upset. It’s another part of that secret world in your head.
You think of Dean. Imagine him comforting you the same way he’s done before, but in bed instead of the living room. His arms around you, voice deep and soothing in your ear, hands tracing your body in a gentle remind that he’s here. He’d brush his lips over yours, before kissing the space between your eyes. Mutter that everything was going to be okay, then kiss your cheek.
Hold himself gently over you, blocking you from the pain of the world, and smile gently. Say something stupid to make you laugh, and get those crinkles by his eyes when you try to hide your face.
And you’re going to be ashamed of this later, but not now. Now, you let your thoughts run wild, alone in bed. Let them carry you where they always do, when you think of Dean.
His lips on yours. The heat of him pressing down, the low grunts that would leave his chest, how his muscles would flex and hips would roll when you dragged your nails over his chest. Working yourself up fast, whining his name as he knee pressed between your thighs.
The heat is starting to build. You whine his name into the dark, and he’d chuckle to himself.
“So needy already.” He’d whisper in your ear. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for, baby. I’ll make you forget all about those pretty tears.”
You bite your lip, and let your hand wander between your legs. Your hand fists the sheet, a soft breath escaping your lips as your fingers start to tease your folds.
“Such a dirty girl. Thinking of me touching her, still fuckin’ crying about. You can be a real brat sometimes,” he’d kiss your cheek, a smirk in his voice. “Get real dumb, for how smart you are. You think I’d ever want anything else? When I got this perfect fuckin’ pussy-“ He’d pinch your clit, and you’d squeak. “Soaked and ready for me whenever I want it?”
“Yes.” You whimper. “Ready, Dean- So ready-“
“Hm.” The Dean in your head drags his thumb down, pressing it over your slick entrance. “Look at you, crying for me everywhere. Jesus, you’re really this desperate for it, huh? Need my cock so bad I could bend you over at a damn bar and you’d beg me to take you.”
You nod at the air, trying to cover your mouth with your free hand as you start to fuck yourself with your fingers. It’s so so easy to imagine they’re Dean’s.
He’d press them into you fast and rough, unforgiving and brutal, all while teasing his thumb around your clit. Keep your mouths attached until your eyes were rolling back, lightheaded from the pleasure and lack of oxygen. He’d whisper filthy things, call you his slut and his perfect girl in the same breath, watch as you came undone below him from barely anything at all. His hand flying back and forth over your pussy as he dragged your orgasm out, your mouth falling over in a cry of his name-
Dean says your name. Not the Dean in your head. The real Dean.
You shoot upright, your face burning, and he’s standing in the shadows near the door. His face is red, your head still spinning from your orgasm—the thrill and embarrassment of being caught only making your stupid, traitorous body more aroused and needy—but you have enough of a mind to know you should’ve ran. Should run right now. Should jump out the fucking window, because he caught you.
It was all supposed to be a secret. Something you died with, a love that burned inside of you until it made flowers bloom over your grave. He was never supposed to know, but this another thing that’s real. Too real. Dean really caught you calling his name as you came. You’re really still shaking with desire like a feral animal.
Dean gapes at you, his eyes raking over your body. It’s mostly hidden under the sheets, save for your tits.
His eyes linger there, on your hardened nipples and swollen breasts. He takes a ragged breath, his tongue flicking over his lips. You pull the sheets higher, and his eyes snap to yours.
“Dean-“
“I thought you- I was worried. Just lookin’ for you, and you- You were shoutin’ for me. Through the door.”
“I- Oh.”
His throat bobs, voice dropping lower. “Thought you needed me.”
You blink at him, and maybe it’s the aftermath of the orgasm, but your every nerve feels like it’s lit up. Like he’s touching you, without a single hand. You open your mouth. Close it. Dean’s eyes flash.
“Do you?” He prompts softly. “Need me?”
You stare at him. Your back is completely bare, and the cold air pricks at your sweaty skin. Just uncomfortable enough for this not to be another fantasy. It’s not in your head.
Dean takes a slow step forward, his hands fisted at his side, and it’s not in your head. He’s here.
There’s a bulge in his dress pants, straining through the fabric. That’s not in your head either.
“Do you need me, sweetheart.” He almost growls. “‘Cause I need you.”
Your mouth falls open. Your legs spread under the sheets, like his voice alone pulled them apart. You nod, and Dean’s eyes flash.
“You-“
“Yes.” You breathe, rising up a little on your knees. Trying to get closer, but not daring to move and ruin this. “Please.”
He swallows. Takes one step forward, than another, then-
Dean yanks his jacket off, and almost runs to the bed. Grabs your face between his hands and dragging you up into a long, rough kiss.
A kiss. Not lips casually or teasingly on your skin. A real, deep kiss.
Sloppy and open-mouthed, as he angles himself over you. His hands fisting in your hair, body towering over yours, consuming your every sense. He tastes like champagne and cherries from dessert, feels warm and strong over you, smells like the spicy, warm cologne he saves for these special occasions. His tongue presses over yours, and you rise up to try and meet him a little closer. He groans, and the sound vibrates through your body.
You grab his wrists, and his knee lands on the mattress, letting the kiss deepen. One hand drops to your bare waist, and you arch into the touch.
Dean lays you slowly down on the silken pillows and sheets. Your legs spread wide in invitation, your pussy on full, wanting display, and you gasp when his clothed crotch presses over the aching nerves. He grinds himself against you, mouth working against yours until you’re gasping for air between kisses.
“De- Dean-“ You grab his shirt, trying to drag him closer. “Yes- Fuck-“ You hump against him, lips spreading in a wide, stupid smile. “Dean-“
“Jesus,” he groans your name, rising up over your body. You whine at the loss, but one massive hand finds your breast, and it’s like a drug.
Dean’s attention is fervent. Unyielding and hot, as one hand plays with your breasts, and the other keeps you pinned down with his palm flat on your stomach. You writhe into the torturous touch, but there’s nowhere else you’d ever want to be. Not when his fingers pinch and roll you nipple, dragging a high sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make.
His eyes flash, and he repeats the movement. Over and over until you’re squirming and fucking up into his crotch, clawing at his chest for just a little more pressure. You’re already sensitive from the first orgasm, already raw from the emotions of the night. You need more.
“More, Dean- Please- Oh-“
He stops playing with your breasts, and drags his hand down your side. The touch is light and teasing, making a soft giggle escape your lips. You look up at him with open adoration, some part of you still convinced this is another fantasy. That you can look at him like this, and there won’t be any consequences.
Dean swallows, another low noise rumbling through his chest. He moves his hand to trace your face, and you lean into him with a happy hum. His thumb brushes over your cheek, over a tear still stained on the soft skin.
He frowns slightly, eyes scanning over your parted, swollen lips and glossy eyes. You know how you must look. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror after crying often enough.
You smile at him hopelessly, hoping you’re a hot enough mess that he’s not changing his mind. He swallows, and lowers down over you with a heavy sigh.
Kissing you slow and gentle, the hand on your stomach dragging down.
Cupping right over your bare, dripping sex.
Dean groans, rubbing back and forth. He’s not changing his mind at all.
“I’ve got you, baby.” He murmurs against your lips, arms wrapping around your thighs. “Gonna make you feel good, pretty girl. So fuckin’ good.”
You moan, trying to lean up and chase his lips as he pulls away again. But once against the brief moment of cold is more than worth it.
Dean folds you up. Pushes your knees up to your chest, fully exposing your pussy to the air. You reach for him, and he catches your arm. Presses it over your head with a wink, before dropping his gaze down to your glittering, puffy cunt. Already leaking for him, squeezing around nothing in anticipation. He blows on it, and you shudder below him.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Even damn prettier than I thought, sweetheart. All wet and ready for me.”
“For you,” you breathe out, head spinning with desire. “Just you, Dean, please-“
You moan loudly, as he snakes his hand around to rub your clit. His eyes are fixed on your slack expression, as he rubs tight circles. His jaw tight, as you flush and turn to boneless, pathetic putty.
Dean smirks, drawing back for a split second, then slaps your pussy. Not harsh. Just enough to see if you like it.
You go completely limp below him, a slurring sound of need leaving your lips.
“More,” you manage to whimper, and Dean nods. Slaps your pussy again, then again, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “Dean- Fuck- Dean, please-“
“This what you were thinking about me doing?” He grunts, pressing his hand firm against your sore, throbbing core. “When you were touchin’ yourself, callin’ my name?”
You nod pathetically, and he moans.
“You do that a lot, baby?” He lands another hit, and the pleasure darts through your every nerve.
“Yes, yes- All the time-“
“Knew it.” He mutters to himself, slapping you again, watching the way your whole body reacts to the single touch. “I fuckin’- Thought I was going crazy, seeing what I wanted, but- Shit, look at you-“
He lands one last, rough slap, and you moan. “Dean-“
He presses forward, somehow folding you into a little ball you didn’t know your body was capable of becoming. It seems to reshape itself, though, to whatever Dean needs it to be. He kisses you, deep and softer than before, almost loving. Like you’re not a wanton, messy wreck in his arms.
“Can I show you what I think about?” He murmurs against your lips, far softer than before. “Please?”
You nod, too busy trying to get drunk on his kisses to use your words and respond. Dean smiles, kisses your nose, then draws up. He grabs your wrists again, but pulls them down onto your stomach. Lets your sink your nails into his knuckles and palms, squeezing gently back as he kisses your inner thigh.
Sucks a little mark on it, before kissing it again. Kisses over your clit, open-mouthed and wet. His tongue swirling. Driving you out of your mind, before switching to the other thigh. Sucking another little mark, then licking that one too.
Licking a thick, long stripe up your pussy. Then another. Pressing his tongue into your weeping pussy, before traveling back up to flick your clit.
His eyes never leaving yours. He gets faster and faster with every motion. His tongue presses on the sensitive skin between your pussy and ass, then swipes right up. Taunts your clit with the lightest touch, before dragging back down. Over and over until your breathing is shallow and desperate.
“De- Dean- Fuck- Dean-“
He moans against your pussy, and you try to buck off the bed, but his body presses forward, pinning you easily back down. He chuckles at the desperate look on your face, his mouth never leaving your clit, and you might be about to explode.
Then his plush lips wrap around your clit, and his tongue starts to work fast. Tiny, controlled little flicks that build you into a frenzy, his eyes still locked on to your, a soft pressure lighting you up as he sucks-
You cum without warning, every nerve in your body lighting up as your pussy remains trapped against Dean’s face. You try to wiggle away, the feeling overwhelming, but he drags you back with a moan. He’s hard, against your back. Hard and big, rutting slightly like this is getting his off, and that just sends you over the edge all over again.
You’re trembling, by the time Dean finally lets up. He gathers you up in his arms, humming gently, and hauls you up into his lap. Kisses your neck, then you cheek, then your lips. His shirt is gone. You’re not sure when that happened. But his pants are still on.
You paw at him. Whimper and grind, giving him a pouting, hopeful expression. He’s so hard, and you want him everywhere. Pounding into your cunt, no matter how sensitive it already is. In your mouth, in your hand, between your breasts, release hot over your skin, whatever he wants.
Dean just sighs, gently guiding your wrists away. “You were crying, baby-“
“Don’t care.” You whisper. “Dean, please, please, please-“ You rise up, pressing your brow against his. “I need it, please.”
Dean swallows. His tongue darts over his lips, and he rubs with mouth with a worried brow. You think he’s going to tell you no, for a terrible and long moment.
“Alright.” He murmurs, hand moving to his belt. “But- Can you promise me we’re gonna talk in the morning. Please?”
“Mhm.” You nod, your eyes fixed on his crotch.
He’s big. Thick and big, and your mouth is watering.
Dean chuckles. “You’re drooling, baby- Jesus-“
You’re climbing fully over him, something feral taking over your brain. You need him. Need him bad. You must be moaning it, because Dean holds you close, and doesn’t waste time.
Strong hands find your hips. Pick you up, then guide you back down onto his cock. You moan happily, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. He groans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.
“Fuck... You feel good, baby, so fuckin’ good-“
You smile to yourself, rolling your hips, and Dean moans.
“Shit- Hell yeah-“ He leans back against the headboard, hands lazily wandering your body as you grind back and forth on his cock. “There you go, pretty girl, take what you want- Jesus-“
You squeeze around him, and Dean head falls back with another sinful moan.
“Don’t- Fuck-“
You squeeze again, and his hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise.
“Playing fuckin’ game, baby- Fuck- Keep doin’ that and I won’t-“
You giggle, and squeeze again. Dean’s eyes flash, his hands freezing.
“You think this is fuckin’ funny?”
“Maybe.” You whisper, lowering your lips to inches from his. “Hi.”
His eyes drop to your lips. You squeeze again, and he moans. “Shit, I’m warnin’ you, baby- Fuck-“
There’s something dangerous in his voice that you need to hear more of. You test the waters.
Dean snaps. He rolls you over, flipping your positions, and starts to piston his hips. The bed squeaks from the force of it, your mouth falling open as he drags you so perfectly apart, and he smirks.
“Yeah, there you go. Not so fuckin’- Christ-“
Dean drops down, his brow pressed against yours, eyes fixed on where his cock is slipping in and out of your pussy. It’s a lewd, enchanting sight. The way he’s transfixed by it almost makes you cum again.
“Look at us.” There’s a soft awe in his voice, for how he’s destroying you. “Take me so well, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for this cock-“
“Dean…” You whine, and he looks back to you with a smirk.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s my girl.” He kisses you deeply, thrusts pushing every thought but his name from your head. “That’s my good girl, take it, fuckin’ take it-“
You moan, and he doubles his efforts. Groans, his dirty talk slipping into moans and grunts of your name, his mouth barely leaving yours for more than a second.
When you cum, it’s all consuming. Your vision goes white, toes curling and body arching off the bed. Dean shouts your name, yanking out and beating himself into his hand, cum spaying over your thighs and pussy. You’re gushing with your own release, mixing with his, and when he drags his fingers over your pussy, a tiny orgasm shakes you like an earthquake.
Dean helps you clean up. Guides you through the motions, even if your brain is still hazy from the overstimulation. Takes care of you like you’re his.
He said you were. And none of that was a dream.
Dean doesn’t sleep on the floor tonight. He curls up with you after changing the sheets, tangling your legs together, breath hot on your neck.
“In the morning.” He whispers as sleep pulls you both under. “We gotta talk in the morning.”
You hum, too drunken on his everything to really hear. And you fall asleep peacefully, and dream of things that are, for once, within reach.
My girl. Dean called you my girl, last night. He wanted to talk in the morning. But he’s gone when you get up.
You touch the mattress, and it’s still warm. You get dressed with your thighs still aching, and poke your head into the hallway. He’s not there either.
Your hand slips. You take a stumbling step forward, accidentally pulling the door closed, and it closes behind you. Leaving you locked out.
Something in you wants to cry, but something else doesn’t feel like you deserve it. You fell into the fantasy. You let yourself get swept away.
Maybe he’s just getting something. You cling to hope, instead of fear. For once in your life, you try to look at what’s in front of you, instead of your head.
You walk downstairs, because if he’s not there, at least you can get another keycard. The lobby is busy. The line at the desk is long, so you sigh, and step fully outside. Into fresh air.
And suddenly, you’re back at the beginning again.
Dean calls your name from behind you, and he’s shoving his through the crowd. So fast, he doesn’t seem to notice the glass door closing behind you. Your mouth falls open as he slams into it, and he stumble back with a groan.
You swallow a laugh, rushing forward to help him. He grabs you in an instance, his hand over his brow, groaning at the impact.
“Fucking, Dean-“ You guide his hand away from his face with a sigh, running your fingers over his brow. “What was that?”
“Thought you were getting away.” He mumbles, eyes locked on your face. “You ran last night, just- Worried you were doin’ it again. Wanted to catch you.”
“I was looking for you.” You mutter, and he winces as you find the bump. “Shit, sorry-“
“’S okay.” He catches your hand, pulling it slowly down. Rasps your name, squeezing lightly.
You swallow, and look into his eyes. He’s wearing that strange expression. The one you finally learned how to read.
Love.
“I was getting you breakfast.” He mutters. :And I kinda talked to my Mom last night. She saw you with Lana. Said you looked upset. I was- Comin’ to talk to you about that. Last night.”
You flush, glancing around the milling crowd. “Can we- Do this later-“
“No.”
His voice is firm, and you look back to find his face set. Determined.
You might’ve protested, if he wasn’t right.
The way the light bends around him, there’s really no one else in the world.
“I don’t know what she said to you.” Dean mutters, thumb tracing over your knuckles. “But- I broke up with Lana ‘cause I didn’t like her. I wanted to be with someone I liked.”
“Dean-“
“You told my Mom you love me.” He says quickly, and your eyes widen. “And you asked if she’s ever gotten sick of my Dad. And- She says that you told her you never get sick of me.” He swallows. “I don’t know how to do laundry, sweetheart. You gotta sometimes be sick of me.”
You shake your head, voice soft. “But- I’m not.”
Dean takes a ragged breath, and you force the question out.
“Are you? Sick of me?”
He shakes his head, mouth twitching. “Never. I- Hold on-“
He lets go fumbling in his pocket for a second before pulling out his phone. He swipes back and forth with a tight frown, then lets out a heavy breath. Turns the screen for you to see.
He’s showing you a photo of a ring. It’s elegant. Classy and expensive looking.
You frown. “What-“
“It’s my grandmothers.” He rasps. “Mom gave it to me when I moved out. Kept it in storage, ‘till I- I met you. ’S why Sammy had to know we weren’t fakin’. He asked for it for Jess, day after he met her. I had to remind him that I told him I grabbed it for you. After you-“
“Liked your waffles.” You breath, eyes pricking with tears. “Dean…”
“I was in love with you then.” He says, voice low. “Sammy thought I was crazy. Maybe I was.” He takes a deep breath, searching over your face. “Am I, sweetheart? Crazy.”
You smile. Look at him, and smile.
“No. You’re not.”
He chuckles, shoulders relaxing. “Awesome.”
“Yeah. I love you too.”
“Even better.”
“It is?” You tease, because you can’t help it.
Dean smiles. “Yeah. It is."
✦End note: god i wish i could just write all the time i'd never stop it's like playing with dolls and smushing them together (weird stuffed animal kid to writer pipeline is real)✦ - If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3 - Buy me a coffee!☕️ - Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
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okiee finally thought of an idea! fem reader sharing a bed with sam for the first time, like usually they'd get three or one sleeps on the futon but they motel doesn't have it and they have crushes on each other–maybe wake up cuddling? suggestive is up to u!!
𝐁𝐞𝐝-𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬
Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader
Summary: Dean is a little shit and you and Sam were a bed because of it.
An: my gosh. I wrote this twice because the first time I wrote it on tumblr and exited the app without saving… rookie mistake. Crashed out for ten minutes then locked back in and re wrote it. Anyway I rlly enjoyed writing this, other than the obvious trials and tribulations. May write a part two with smut… I don’t k ow I have to see how I feel later smut doesn’t usually come easily to me.
WC: 1.1k - Sam Masterlist
Being roommates with Sam wasn’t hard at all. You both had your own routines that danced around each other perfectly. Then there was Dean, who did what he wanted, when he wanted because ‘I’m the oldest’ his lifelong excuse.
Which is why he waited until he was half asleep, sprawled out in his own bed to tell Sam and yourself that there was no pull out before slipping into his own slumber.
Realistically, it shouldn’t be a problem. It wouldn’t be a problem… if you weren’t completely and hopelessly crushing on Sam.
You looked at him, hair still wet from the shower he’d just taken, muscles bulging out of his t-shirt (that you only got to see at night thanks to his love for flannels) his cheeks were flushed- probably from the shower- and his eyes moved frantically, avoiding yours as best as he could.
Your throat closed, of course he wouldn’t want to share. Your eyes traveled to the couch “I’ll uh- take the couch” you said, moving towards it.
Sam grabbed your hand, stopping you in your tracks “wha- no. Your backs still sore from the hunt. I’ll take the couch.” He said, eyes full of concern. You let out a small laugh “thanks Sam but that couch will barely fit me, and if you haven’t noticed your a friggin’ giant. I’ll take the couch my back is fine” you lied.
He said your name gently, trying to coax you to take the bed, “Sam” you said tone final, matching the look on your face.
He sighed, not in defeat but in determination. “Okay well what if we both take the bed.“
You searched his face “are you comfortable with that?” You asked. Sam gave you a look “I would’ve have offered if I wasn’t more than-“ he stopped himself with a cough “yes I’m okay with that. Only if you are of course”
That's how you ended up in bed with Sam Winchester. Your very best friend and the man you were hopelessly falling for. And because of that you were actively trying to keep your heart from jumping out of your chest.
"This isn't weird… right?" Sam whispered to you in the dark room. Yes, was your immediate thought you were in a bed with the man you’re head over heels for, of course it’s weird. "No. Not at all. We're both adults this is… fine" you swallowed harshly.
He was silent for a second "your hearts racing" he said simply. You tensed, looking at him only to see he was already looking at you. You hadn't noticed him move at all. Which being as hyper aware of his presence as you currently are was a bit of a shock.
"You can hear that?" You asked shakily. Sam smiles "its a lot more quiet when deans not snoring" he jokes. Against your judgment you let out a shaky laugh.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Sam asks quietly. Your eyes meet his shimmering gaze, when at night his eyes shined with the same intensity and warmth.
You shook your head 'no' not trusting your own voice. His eyes searched your face for any of your tells. He found none.
He turned on his side completely, his hand moving to your hip cautiously. You inhaled sharply, your hand moving to grab his without breaking eye contact.
"Sam" you whispered gently. " 'S this okay?" He asked. You could've sworn your heart stopped, this was more than okay. This was all you wanted.
"Yes" you answered breathlessly. Sam smiles, pulling you closer, your chest flush with his own. You could feel his breath fanning over your face.
You curl into him like your life depended on it because Sam was the one thing you wanted that you always told yourself you couldn't have.
Now here you are. Sharing a bed with him. Sharing your warmth with him. Teetering between the lines of friends and lovers.
Sam pressed a warm kiss to your forehead "you can tell your heart she's safe with me" he muttered. It was then you were absolutely sure that Sam Winchester was trying to kill you. "What does this mean?" You ask him, not having the guts to look him in the eye.
"Whatever you want," he promised. Your heart fluttered "But let's figure it out tomorrow, if we wake Dean up neither of us will sleep at all."
You nod against him, not being able to form words.
You began slipping into a deep sleep and just before sleep completely overtook you, Sam hugged you tighter "sleep well, honey"
The next morning you woke up, to the warmth of the man who was finally yours- well not officially… not yet.
"Oh good, you're up" deans spoke from behind you. You turned your head carefully in efforts to not wake Sam. He had the most smug smile on his face, he gestured at you and Sam "I called this by the way. Garth owes me fifty bucks. Oh and you owe me a thank you." He smiled victoriously "But I'll wait until you're uh- well acquainted" he winked.
Your eyes narrowed, on Dean as he moved around the room grabbing case files and his jacket. The dots connecting faster than your brain can comprehend, "you asshole you set thi-"
"See ya later. You crazy kids behave alright?" He cut you off, just before he slipped out of the motel room with a all too knowing smirk.
"Dean!" You whisper shouted as the door closed.
Sam stirred beside you "what time is it" he asked, voice thick with sleep. You turned to look at the alarm clock on the nightstand "about seven thirty" you answer.
Sam pulls you closer "c'mere" he murmurs. You allow yourself to melt into him, any ounce of tension now gone and replaced by nothing but him.
Bravely, you pressed a kiss to his neck. His grip tightened around you. "don't" he warns. You tense again, beginning to pull away from him, afraid you had overstepped but his grip kept you in place.
You looked at him, his eyes were now open, still full of the same warmth they always were. "don't leave." He pleaded "I just- I don't want to rush… this. Not that especially." He explained.
You let out a breath of relief "okay, then let's just be. Right now. I could use a few more hours." You said, really just desperate to stay in Sam's hold a little longer.
"You and me both" he says, and you bury the feeling in your core at the sound of his voice. Now wasn't the time, but there was promise for later, and you held onto that.
You smiled as you slipped back into a slumber in Sam's arms, feeling happier and safer than you have in a long time.
i love when shipper!dean makes an appearane in a sam x reader fic. all he wants is the people in his life to be happy, so the reader and sam would 100% be his otp.
the tension leading up to the cuddle is everything
new dad jack abbot who is just absolutely obsessed with newborn scrunches…like to the point he will fight/race reader to be the first one in front of the bassinet the second your baby moves or makes any noise.
those scrunches are HIS.
he’ll pick the baby up sooo gently, cooing at them as they make all the baby noises, and the second that baby scrunches up to stretch jack is a puddle on the floor. don’t even bother mopping it up cause it’s just gonna keep happening every time that baby wakes up.
the baby’s little legs curl up into their bottom, arms stiff and stretched out, back curved a little and the cheeks…good lord those chubby cheeks get all squished against their arms and their eyebrows raise. their tiny face gets red as their fists flail a little bit.
jack’s got the biggest smile on his face, so soft and warm for his mini me.
“biggggg stretchhhh”, jack will coo, eyebrows dancing in his hairline as he gasps softly when the baby finishes stretching and looks right at him.
“there, much better”, jack says softly, pulling his baby close and letting them rest against his shoulder; “yeah i know…feels so nice to stretch out, huh?”
reader just watches the entire thing unfold with nothing but love in their eyes. half ready to pounce on jack and not wanting to interrupt the moment. reader has no idea how many videos of that exact moment they have on their phone by now. at least a dozen.
when the baby reaches that stage in between three and four weeks old where they technically aren’t a newborn anymore, jack is distraught. his baby is growing up and he doesn’t like it. even more so when he goes to pick the baby up and they just…don’t scrunch.
instead their arms go all the way above their head, stretching out the same way jack would…like a full grown person. their tiny body is still a little arched, but not the same way it used to be. not in full scrunch, legs still dangling below their little body.
jack freezes, almost immediately. he just…stares…loses it. blinks once, then twice before a soft breath comes from his mouth, brows already furrowing before he can stop them.
“um excuse me bean, where the heck is your scrunch?”
his voice almost wavers. bean stares back at him, blinks once before chewing on their fist, unsure why jack’s still got them held out into the air. clearly the scrunch isn’t coming.
bean grunts in protest.
jack brings them close, cradling their tiny head and letting his lips brush against the soft downy hair on top of their head.
“can’t believe you lost your scrunch…when did you get so big?”, he whispers into their skin.
he inhales the new baby scent, which is thankfully—still fully in tact.
jack tells reader dramatically about the events when they emerge from the shower. hands waving in the air. he’s fully dissatisfied and appalled that bean dared to loose their scrunch. not when it was his favorite thing.
“it’s ok honey, now bean has the cute baby stretch”, reader assures him.
jack let’s put a noise that almost sounds like a grunt, but sighs anyways; “It is kinda cute…”
“see? it’s ok”, reader tells him, caressing his hand with their thumb; “we’ve got lots of videos too, jack.”
jack nods, eyes flicking over to look at bean who’s chilling in their bouncer chair. he points at them, eyes narrowed with a quiet humor that’s decorated with a slight seriousness; “you”, he says; “need to stop growing so fast.”
so yeah, he’s a little distraught and has a mini existential crisis…and maybe he watches those videos of every scrunch bean every did later that night in bed while reader is fast asleep next to him. maybe his eyes are a little glossy, sue him. that’s his baby.
Summary — Living with PCOS feels like fighting a body that refuses to cooperate no matter how hard you try. After one particularly overwhelming morning, Jack reminds you that you are more than the symptoms that make you feel impossible to love.
Word count2.2k
Requested — yes
Warnings—This fic contains discussions of PCOS symptoms PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome), Self-esteem issues, body image struggles, insecurity weight gain, and negative self-perception.
When you woke up this morning the first thing you felt was exhaustion. Not normal tiredness or that you stayed up too late kind of tiredness. But the kind that sat heavy in your bones no matter how much sleep you got. The kind that made lifting your head from the pillow feel like dragging yourself through wet cement.
You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, already knowing today was going to be bad. Your stomach bloated painfully against the waistband of your sleep shorts. Your head throbbed faintly behind your eyes and before you even made it to the bathroom, you could already feel another cystic breakout forming beneath your jaw.
“Seriously?” you muttered hoarsely at your reflection.
The fluorescent bathroom light was brutal. Your skin looked angry and inflamed. Your face looked puffier than usual. Dark circles sat beneath your eyes despite the ten hours of sleep you’d gotten.
You touched your jaw carefully and hissed at the pain of course there was pain you couldn’t catch a break and your body made sure you knew that.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second.
I’m trying so hard. You thought
That was the part nobody seemed to understand. You were trying. God, you were trying harder than anyone realized.
You tracked every calorie. You spent hours researching insulin resistance and hormones and supplements and anti-inflammatory foods.
You forced yourself through workouts even when your body felt too heavy to move. You drank the spearmint tea people online swore helped.
You took the medications.
You did everything right.
And still your body refused to cooperate.
Meanwhile, women online made “PCOS workout journeys” that somehow ended with tiny waists and glowing skin after three months while you felt like you were losing yourself more every day. Deep down part of you wondered if half the advice online was bullshit anyway.
By the time Jack woke up, you were already standing in the kitchen making egg whites and turkey bacon with the kind of miserable determination that came from routine more than hunger. He shuffled in wearing gray sweats and an old t-shirt, curls flattened on one side from sleep.
The second he saw your face, he frowned.
“Hey.”
You forced a smile. “Morning.”
Jack leaned against the counter watching you quietly for a second too long.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Normally the bluntness would’ve made you laugh a little.
Today it just made your throat tighten.
“I’m fine, Jack.”
He walked over slowly until he was standing behind you.
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The pretending-you’re-fine thing.”
His arms slid around your waist gently, chin resting on your shoulder. You stiffened automatically. Not because you didn’t want him touching you. You loved being touched by him but lately being touched just reminded you how much your body had changed.
Jack noticed instantly.
His voice softened.
“Baby.”
You stared hard at the frying pan.
“I gained another four pounds,” you mumbled, staring so hard at the pan you thought it might burn through.
Jack stood in Silence taking in your words before saying “Okay.”
Your eyes burned instantly because somehow that simple okay felt dismissive. Like he didn’t understand how badly those four pounds had wrecked you.
“Okay?” you repeated. “That’s all you have to say?”
Jack blinked, confused. “…What else am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know!” you snapped, suddenly emotional in that awful overwhelming way hormones sometimes made you. “Maybe that it sucks? Maybe that it’s unfair? Maybe that I’m trying so hard and nothing is working!”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“I worked out six days this week, Jack.”
Your fingers tightened around the spatula hard enough to make your knuckles ache.
“Six.”
He turned you gently in his arms.
“Hey, hey—”
“And I’m still gaining weight and my skin is awful and I’m exhausted all the time and I barely recognize myself anymore—”
Tears spilled before you could stop them.
“I just want my body to work normally.”
Jack’s face fell instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
You covered your face with your hands.
“I hate this.”
The words came muffled through your palms.
“I hate looking in mirrors. I hate getting dressed. Nothing fits right anymore.” You laughed shakily. “Do you know I cried in Target last week because jeans shopping made me feel disgusting?”
Jack carefully pulled your hands away from your face.
“You are not disgusting.”
“But I feel disgusting.”
The honesty in your voice nearly broke him. Your breathing turned uneven as everything spilled out at once.
“The hair growth.”
“The cravings.”
“The bloating.”
“The way I’m exhausted no matter what.”
“The mood swings.”
“The acne.”
You touched your jaw self-consciously.
“I’m thirty-something years old and I still look like this.”
Jack’s eyes immediately flicked to where your fingers rested Then back to your face. And the thing that undid you completely? There wasn’t even a flicker of disgust there. Only sadness that you saw yourself this way.
“You know what I see?” he asked softly.
You shook your head.
“The woman I love.”
You let out a watery laugh. “Jack—”
“No, listen to me.”
His hands cupped your face carefully.
“I see someone who pushes through pain every single day and still gets up and keeps going.”
Another tear slipped down your cheek.
“I see someone who’s so hard on herself she doesn’t even realize how incredible she is.”
You looked away immediately because compliments felt impossible to believe lately.
Jack gently guided your face back toward him. “I mean it.”
Your voice came out tiny.
“You don’t miss how I used to look?”
The second you said it, regret hit you.
Jack looked absolutely devastated.
“Baby…”
His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes.
“Not once.”
“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
“I’m not lying.”
His voice turned firmer.
“I loved you then. I love you now.”
You swallowed hard.
“But my body’s different.”
“So?”
You stared at him.
“So?” you repeated weakly.
Jack looked genuinely confused now.
“Yes, so.”
You shook your head like he wasn’t understanding.
“I’m heavier.”
“And?”
“I have acne.”
“And?”
“I’m exhausted all the time lately.”
“And I’m a trauma doctor who lives off caffeine and bad decisions. What’s your point?”
A startled laugh escaped you despite yourself.
Jack immediately softened at the sound.
“There she is.”
You rolled your eyes watery-eyed. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah, but you’re in love with me, so.”
Another laugh broke through accidentally.
Jack smiled faintly before brushing hair away from your face. “I need you to hear me for a second.”
His expression turned serious again.
“You are not failing because your body is struggling.”
Your throat tightened.
“PCOS is exhausting. It’s frustrating. And it’s unfair.”
His hand rubbed slowly up and down your arm.
“But none of this makes you less beautiful to me.”
You looked down immediately, tears threatening again.
“I don’t feel beautiful.”
“I know.”
The gentleness in his voice hurt worse somehow.
“I know you don’t.”
He tilted your chin up.
“But you not seeing it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
Your lip trembled violently.
Jack rested his forehead against yours.
“You don’t have to earn softness.”
“You don’t have to punish yourself into being lovable.”
“And you don’t have to go through this alone.”
You finally broke then.
Not loud sobbing.
Just exhausted, aching tears from carrying too much for too long.
Jack held you through all of it without hesitation.
One hand rubbing your back.
The other tangled gently in your hair.
And when you whispered shakily against his chest
“I’m scared I’ll always feel like this.”
He held you tighter.
“Then I’ll stay until it doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.”
jack abbot would be the kind of man who helps the reader with taking their supplements and diet needs based on PCOS, so they don't have to go through it alone
summary: a little girl from the PTMC daycare keeps finding her way to the ED. Jack allows the girl to stick around because he finds her mom very attractive and wants to see her again.
tags: unrealistic negligence of an early education facility, (the hospital would have been on lockdown irl this little girl wouldnt have made it off the floor)
little miracle masterlist
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
After the midnight rush of DWIs, the night slows down enough for Abbot to catch up emails and on the computer. He types away in the draft and schedules each of them to come in all at 8am and every 30 minutes after. Admin likes to waste his time so he likes to give them a head ache too.
As he continues, just in front of the nurse's station, he sees a little girl wandering past. She was very small, probably preschool age. Her hair in a ponytail and was dawned in a matching pajama set. She must have come in with her mother and ended up lost. Hopefully someone— a nurse— will help her back to the respective room. He then grabs an tablet and goes to one of the North side rooms to discharge a patient.
After he escorts the patient through the triage doors he passes the Pediatric room and notices the little girl from before. She stands by the wall and traces the mural of the woodland animals. She hums a nursery rhyme in a similar tune to "Mary Had a Little Lamb."
Abbot stands at the door and looks in either direction. He looks in either direction then Dr. Ellis quicksteps past him. "Hey Ellis, do you know if any patients are missing a kid?"
"A kid?" She backs up and looks in the room, "Definitely not. Should I get security?"
"Not yet. I'll find out more. Go ahead." He dismisses her and enters the room.
The girl hears his foot steps and looks up at him curiously. "Hi."
"Hi, I'm Dr. Abbot. What is your name, sweetie?"
"Miracle." She turns back to the fox on the wall.
"What a pretty name." He kneels down beside her on his good knee, "Are you here with your family?"
She shakes her head, "I'm here all by myself."
Abbot purses his lips in worry, "Oh yeah? How did you get here?"
"The elevator." She smiles, "I remember the fox from last time and came down all by myself."
"The elevator…" He thinks for a moment. He notices on her chest as a name tag. Similar to his badge was a photo of Miracle and the words PTMC childcare center. Miracle was not a patient or a child of one but a child of an employee at the hospital. He lets out a sigh of relief, "Well, this is a long way from where you belong isn't it?"
Miracle shrinks and clasps her hands together, "I didn't mean to."
"It's okay, sweetie but we'll need to take you back. Don't want your people to worry right?"
"Uh huh." She nods, "My mommy works in the hospital. She helps really sick people."
"You know, I do that too." He smiles, "Why don't we go sit somewhere and call your mommy? Let her know you are okay."
"Okay!"
Abbot stands up and holds out his hand for the girl to hold but she instead holds up both of her arms with the expectation of him to pick her up. He smiles and obliges, carrying her back to the main nurse's station. "I think I know where some stickers are that you can have. Do you like stickers?"
"Yeah!" She squeals.
Miracle had a smile that could melt the coldest hearts. As they walk, she rests her head on Abbot's shoulder. He tries to steel his resolve but his heart swells at the feeling of her little head on his shoulder.
"Oh my, who is this little one?" Lena smiles at the girl.
"This is Miracle. She is a long way from the daycare upstairs."
"Oh Geez. I heard the bathrooms are broke down on their floor so they have to go to a different one." Lena says, "No wonder this little lamb got lost." She pinches the little girl's cheeks. An infectious giggle comes from the girl as she squirms in Abbot's arms.
He sets her down on a stool and takes a look at her tag. It had her full name on it with a phone number underneath. He recognizes it as the ICU floor. He dials it on the office phone.
A soft woman's voice answers in a quiet tone, "ICU?"
"Hi, this is Dr. Abbot here in the ED. I have a sweet little girl named Miracle down here lost from the daycare."
"Oh my god." He can hear the woman panic. Faintly, she tells her colleague, "Thank you Dr. Abbot. I will be down in just a moment."
Before he can respond the line goes dead. It must have been Miracle's mother on the phone, "Good news, Miracle. Your mommy is on the way."
"What about my stickers?" Oh right…
He snaps and opens a random junk drawer and finds some stickers in the bottom. "Here you are."
She takes them from him and rips off one and places it back on his hand. He smiles down at the sticker.
Just a moment becomes a long while as Abbot and Miracle wait. Although young, Miracle was able to keep herself entertained at the desk. She ran out of stickers and Abbot's arms and face had run out of surface area. His staff laugh and take in the adorable sight of Abbot with the little girl.
"Miracle! Oh thank god, you're still here."
"Mommy!"
Abbot whips his head around and feels his heart leap out of his chest. You come flying down the stairs and jog over to the nurse's station. He can't take his eyes off of you as you come around and pick up your daughter.
"What were thinking coming down here all by yourself?"
"I wanted to play with this fox on the wall."
You shake your head and move your eyes to Abbot's sticker riddled body. "Hi… you must Dr. Abbot."
"You'd be correct." He holds his hands behind his back, "Miracle was keeping me company down here."
"I can see that," You giggle, "You have discovered her obsession with stickers. Sorry."
"Not a problem. Anything to keep her entertained."
"I appreciate it. I really do. She has gotten into this adventurous stage of wandering off and I can barely keep up. I'm glad you were able to keep her occupied." Your smile was just as criminal as Miracle's.
"She's welcome back anytime." He waves it off as he tries not to stutter under your sweet gaze.
"Alright then. Say bye to Dr. Abbot, Miracle."
"Bye Dr…. Abby." She giggles.
"Dr. Abby? You're so silly." You tickle her side then you look at him again, "Bye Dr. Abbot."
"Bye Dr. Abbot." Miracle waves as you carry her back up the stairs to the daycare center.
Abbot watches you go with a longing look. He looks down at his arms and chuckles before he starts to meticulously peel them off. It takes a few minutes to do, a few of the stickers leaving a mark.
He thought that would be the last time he would see you and Miracle. The next night, he looks in the Pedes room longingly before continuing on his way back to the hub.
He stops short just a few feet. Then backtracks and looks into the break room to find a familiar figure. Little Miracle was squatting down in front of the vending machine looking through the slot in the bottom.
"Hungry?" Abbot enters the room.
Miracle sheepishly withdraws from the machine and clasps her hands together. A tell that she did when she thought she was in trouble. She looks at the machine then back at Abbot.
"It's okay." He holds his hands out to her. She approaches him quickly and jumps into his arms. He lifts her and rest her on his hip. "It's a bit late for a sugary snack. How about… some goldfish?"
She nods quickly. He smiles at her and opens one of the pantries where some small snacks were available. He grabs out a package of goldfish and hand them to the little girl. Then he takes her back to the nurse's station.
"Little Lamb!" Lena smiles when she see the little girl then the smile turns shit-eating, "She's taking a liking to you, Abbot."
"She was just hungry. She probably saw the vending machine from the last time she was here." He sets Miracle down on a stool. "You are real sneaky, aren't you?"
Miracle shakes her head as she smirks. She continues to eat her crackers without a word. She was very cunning for her age. Able to get away from the daycare staff and get down to the ED without arousing suspicion of being alone. You must really have your hands full with her.
You were a single mother working as an ICU nurse. You transferred from an ICU clinic out of state due to your toxic ex, Miracle's dad. You had taken the job at the PTMC due to their 24 hour daycare program. You were able to spend time with your daughter during the day and without support at home, she would need to come to the hospital to sleep for the night. It was only a few nights a week so it was hard not to pass up.
Not that Abbot knew your situation. It wasn't like, after that night he met you, he asked one of the medical assistants about you during an ICU transfer.
He picks up the phone and dials the ICU line. "ICU?" It's you again. Speaking softly. A mental image pops up in his mind of you speaking that way to him in the morning.
"Uh, this is Dr. Abbot in the ED."
"Hi, are you looking for a bed?"
"No, actually, I have Miracle down here. She seems to have gotten away again."
"You're joking…" You grumble. You mutter to your coworker again. "i've gotta go… the ED… Miracle… yeah again… unbelievable i know…Are you still there Abbot?"
"I am."
"I'll be down in a minute. I am so sorry. See you soon." You say defeated.
"See you…" The line goes dead and Abbot turns his attention back to Miracle.
She spins on the stool without a care. She finished her goldfish while he was on the phone. He grabs an office chair and sits beside her, "Miracle, your mommy is on her way."
She beams at him, "Yay."
"Do you come down here because you like when you mommy comes to pick you up?"
Miracle shakes her head, "My mommy picks me up all the time. I like when you pick me up and we play."
He leans back, "I see. But Miracle, your mommy and I are busy working. We can't play all the time you know that, right? It's night time and you need rest. So while we work, you sleep."
"But I can only see you at night time. Mommy said so."
Abbot chuckles, "What did your mom say?"
"You work night time at the hospital so that means we can only see you at night time. We can't come in the day time."
"Do you ask to see me in the day time?"
She nods. "You are fun to play with."
"You are fun too." He boops her nose, "Do you like to draw?" She nods rapidly. "How about you draw something for us to put up back here?" He grabs some printer paper and some colored pens from the cup of supplies on the desk.
"You draw too." She hands a pen to him.
"I'd love to sweetie but remember what I said? I have to do my work. It's so I don't get in trouble. Ms. Lena will keep an eye on you."
Miracle pouts like a kicked puppy. It tears Abbot's heart to shreds to look at. He bites down on his bottom lip before looking away. Be strong, be strong, he repeats the mantra as he walks away.
It doesn't take long for him to return though and at the same time that he is back at the nurse's station you come jogging down the stairs. "Hello again," He smiles at you.
"Hi," You return the smile and look at Miracle, "She is going to become a permanent resident by the end of the week down here. C'mon little mama."
Miracle jumps from her stool and hides behind Abbot's legs. "No."
You let out a huff and smile awkwardly, "Heh, Miracle, sweetie it's time to say goodbye to Dr. Abbot."
"No." She grabs onto him. She touches a part of Abbot's prosthesis, she hesitates then moves to wrap both her hands around his other leg.
"God, this is so embarrassing." You mutter then you look up at Abbot, "I'm sorry, she is cranky at this point."
"That's okay." He chuckles, "How about I walk her with you to the daycare?"
"Oh, no it's fine. I'm sure they need you down here being the shift attending and all." You tighten your lips. You didn't mean to reveal that. You may or may not have asked a medical assistant about him during an ED transfer.
"It is not a problem. It's Lena that keeps this place running." He turns to Miracle, "If I come with you will you be good for your mommy?"
She nods rapidly and holds her hands up to him. He picks her up and smiles at you, "Shall we?"
"We shall." You lead them to the elevator. As you enter, you hear Miracle whisper to Abbot.
"What happened to your leg?" She cups his ear to whisper but she wasn't too discreet as you still heard her question.
"I got hurt in an accident. My leg was no good so they gave me a new one." He whispers back.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore." He shakes his head, "I eat good and take care of myself to be big and strong." He tickles her side, making her giggle in his ear.
You can't help but smile. His patience with your daughter warmed your heart. It was something about him treating her like a small person and not a nuisance unlike someone you once knew. She was disrupting him at work but he didn't let it bother him. He seemed to enjoy it, actually.
As you walk back to the daycare, you notice Miracle has gone quiet. You look over and see she had fallen asleep on Abbot's shoulder. "That girl is something else." You shake your head.
"She gives you a run for your money." Abbot whispers.
"You have no idea." You sigh, "She has not been infatuated with anything ever until she met you. I've never heard her speak about someone so highly after meeting them once."
"So she says. She told me, she stays awake to play with me."
"All day, non-stop. 'Mommy, you should invite Dr. Abbot to our house to play.' 'Mommy, Is Dr. Abbot at the hospital yet?' 'I got a booboo, Dr. Abbot should help.'" You laugh at yourself then notice Abbot smiling at you. You avert your gaze and stop at the Pre-K door. "This is her." You scan your ID and open the door for Abbot.
He lays her on one of the cots with the other kids. You tuck her in and kiss her forehead. You apologize to the staff and they apologize too. The bathrooms should be finished by tomorrow so hopefully this is the last time Miracle elopes.
You walk with Abbot back to the elevator, "I really can't thank you enough, Dr. Abbot."
"Miracle is a sweetheart. Just as much as I left an impression on her she's left one on me." He holds his hands behind his back as he walks.
"Hopefully, this will be the last of her hijinks and my blood pressure will lower." You take a deep breath. Abbot purses his lips as his heart wilts. You stop in front of the elevator, "This is where we part ways. You've gotta go down and I've gotta go up." You hit the down button, "I'll take the stairs."
"I'll see you around?" He steps on to the elevator.
"At this rate? I'll be seeing you tomorrow." You joke.
You joke but Abbot hoped that it was a promise.
The next night, Miracle appears again. Abbot makes his rounds when he finds her curled up on the couch in the family room. He almost didn't catch her this time if it weren't for the door being propped open by the janitors. He enters the room quietly and sits beside her.
He rubs her back as he tries to rouse her from sleep. The little girl rises out of her ball like state and crawls into his lap and rests on his chest. He sighs and continues to rub her back and rocks her side to side. He pulls out his hospital phone and dials the ICU.
"ICU?" A firm voice speaks. It definitely wasn't you, "Hello?"
"Yes, hi, this is Abbot down in the ED. I've got Miracle down here and was wondering if her mother was available to pick her up."
"Uh…unfortunately she is unavailable at the moment. Are you able to keep an eye on her for some time? She is tending to a patient at the moment. I will pass along the message as soon as I can." There was a wobble of nervousness in the nurse's voice. It was always life or death in the ICU.
"Yeah, I can. Just let her know when you can." He hangs up the phone and continues to rock her. When he knows he has spent too much time he will carry her to the hub.
"Lena, occupy Central 6 for me." He points to the sleeping girl in his arms, "Her mom might take a minute."
"You got it." She opens a tablet and fills in some random information to occupy the room on the status board.
He lays Miracle on the gurney and tucks her under the covers. "Thank you for making me so special." He whispers to her then shuts out the lights and leaves the room closing the door. Through out the hour he keeps an eye on her.
You come down the stairs looking disheveled. Your eyes were puffy, it looked like you had been crying. Abbot approaches beside you and rests his hand on the center of your back, "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, sorry, where is Miracle?" You sniffle.
"Right in here." He leads you into Central 6. You lower the rail on one side of the gurney and pull up a chair to caress Miracle's face as she sleeps. He can see tears fall indiscriminately from your eyes. "Is everything okay?"
You let out a chuckle, "Is everything ever okay in our departments?" He sighs and pulls up another chair to be beside you. "Just before I come down here, every time, I've had to stabilize a patient, or at least try. A different person each time and afterward I'd come right down here and see the smile on my daughter's face like everything is okay. I have to act like I haven't just witnessed the scariest thing 5 minutes before coming to get her. I don't have to brave it when she's at daycare. In my mind, she seems worlds apart from the madness. Safe. I freak out thinking about her down here. What she might see. As if I didn't just watch someone die minutes ago." Abbot hears your voice waver as you speak but you laugh again, "But even still, with you, she is safe. She's so comfortable in your arms like she's known you her whole short life. You make it look so easy." You lean back in your chair and sniffle, "It makes me think I'm not cut out for this."
"Woah, that is a severe overstatement." He leans forward and takes your hand, "Had you not told me, I would have never known what you've done before coming down here. The first time you came down, you had this infectious smile on your face. And Miracle ran into your arms, you didn't falter for a second. Scooped her right in your arms. If you were scared you never showed it. You are her world. She knows you're there for her. You make it look effortless"
You look down at his hand on yours. He gives it an affirming squeeze. It's warm to the touch. "I bet you say that to all the single mothers." You bite back a smile and pull your hand away.
"Usually when they're here they are preoccupied with… you know an emergency?"
You giggle, "Really? None have made a move on you?"
"I fear that is day shift only. At this time of night, I only get the drunks playing grab ass." He sighs.
"Oh poor you," You rub his shoulder. "And here I thought you were like this dangerous and sexy combat medic that flirted with all the moms."
"Dangerous and sexy?"
"The other nurses on my floor say that, at least."
"So you talk about me to other people."
"I had to. I have to make sure the men in my daughter's life aren't dirt bags." You shrug, "They said you were a flirt too. Any defense?"
"I'm playful." He surrenders, "It's only to liven up this dreadful place."
"Right." You purse your lips into a thin smile, "Well, I should probably be taking her back to the daycare." You remove Miracle from the gurney and rest her on your hip, "You have a good rest of your night, Dr. Abbot."
He follows you out of the room, "I hope my playfulness hasn't scared you away from coming back to work."
"Only time will tell, I guess. Maybe I'll consider transferring to the ED and have some fun with you down here instead. " You shoot him a playful wink. He licks his bottom lip as he watches you walk to the elevator and back upstairs.
"She's got you whipped." Ellis shakes her head.
"Both of them do." Lena smirks, "Forget a work wife, he's got a whole work family."
"It's not like that." He waves them off, "Miracle is a troublemaker and her mom—"
"Is the hottest nurse you've ever laid your eyes on?" Ellis cocks an eyebrow, "You're not the only one with eyes, Abbot."
He averts his gaze to the status board, "Do you have anything better to do right now, Ellis? How does triage for the next hour sound?"
"Sounds like I should keep my mouth shut and get back to work." She leans over and mutters to Lena, "See how defensive he got. Whipped."
It had been a week since Miracle's escape attempts. The bathroom in the daycare was up and running again so there was no way for her to escape. Abbot stares at her drawing she had left behind. He missed that little rascal. He missed you too.
When things get slow enough, he decides to try and take a trip up to the daycare to check on Miracle. It was possible that she was sleeping but just seeing her would keep his spirits high. He tells Lena he's going to be out for a few minutes and hits the elevator button.
When the doors open his eyes widen in surprise. You stand there with a smile on your face and a look of surprise yourself. "Hey, I was just coming down to look for you."
"Oh? What for? Patient transfer?"
"No actually," You beckon him onto the elevator, "Miracle is having a hard time sleeping and misses her friend Dr. Abbot. I was wondering if I can steal you for a few minutes to put her to bed." You hit the button for the daycare floor, "Is that okay?"
"Uh yeah… I was actually going to head there."
"Felt a disturbance in the force, Jedi?" You chuckle.
"I just wanted to make sure she was alright."
"You've spoiled her." You say, "Now she can't live without you. It was inevitable, she's imprinted on you like a little duck. You are her mama now."
He laughs. It's a hearty laugh that warms your chest. You can't help but laugh too. The two of you walk out of the elevator side by side and enter the daycare. Miracle lays in her bed and beams when she sees the two of you from the window.
You both enter and sit beside her bed. "Okay, Miracle, this is a one time thing. Dr. Abbot can't come and go whenever you want while you're here." You explain as you tuck her in, "But he did say he missed you too."
She grins at him, "Do you still have my picture, Dr. Abbot?"
"I do. I look at it everyday." He grabs her hand and squeezes it tight.
"Maybe because you miss me we can play not in the hospital." She pouts.
You purse your lips and nod, "Maybe… But Dr. Abbot is super busy—"
"If your mommy says it's okay, I would be more than happy to."
You swivel your head at him in surprise, "You would?"
"Sure," He shrugs, "We can all play together outside of the hospital."
Your face is cooking as he speaks. Was he saying what you think he was saying?
"But that is for your mommy and I to talk about. You, little one, need to sleep." She nods and shuts her eyes. Your eyes are still on him. He notices and smiles, "Did you want to talk about that now?"
"Uh no I just… thought…"
"I was too sexy and dangerous? Or did you still believe I am too playful?"
You bow your head in defeat, "I guess I did."
After Miracle falls asleep the two of you leave. "I am going to be honest. I fully believed that this would be the last we saw of each other. We would go our separate ways, officially." You confess.
"I knew that wouldn't be the case after second time Miracle came to the ER." He chuckles, "I'd find a way to see you again."
"So were you the one sabotaging bathroom maintenance?" You giggle, "If you wanted to meet with me so bad you could have asked. Like you asked Edgar about me."
"You found out about that…" He winces.
"My good looks get me my way up there." You tease, "I'm kidding. When I asked about you he told me you had done the same. So I asked for more information."
"That's when you got the sexy and dangerous thing from."
"Yes, you are really stuck on that." You nudge him, "Don't believe it."
"I just like the way it sounds coming from you. You believe it."
"I do not."
"For a moment you did. In your mind, there was an image of me next to those words."
You cover your mouth as you refrain from laughing out loud, "Alright, what's it going to take for you to not bring that up anymore."
"When are you free?" He asks, "We can go somewhere and have breakfast after work? Or lunch? Go to the park for Miracle."
"Breakfast sounds good." You take out your personal phone, "How about you put in your number and I'll let you know."
"Promise?" He takes your phone and puts in his number
"If I don't you can put me on blast by calling the ICU and bug me. They all need something juicy to keep them entertained." You smile as he hands back your phone, "But I like you. So I won't keep you waiting too long. How does 10am tomorrow sound?"
"Sounds like a deal."
The two of you stop short of the elevator. You bite your lip before leaning in and kissing Abbot's cheek. "This is where we part ways." You hit the down button, "I'll take the stairs. See you at breakfast."
Abbot's cheeks burn as he watches you jog up the stairs. He tries to control his smile in the elevator as to not tip off the others to his glee. He didn't need them spoiling his fun just yet.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
thank you for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated!
He doesn't mind it so much. It’s not the kind of mad that makes his chest tighten or the kind that makes Dean roll his eyes at him for being ‘whipped’ while he follows you around with his tail between his legs.
But, still. He had promised you this time, so he’ll do his best.
You’re curled up in bed, face smushed into the scratchy motel pillow. You’re on your side, facing him, one hand draped over his chest and your knee propped up over his leg.
He likes the way you look when you’re truly awake - the little frown when you’re trying to work things out, the side-glance you throw Dean when he says something gross - but he likes how you look like this too. Soft and unworried. He could look at you like this forever.
He gives you a gentle nudge with a hand on your hip. “Morning,” he says through a smile.
You hum sleepily and shift a bit closer to him but don’t open your eyes. He can’t help the quiet laugh that runs through him. In his peripherals, he sees Dean leave the room. He scoffs before he goes, but Sam can hear a sort of reluctant amusement laced through it.
“C’mon,” he laughs, hand on your hip giving you a little shake. “Time to get up.”
You moan something unintelligible and begin to nestle in to his side, warmth bleeding from your body onto his. Your leg moves further onto his lap as you lie with your chest on his, face nudging into his neck, nuzzling in and breathing a deep, sleepy sigh. He dips his hand under the hem of your t-shirt, skirting his fingers over the warm, soft skin of your thigh before tightening once again over your hip.
He loves you. So much that it sometimes hurts his chest to think about it. So much that it terrifies him. He can’t think of anything worse than a future where he is not inflicted with the constant struggle of waking you up in the mornings.
He kisses your head, smells your shampoo and tries one more time.
“You’re gonna be so mad at me for not waking you up” he says into your hair. “C’mon, make this easy for me. Please?”
You let out a deep breath into his neck. “Sam, it’s okay,” you say, and even this long after knowing you and loving you, his stomach explodes with the sound of his name on your lips. Your voice is thick with sleep. You’re not quite awake, just speaking nonsense. “It’s okay. Let’s just stay here. It’s okay.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh that makes your body move. You frown and nestle in closer to him, as if that will remove the interference to your dreams.
He decides this is too much for one man to bear. He’s strong enough to fight demons and vampires but he’s not strong enough for this. His arms tighten around you, holding you tighter to his chest, and he lets you melt into him.
It’s okay, you told him. Let’s just stay here, you said, and he thinks he might agree.
He will let you be mad at him later. He will let you pout and remind him that he promised to wake you up early. He knows how to fix it anyway.
He looks down at your face, sleepy and soft, and decides that it's not a bad trade-off.
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i like to think that jack abbot is one of those people who would actually write a love letter
like, yeah, he would be able to fill a card (for literally any occasion) without any struggle, but if he knew you liked letters? oh, this man would take it so seriously
he would write letters and leave them on the table for you to find, but also, he would make sure to get the cute stamps from the post office and write you love letters. even if you live together, he'll write them and send them from the hospital address just so that they're actual letters
depending on how far he'll need to go for an overnight conference, he might pre-write the letter before he goes so that he can make sure it gets to you by Saturday (the post office is closed on Sunday, and he gets home on Monday)
if he's gone for more than a weekend, he would be a drama queen/diva and write about "longing to see you," and when you make fun of him, he goes "i've been in war babe, i get to say stuff like that"
summary: Dean is not in the habit of accepting help - especially not from rich, pretty college girls - but this time it really can't be helped. Badly injured and without his Baby, he is forced to take a lift from you for one long road trip to try to save Sam. He finds there are worse things than playing passenger princess.
pairing: dean winchester x f! reader
warnings: smut, canon-typical violence, angst, semi slow-burn, canon-typical dean self-loathing, very brief references to suicide, sam haunts the narrative like crazy, reader referenced as having hair and has a set backstory / unnamed family
a/n: i have learned from past mistakes and pre-written all parts of the series in advance, so we have a posting schedule below *everybody stands up and applauds*. this was a very special project for me and i can't wait to share it with you 🤍 drop a comment to join the series taglist or join my overall taglist here!
Contents:
1 The Road ✧ 6.4k words ⤷ 14/04
2 Burnout ✧ 6.6k words ⤷ 21/04
3 Under the Hood ✧ 5.3k words ⤷ 28/04
4 Insult and Injury ✧ 7.1k words ⤷ 05/05
5 In Bad Faith ✧ 7.6k words ⤷ 12/05
6 Courage Equal to Desire ✧ 9k words ⤷ 19/05
a/a/n: all 6 parts are set in s2 ep14 'born under a bad sign', with changed details and prolonged timelines. it is not necessary to have seen the episode to read this as the events of the episode itself are only a small fraction of the first and last part!
everyone needs to put down whatever they're doing and read this amazing series. it's such a gorgeous characterization of dean and a lovely love story with the reader. plus it's always good to see dean get a happy ending 💗
congrats on finishing this series shay! it's no simple feat, and it's spectacular!!
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