dean winchester imposter

Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.

Sam calls them “casual little cookouts,” which is a lie considering there’s always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.

Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.

Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.

The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.

Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.

Bucky stares too long. Again.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. “Go talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“And lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”

Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.

“You got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.”

“That’s not—”

“Five.”

Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasn’t done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.

Bucky exhales slowly.

Say something to her. Anything.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldn’t from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldier—completely forgets how conversations work.

“You uh—”

Brilliant start.

“You’ve been standing there a while.”

The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.

Nice going, Barnes.

But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh, yeah,” you admit, looking back toward the sunset. “Guess I have been.”

Then your eyes flick back to his.

“I didn’t think you’d notice me.”

And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?

I notice you every single time you walk into a room. I started showing up early hoping you’d be here. I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.

Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.

“I’d have to be blind not to notice you.”

Your cheeks flush immediately and Bucky’s soul leaves his body.

“I mean—” he starts quickly, panic rising fast, “not like I’m staring at you or anything—I just meant like—”

You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I know what you mean.”

The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.

“I notice you too.”

Bucky stares at you, stares like he’s trying to process whether he imagined that.

“You do?”

Smooth. Very cool.

You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.

“Kind of hard not to.”

Something warm unfolds slowly in Bucky’s chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.

This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.

Bucky clears his throat.

“I uh—”

God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?

“I notice,” he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, “your drink is empty.”

You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.

“Would you maybe wanna get another,” Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, “with me?”

There’s half a second where he’s convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.

“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he can’t stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.

“IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.

"A setup?"

"You and Sam."

"We've never discussed you."

"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."

The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.

"What are you having?"

"Lemonade."

He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.

The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.

You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.

Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.

You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.

"Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are."

"I haven't said a word."

"You're thinking things."

That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.

"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"

Your eyebrows lift slightly.

His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.

"I mean—not that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."

Fantastic.

"God."

You laugh again.

Bucky closes his eyes briefly.

"Let me start over."

"Okay."

He's smiling now despite himself.

"So. Next cookout."

"Next cookout."

"Would you wanna come with me?"

The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.

"I'd like that."

Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.

"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.

Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.

He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.

He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."

His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."

His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.

"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

⤷ masterlist

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

Oonts. Oonts. Oonts.

It was the same wretched sound all over again.

From where you sat in the complex’s office, the bass emitting from Bucky’s room was thumping and vibrating the very walls around you. The ground shook, and you swore you could see dust and pebbles straying off the ceiling and landing right into your cup of coffee.

There was no one else in the office, so you screamed as loud as you could.

“Keep it down, Barnes!”

But of course, your angry voice was met with even more thumping bass and weird techno noises.

Mumbling curses to yourself, you angrily picked up the office phone—which barely worked—and dialed his number. You pressed the receiver hard to your ear, foot tapping impatiently as you heard it ring once, twice, three times, until finally…

“Hey, you reached Bucky. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number—”

He had left your phone calls unanswered so many times, you had already memorized his voice message word for word.

With another curse, you slammed the phone back down, pushed out of your rolling chair, and stomped your way up to his room.

It was peak summertime, meaning that vacationers were flooding the streets of Greece looking for accommodations, meaning that your rundown complex had available rooms for cheap rent, meaning you had to leave your one-man post just to take care of the obnoxious tenant you should’ve kicked out years ago.

Finally reaching his door, you knocked angrily with a strength that threatened to break the hinges.

“Barnes, open up!” you shouted.

I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A. G—

“Bucky! Don’t make me break down this door!”

I wanna dance with George, I wanna dance to SOPHIE.

Christ. What the hell was he playing? Whatever this noise slop was, it felt specifically designed by Bucky himself to give you a headache.

“God, this fucking… fucking asshole—” you cursed to yourself, fishing for your keys in your pocket.

You unlocked his door and pushed it open. Lo and behold, you found him seated in the exact same position you always found him in every time you barged into his room for a noise complaint. Bucky’s music was so loud he didn’t even hear you enter, his focus entirely on his fancy DJ setup and speakers that probably cost more than his rent.

“Bucky!” Your face scrunched as it took every vocal cord in your body to muster the shout.

Bucky whipped his head around to face you, looking very much like a boy who had been caught red-handed watching porn—except this music was much worse than mediocre sex-on-a-screen.

He finally lowered the volume, allowing you the ability to actually hear your own thoughts.

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out as you glared at him with an unpleasant and as equally disappointed frown.

“I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I need you to turn this music down.”

Bucky didn’t react.

He had heard this exact complaint from you more times than he could count. It was always the same routine. You’d yell at him, your body hot from the lack of AC circulation this shitty complex provided, leaving you standing in his doorway in a tank top—no bra—and tiny daisy dukes that left little to his imagination. And once you were done yelling, you’d go back downstairs to your office, and he’d turn the music right back up.

But of course, he always had a knack for making your job much harder than it actually was, purely because he loved seeing you get riled up.

“Oh. Is Georgia from the third floor complaining?” He tilted his head like an innocent puppy, knowing damn well that Georgia was a senior citizen who was legally deaf.

You scrunched your nose, looking even more pissed—which only made Bucky’s smile widen.

“No, but I’m complaining, and that should be enough to get you to shut the hell up—considering I’m your landlord.”

“Aw, but I’m dedicating this song to you.”

You wanted to stomp over to his desk and slap him right across the face to shut him up for good—but dealing with a lawsuit and a restraining order was the last thing you needed when you were responsible for running this shitty complex during peak tourist season.

“I’m not going to argue with you today,” you said, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself rather than him. “Soon, this complex is going to be packed with tourists and I need you on your best behavior. That means no loud robot music that’ll scare potential tenants away.”

Bucky flinched, looking offended.

“Robot music?” he scoffed, spinning back in his chair to face his laptop. “And you say this shit every year. Summertime, tourists, rent... but you’re lucky if even one person books a room.”

Your brow twitched. You hated how right he was. “Regardless, I need you to give the music a rest. If I’m not the one complaining, someone else will.”

You were ready to leave it at that. You turned around, your hand gripping the doorknob, prepared to slam the door behind you so he wouldn’t have the space to argue back. But of course, Bucky just couldn’t help himself.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You spun around so fast your hair whipped across your face. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

Bucky kept his back turned to you. You didn’t even need to see his face to know he was wearing a smug, shit-eating grin.

“My music is harmless,” he muttered, clicking away at his screen. “And who knows? Maybe your future tenants will actually find it entertaining. I might even draw people in.”

“No, it won’t,” you hissed. “You’ll scare people away.”

Bucky shrugged. “Then what the hell am I paying you rent for if I can’t even listen to music in my own apartment?”

The way he said it was so casual, but you knew he had thrown those words out just to pull the pin right out of your heart.

Over the years, you had seen several tenants come and go, break their leases, or even scam you out of money. Taking over the building with little to no hope for business had been completely exhausting, and Bucky—along with Georgia—had been the only loyal tenants you had left.

In reality, the two of them were the ones keeping the place afloat.

You grimaced, facing the door again.

“Just… keep it down,” was all you said, because you no longer had it in you to keep up the fight.

Bucky had kept his promise to keep the music down—but that only lasted about a day. And Bucky being Bucky, if he didn’t have the ability to piss you off one way, he’d make sure to do it another.

You weren’t sure if it was entirely intentional or not, but regardless, it made your skin burn with irritation. While you were talking to a man seated across from your desk, the sound of a girl’s loud laughter echoed right above the office—and it certainly wasn’t the voice of any girl you recognized who lived in this complex.

You smiled through it. As long as you ignored it and didn’t address it, then maybe the man in front of you—who seemed to have every intention of staying here during his months long vacation—wouldn’t notice.

“But yes, as you can see, the building is very close to the beach—walking distance, actually!” You smiled, hands folding primly on the desk in front of you. “And the beaches in Greece are beautiful. I’m sure you’ve seen them while doing your research. You said you like to surf, right? This spot is very convenient for—”

“Haha—you’re so silly, Bucky!”

“I know. But you like it.”

The man in front of you glanced at the ceiling, frowning at the sound of the girl giggling, and you swallowed hard.

“—surfing….”

Instead of answering your question or addressing anything else you said, he kept his focus on the wooden ceiling above him and pointed up. “I take it this place is pretty busy—considering all the noise.”

You gripped your hands tighter.

If you weren’t able to secure this guest, you were going to make sure Bucky got an earful from you after this.

“That’s a good thing, right? Shows how lively Greece is during this time of the year.” You tried your best to salvage the situation, but your own words only gave you secondhand embarrassment.

The man chewed the inside of his cheek, his expression apprehensive. His eyes darted around the office, suddenly taking in the white plug-in wall fan that was making a suspicious whiiiirrr noise, along with the poorly painted window panels you hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.

“Look, you seem like a nice, responsible, and hardworking young lady, but—” He stood up and started grabbing his bags. “I don’t think this place is right for me.”

“W-wait!” You scrambled from your chair, nearly lunging across the desk just to get him to stop. “We have much quieter rooms on the second floor! Facing the courtyard! You won’t hear a single thing over there, I promise!”

Fuck. What were you even saying? Bucky’s room was on the second floor.

The guy was already heading for the exit, his heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He gave you a tight, sympathetic smile that felt more like a slap to the face before walking out.

“Sir, please! I can offer you a discount on the first month! Ten percent—no, fifteen!”

Your voice was pitching higher in distressed panic, but the bell above the office door gave you a cute and mocking ting! before he pushed it open and stepped out into the burning Greek heat. The door shut behind him, leaving you alone in silence with the stupid run down fan.

Well, almost silence.

Aside from the consistent whirring from the fan, another loud giggle squealed through the floorboards right above your head. Then came the thud of Bucky’s mattress hitting the bed frame.

Your eye twitched as your hands curled into tight fists. The payment that man would have given you had he settled in today—even with a fifteen percent discount—was supposed to be your grocery budget for the next three weeks.

Your sandals were already stomping up the stairs to Bucky’s floor. By the time you shoved the key into his lock, twisted it, and slammed the door open without so much as a knock, you were seeing red.

“Barnes!” you screeched, not even caring that the unknown woman lying in his bed was half-naked.

She squealed and yanked the blanket up to her chest, trying to cover herself, but you didn’t so much as glance at her.

“Bucky, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she yelped, looking at Bucky with wide, terrified eyes.

Well, at least this one had some decency compared to the others. Most girls would look at you with swollen lips and a proud, “gotcha” smile to match. Bucky pushed himself up with a groan, giving you a glare that could have killed you right where you stood.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grumbled, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s my landlord.”

“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped in relief—and a part of you wished Bucky hadn’t clarified that, just so you could have kept the upper hand.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Bucky? You scared another potential renter away!”

Bucky didn’t look remotely remorseful. If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been interrupted. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, getting up to meet you at the door.

You didn’t even care that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his hips—you had walked in on him one too many times to even bother telling him to put on a pair of pants.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice gravelly from whatever he’d been doing earlier. “I was minding my own business.”

“I’m sorry, but your ‘business’ becomes everyone else’s when you’re being too fucking loud!” you shouted. “I was seconds away from closing a three-month lease, Bucky. Three months! Do you know what I could do with that kind of money right now? I could finally fix the plumbing so the water doesn’t smell like eggs!”

The girl in his bed looked back and forth between the two of you, awkwardly clutching the sheet to her collarbone. “Um… should I leave?”

“Yes!” you snapped.

“No,” Bucky countermanded, running a tired hand through his already tousled hair. “Stay, Eleni. My landlord was just leaving.”

“Like hell I am,” you hissed, crossing your arms. “I swear to God, Barnes. If you keep this up, I’m going to tear up your lease and evict you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. That was new. He had pushed your buttons enough to unlock a brand new threat—even if it was one you both knew you probably wouldn’t follow through with.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and kick me out,” he challenged, stepping closer. “You need me more than I need you, anyway.”

You were seconds away from going ballistic—from grabbing his precious DJ setup and throwing it right off the balcony. Every hair on your body stood up like a threatened cat, and you were ready to tear Bucky Barnes apart in his own room.

You sucked in a deep breath to unleash a litany of curses, and Bucky stood up straighter, bracing himself to return the sentiment right back, until a familiar voice called out from the office downstairs.

“Honey? Are you here?”

Both of you froze. Your accusatory finger hung in midair as your head instinctively turned towards the open door.

Of course. Your boyfriend, John, always managed to show up at the absolute worst timing possible.

“Would you look at that,” Bucky sighed—though you couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or annoyance. “Your knight in shining armor, coming to save me yet again,” he said sarcastically.

You shot Bucky one last lethal glare— forgetting all about Eleni still laying in his bed—and turned on your heel, stomping back down the stairs to tend to your boyfriend. As you hurried down, you flattened your hair and adjusted your tank top, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable, though it was a lost cause.

“Hi, John,” you said, sounding more tired than endeared as you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey, you,” he grinned before pulling back to look at you, his expression turning from a smile to displeasure.

“Wow, you look terrible.”

Your boyfriend always had such a way with words.

You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. With John here, you felt like now was the great time to talk about your day, hoping that it’d relief just a tiny bit of stress.

“I look terrible because my day is going terrible. I feel like a hamster running on a wheel that leads nowhere. It’s barely afternoon, and the day is already kicking my butt—”

“Did you hear that I got promoted today?”

You blinked at his blatant interruption. “I’m… I’m sorry?”

“No worries,” he waved his hand with a guileless smile, as if you were actually offering him a sincere apology when, in fact, you were just giving him the opportunity to rethink his interruption. “I said I got promoted. Valentina finally saw how hard I’ve been working and decided to give me the next position up. I’m making double the amount I made before!”

You felt utterly and completely defeated.

Here you were, feeling like a dog that had been beaten to the ground, and the man you proclaimed as the love of your life was flaunting his success. You should have been happy for him, but every sentence that left his lips only felt like a slap to your face.

“I’m happy for you, John,” you said, your voice wavering. You were happy for him—you really were—but John didn’t buy it.

He frowned. “Well…?”

You blinked again, your brows furrowing in confusion. “Well, what?”

“Are you going to take me out to celebrate?”

“Celebrate?” You huffed a laugh, taking his words as a joke. But one look at John’s face told you he was entirely serious.

Your lips twisted right back into a frown, your brows furrowing as dread began to settle in your gut.

“John… look around you. I can barely afford to keep this place running, much less take you out to celebrate your promotion. And besides, you’re making so much more than me now. Wouldn’t it financially make more sense for you to take us out if you really wanted to celebrate?”

You knew the words were blunt and straightforward, but truthfully, you didn’t have it in you to beat around the bush to cushion John’s feelings. You were drowning, and you needed to be honest with your partner.

John sighed, stepping closer and resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Honey, if money was that important to me—then I wouldn’t be with you right now, would I?”

Before you even knew it, you were looking at your partner not with the eyes of a lover—but with the eyes of an enemy.

“Excuse me?” You ripped yourself away from his touch, his hand dropping as you stared at him in utter disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

John let out a long sigh, his classic way of telling you that you were blowing things out of proportion. “I’m just saying, I don’t care about your financial situation. I’m looking past it because I love you. You don’t have to get so defensive.”

You wanted to cry. Your body was so coiled with nothing but rage, and right now, the only person you wanted to take it out on was John.

“Look past it?” Your voice cracked as it began to rise. “You’re looking past the fact that I run myself dry trying to keep a roof over my head with zero support from you? I can’t afford groceries, and instead of asking how I am, you walk in here, cut me off, brag about your money, and insult my business!”

“Oh, here we go with the drama,” John scoffed, throwing his hands up as if he were the victim. “It’s a rundown complex in Greece, honey, not the Hilton. You’re overreacting like you always do—”

“I am not overreacting! You are being incredibly selfish—”

“What’s going on here?”

You were so caught up in the yelling match that you hadn’t even heard the footsteps creaking down the stairs and into the office.

Both you and John turned to find Bucky and Eleni standing by the archway that led to the stairs. Bucky was dressed appropriately this time. By the looks of it, he had no intention of eavesdropping—he was just politely leading Eleni out of the building.

You swallowed hard. What a funny predicament to be in—complaining about Bucky and his noise just minutes ago, only to end up doing the exact same thing.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, averting your attention back to John. But John was already looking elsewhere—more specifically, right at Eleni.

“You sure? Sounded like things were getting pretty heated in here,” Bucky said, trying to make a joke that landed flat. “I was just leading Eleni out. You can go right back to tearing at each other’s throats once I escort her out, thanks.”

Eleni had been following close behind Bucky like a lost puppy, looking a little flustered, until her eyes scanned the lobby and landed squarely on the man standing next to you—who was already staring at her.

She froze, her jaw dropping. “John?” she gasped.

The color drained from John’s face, his cocky posture instantly stiffening into a defensive stance. “…E-Eleni?”

You blinked, looking between your boyfriend and the woman who had just been in your tenant’s bed. “Wait. You two know each other?”

Eleni gave you the exact same treatment you had given her earlier. She zipped right past you, completely forgetting about you and Bucky, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “John, you asshole! You ghosted me after Cabo! You blocked my number and never returned any of my calls!”

The office went dead silent. Aside from the whirring fan, of course.

You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Cabo? John had mentioned going on a ‘business conference’ to Cabo—but that was only two months ago.

No.

He couldn’t have…

You slowly turned your head to look at John, silently pleading to whatever cruel God that was currently tormenting you to just give you a break. You hoped John would deny it, that he would tell this interloper to get lost, even if you hadn’t had the guts to do it yourself when she was upstairs.

But he didn’t. All he did was dart his guilty blue eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the two women he had wronged.

“John…?” you whimpered.

And under just a smidge of pressure, John folded.

“I’m sorry!” he barked out defensively. “Look—it was a one-time thing, okay? I got drunk with Lemar on the beach, and… we lost track of time, and Eleni came up to me and—”

“Get the hell out.”

John’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for you again. “Honey, you don’t mean that—”

“Get out of my fucking face, John!” you screamed, slapping his hand away.

“Please, just listen to me for one second!” John pleaded, taking another step closer despite your screaming.

“I know I messed up, okay? I know it was a mistake—but look at the bigger picture here! I just got promoted. I’m making double now! I can take care of you. I can fund this entire complex and even… even fix the plumbing smell you’re always complaining about! Whatever you want! You won’t have to worry about a single cent anymore. Just please, don’t throw us away over a stupid slip up.”

Slip up?

Was this what he thought this was?

Years of being together, and his infidelity was just a slip up? A stupid moment of weakness?

You had thought that having a boyfriend—someone who loved you unconditionally—was the one thing you could have to yourself in this cruel world. You and John had your ups and downs, sure, but the idea of being in love was what kept you going.

Now, you felt entirely sick to your stomach—humiliated, exhausted, and broken.

“Stop it,” you choked out, a tear finally spilling down your cheek. You stepped forward and weakly slammed your palms against his chest, trying to push him towards the exit. “Just stop talking. Get out!”

Your hands were trembling, completely devoid of the strength you had wielded against him and Bucky just minutes ago. John barely budged under your weak shove. He sighed, reaching out to grab your wrists to stop you.

“Honey, stop. You’re hysterical right now, just calm down and—”

Before his fingers could even brush your skin, Bucky’s broad frame wedged itself between the two of you. He clamped a heavy hand hard onto John’s shoulder, shoving him back as he used his own body as a shield to protect you.

“You heard the woman,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, glaring down at your now-ex-boyfriend. “She told you to get the hell out.”

John stumbled back a step, swallowing hard as he looked up at the much larger man.

He tried to reclaim some of his lost dignity, puffing out his chest. “Hey, man, back off. This is between me and my girlfriend. It’s none of your business.”

“When you’re being that loud, your business becomes everyone else’s,” Bucky hissed. “You have three seconds to pack up your pathetic excuses and get your feet off this property before I throw you off it myself.”

If you weren’t such a fragile mess, you might’ve laughed at the fact that Bucky had just used your exact words to throw right back at John.

John looked at Bucky’s tight fists, then glanced past his shoulder at you, where you were wiping away your tears. He huffed a bitter laugh—he knew he couldn’t win a physical fight against Bucky, but that didn’t mean his pride was going down without a fight.

“Wow. Blew one of your tenants so he could act as your security guard since you couldn’t afford one?” John’s face twisted into an ugly, resentful sneer. “Fine. Keep her. I’m leaving.”

You were too busy sniffling behind Bucky—of all people—to notice that his shoulders were shaking with anger.

Bucky knew he wasn’t a saint, especially towards you, but hearing you get degraded by a man like this—a man you had given your heart to—made him unfathomably angry.

If you weren’t in such a sensitive, vulnerable state, Bucky probably would’ve had this guy pinned to the floor by now.

“While you’re at it, go ahead and take Eleni out with you,” Bucky added, nodding toward the woman dismissively, as if he hadn’t been tongue deep in her mouth just minutes ago. “Sounds like you two have some catching up to do, anyway.”

John muttered curses under his breath as he pushed through the exit, a timid Eleni trailing quickly behind him.

When the door shut, leaving just you and Bucky in the office, he turned around to finally look at you—and his heart broke right there in his chest.

He knew he had said and done things to purposefully get under your skin in the past, but seeing you now, looking so small with your cheeks stained with tears, it made him feel like the worst kind of man, despite not being the one who broke your heart.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured gently, resting both hands on your shoulders and leaning down so he was at eye level. “Are you okay—”

He nearly stumbled back from the impact of you burying your face into his chest.

You gripped his shirt tightly as you broke into the most gut wrenching sob he had ever heard in his life.

Without another thought, his arms came up to wrap securely around your body, holding you close against him. One large palm rested at the back of your head, soothing you with a comforting caress.

Bucky didn’t know what to say.

There had been times when he had almost made you cry out of sheer frustration, yeah, but that was almost. Now with you breaking down in his arms, he hated the very idea of you crying, period.

“Hey, he’s gone, okay?” he murmured against your temple. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He didn’t know what else to offer other than a couple of “you’re okays” and the occasional “I’m here.”

“I—I don’t understand—” you whimpered into Bucky’s shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Guilt clawed at his heart while his teeth caught his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

He knew your words were also a partial reflection on him and how he’d been treating you—constantly making your job so much harder than it needed to be. He sighed, holding you a little closer.

“Nothing. You did nothing,” Bucky said, his tone gentler than you had ever heard it before. “You don’t deserve any of this. And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you sniffled. “For standing up for me. I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m just so tired.”

Bucky felt like the Grinch—his chest tight as his heart softened with each broken word you cried out.

For the first time since he had moved into your complex, he was hearing a thank you leave your lips. He might have expected it if he ever turned his music down on the first ask, or helped you take out the trash. But not once had you muttered those words to him until now, while you were weeping in his arms and holding onto him like he was the only person you could rely on.

He felt terrible.

He, of all people, didn’t deserve your gratitude.

“Hey, don’t get sappy on me now.” He sighed, caressing your hair again as he rested his chin on the top of your head.

“You’re a strong girl. You’ll be okay.”

As the day bled into the rest of the week, Bucky felt like he was getting whiplash.

One day, you were crying in his arms and seeking his comfort, and the next, it was like you slapped your cold mask back on and went right back to being his personal landlord from hell.

He had made a promise to himself to help you out in small ways—like keeping his mixer at a lower volume, or offering to help paint the window frames. He hadn’t even invited a single girl over since your breakdown. It was selfish of him to think you’d soften up just because he held you while you cried, but you didn’t. Instead, it was the same usual business from you.

“Bucky, turn down your music!”

“Your music is giving me a headache. Lower it.”

“I can’t believe people actually listen to this robot music.”

Today, he had his friends over—Steve and Sam—whom you seemed to detest just as much because of the volume they brought with them.

Sam was lounging in the beanbag chair, his legs sprawled out, while Steve found comfort on Bucky’s bed. All three of them had a cold Mythos beer in hand, taking slow swigs while Bucky focused on mixing a new track on his laptop.

“Turn the music up,” Steve said, gesturing to the monitor with his bottle. “I want to hear how the bass hits on that drop.”

Bucky’s hand hovered over the master volume knob, then hesitated. If he recalled correctly, you had a lot of important calls to make down in the office today. The last thing he wanted to do right now was add more to your plate.

Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the volume exactly where it was. “Nah, it’s loud enough.”

“No way, man. The walls are usually shaking from how loud you play this stuff,” Sam said, furrowing his brows. “Come on. Turn it up.”

Bucky kept his attention glued to his laptop, his hands adjusting everything on his mixer but the volume.

“My landlord is making calls downstairs,” he muttered, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as possible in the hopes his friends would just drop it.

But of course, they don’t.

Steve sat up on the bed, his arms resting on his knees while the green bottle dangled loosely in his fingers. “Hold on. Since when do you care about what your landlord thinks?”

“Especially when it comes to your music,” Sam egged on, that teasing grin spreading across his face.

Bucky felt like he was a cat being cornered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting to play around with the BPM to distract himself, but ended up completely messing up the transition.

“I don’t care what she thinks,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too defensive as he clicked aggressively on his trackpad. “I just don’t feel like hearing her run her mouth today.”

“You know, speaking of running her mouth—” Sam pushed himself up on the beanbag chair with a groan. “How did she react when she walked in on you and Eleni? Surely she heard all the noise you two were making, right?”

Steve barked out a laugh, waiting to hear Bucky’s response.

Bucky grimaced at the memory.

Despite them bringing Eleni up, his mind wasn’t on her at all—it was entirely on you and everything that had unfolded that day.

Normally, he’d chug his beer with his track set to the highest volume, laughing alongside Sam and Steve about how you were constantly on his ass, pestering him like a mother. But this time, he recoiled at the way his friends were talking about you.

He didn’t even know how to begin explaining it.

How could he explain that he hadn’t actually slept with Eleni because he’d overheard you arguing with your boyfriend, John? The very same John who got outed for cheating on you with Eleni—the girl Bucky just so happened to have brought home that day.

“We didn’t even sleep together. We were just messing around on the bed, and she came in to complain about the noise,” Bucky muttered with a casual shrug. “That’s it.”

Sam hummed in thought, pausing in the middle of sipping his Mythos. “You know what it sounds like your landlord needs? She needs to loosen up.”

Bucky frowned.

They had no idea what you were going through at all.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Take her to one of your gigs tonight—show her how good your music actually is, and what keeps her rent money coming in.”

Bucky couldn’t picture it. You, loosening up in the middle of a crowded dance floor, actually enjoying the music you constantly complained was nothing but “robot noise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”

Steve shrugged. “A girl like that wouldn’t be hard to impress. Who knows, maybe she’ll realize the nightlife she’s missing out on here in Greece, ditch her lame boyfriend, and give you a chance instead—”

“Alright, alright, enough.” Bucky waved his hand, spinning around in his chair to glare at Steve. He hated how obvious it was that he cared. “Can we just get back to working on my mix? I need it ready and sounding perfect by Friday night.”

Sam’s brows rose. “Oh, Friday night! That’s the perfect amount of time for you to convince her to come out—”

Bucky groaned, rubbing the space between his brows to soothe his impending headache. “Christ, Sammy. Would you just shut up—”

“Eeeeek!”

Bucky was cut off by a loud, piercing screech echoing from down the stairs—straight from your office. He immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening.

Steve grimaced. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her now—”

But before Steve could even finish his sentence, Bucky was already throwing himself out of his chair. He lunged out the door and raced down the stairs toward you. As his feet pounded against the creaky steps, his mind scrambled through every worst case scenario.

Had John returned to threaten you?

Was a potential tenant giving you a hard time?

Either way, he was ready to tear them apart. And he didn’t care if Steve or Sam were right behind him to witness it.

“Hey!” Bucky barked, breathless as he rounded the corner into the office. “Are you okay—”

“Oh my god, oh my god, get away! No! Don’t get any closer!” you squealed.

Bucky froze in the doorway, only to find you stranded on top of your desk chair, your legs wobbly as you tried to keep yourself from falling. Your eyes were wide with terror, staring down at the floor. Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at what was going on.

Sitting right at the base of your chair was a stray white cat. Her tail was swishing lazily against the floor, and she was proudly holding a very dead, very fat rat between her teeth.

Bucky’s shoulders instantly slumped as he realized he wouldn’t be throwing hands with John after all—and just how ridiculous this entire situation was.

“Bucky, help me!” you wailed, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. “Get it out! Get it out of here right now!”

“Which one?” Bucky crossed his arms, making absolutely no effort to rush to your rescue. “The rodent, or the cat?”

“The rat, Bucky! Oh my god—she’s getting closer, ew!” You whipped your head toward him, frazzled. “Do something!”

Bucky sighed heavily.

He was on a tight time crunch, needing his mix ready by Friday for a gig at a massive club here in Greece—and now his precious time was being spent trying to wrestle a stray cat.

Then again, he had made a silent promise to himself to start helping you out.

He stepped away from the doorframe and closer to you, making exaggerated shooing motions at the animal.

“Shoo! Go on, get out of here. And take your friend with you.”

The cat looked up at Bucky with big, round blue eyes that perfectly matched his own, let out a raspy mewl, and turned her head right back to you. Wanting to ensure her favorite human accepted the prize, the cat pushed herself up on her hind legs, stretching her paws onto the seat of the chair to drop the limp rodent right at your feet.

“Oh my god, no! Don’t do that! Ew, ew, ew! No!”

You could’ve sworn you saw the dead rat twitch.

Panic completely overrode your system. Without a single thought for your pride or your dignity, you launched yourself off the chair and jumped straight into Bucky’s arms.

Bucky looked up, his eyes widening as he realized what you were doing, but it was already too late to brace himself.

He let out a oomph! as your body collided with his, nearly knocking him right off his feet. With a huff, his arms hooked around your waist and thighs to catch you before you both could hit the floor. He stumbled back, struggling to find his balance as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder in panic.

He had never expected to find you in his arms again so soon—much less over a damn cat.

“You’re okay,” Bucky sighed, caressing your back. “Look! She’s already taking the rat away.” He reassured, despite the cat not moving a single paw.

You kept your face buried, your fingers tightly bunching the fabric of the back of his shirt. “Is she really? Promise me you’re not lying, Bucky.”

“Buck! We’re coming! Hold on—”

Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway as he and Sam burst through the office doorway in a sprint. Both of them had their shoulders squared and their fists clenched, ready to throw down in whatever fight Bucky had gotten himself into.

But they came to a halt, their eyes wide as they took in the view.

There was Bucky, holding the very woman he claimed to detest so much securely in his arms—bridal style, at that.

“Oh,” Sam chuckled, raising a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”

Bucky’s neck flushed a deep crimson. Even with your body tucked firmly against his, he was focused on the mortification of Steve and Sam drilling their stares directly into the side of his head.

“Get the rat out of the room!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

He tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t startle you with the word rat, but the attempt obviously failed—because, well… you were right there, and you squealed in response.

Sam didn’t move, his grin only widening. “I don’t know, Buck. Pest control wasn’t really on the itinerary today. What’s the magic word?”

Bucky now understood why you hated his friends so much.

“Sam, I swear to God—”

Seeing that his best friend was about to combust from embarrassment, Steve finally took pity on him.

“Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Steve reassured, stepping past them. He grabbed a plastic clipboard from your desk, using it like a makeshift shovel to carefully scoop the dead rodent off the chair.

“Ugh, that thing is huge,” Sam pointed out—eliciting another loud squeal from you—as he held the door open for Steve so they could dump it in the trash bins outside.

“Is it gone?” you whimpered into his chest.

Bucky looked down, his eyes softening as he took in the way your nose was pressed directly into his shirt. “It’s gone. I promise.”

With a relieved breath, you gently pushed yourself out of Bucky’s grasp until your feet hit the floor. He hated the sudden, empty space between the two of you.

Trying to bridge the gap you just created, Bucky stepped closer again, resting a warm palm on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He spoke so softly, with a gentleness that caught you off guard.

Heat tickled the back of your neck, your heart beating rapidly from the embarrassment of your outburst—and the fact that you had run straight into Bucky’s arms for comfort yet again.

“I-I’m fine,” you stammered, straightening yourself.

Steve and Sam were just about to walk back inside, but they stopped when they saw Bucky leaning down, his thumb now softly caressing your cheek.

They knew their friend had a long track record of being a blatant flirt and a playboy, but never once had they seen him soften up the way he was right now. Exchanging looks, the two of them played it smart and silently agreed to turn around, letting their friend have his chance.

You gently stepped away from Bucky’s touch, letting out a soft sigh at the cat still perched in the middle of the office floor. You hoped averting your attention elsewhere would soothe the awkwardness.

“Why’d you do that, Alpine? Are you trying to scare me to death?” you murmured, kneeling down to give her a gentle pat on her dusty head.

Bucky furrowed his brows. “She has a name?”

“She was a stray hiding near the trash bins a few weeks ago. I ran to the market next door to buy some food for her, and she’s been following me ever since. But I didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to gift me a…” You shuddered at the mere thought. “…a rat.”

He chuckled, kneeling down right next to you to offer the cat a few pets of his own.

“That’s cute,” he murmured. “Look at you, always on top of taking care of things—even the neighborhood strays.”

You let out a small laugh, the sound soft, warm, and genuine against his eardrums.

Bucky felt like his chest was going to explode. You were so close, smiling brightly in a way he almost never saw from you. As the last of your laughter trickled in the air, he realized this was his perfect opportunity.

The atmosphere between you two was soft. Your walls were down, and he could take this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go.

Are you free this Friday night?

Do you want to come see my set at the club? We could even dance together.

I actually named one of my tracks after you.

But you spoke up before he could. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to say thank you.”

Bucky shrugged casually. “The rat was no problem—”

“No, not just for the rat. I meant for everything else,” you clarified, sitting up straight and meeting him in the eye.

“These past few days, I’ve noticed you’ve been… well, on your best behavior.” You offered a sheepish smile as you struggled to find the right words. “You’ve been lowering your music whenever I ask you to, and I really appreciate it. So, thank you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Here you were—showing gratitude just because he was finally giving you the bare minimum. He didn’t deserve you.

“Yeah, well, even if my music isn’t blasting at full volume, it still sounds good,” he joked, flashing you a confident grin.

You rolled your eyes, letting your hands gently pet down Alpine’s spine. She was purring.

“You keep telling yourself that,” you teased back. “I still don’t know how you can listen to music like that all day, much less produce it.”

“It’s not music you listen to all day,” Bucky adjusted his posture so he was a bit more relaxed as he sat on the floor. “It’s music you listen to when the stars are out while strobe lights are blinding you.”

Without even realizing it, he started rambling.

“It’s the kind of music that's meant to make you feel good. To push all the thoughts out of your head, drown out the noise of the rest of the world, and just let yourself loose for a little while.”

You hummed in thought.

For the entire time you’ve known Bucky, you had never bothered to ask about his DJing simply because you didn’t care to.

You’d always figured it was just a stupid hobby he did to piss you off and disrupt your peace—but the way he talked about it now, passionately getting lost in his own words, made you interested to say the least.

“You should come to one of my gigs one day and see what it’s like,” he murmured, his voice sounding far more vulnerable than his usual confidence. “It’ll be fun.”

You blew a raspberry, though you weren’t entirely put off by the idea.

“I appreciate the invite, but look around you, Bucky,” you huffed, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “This place is running on my bare hands alone. I can’t afford a night off.”

“Then let me help you,” Bucky interrupted, turning his body so he was giving you his undivided attention. “You need help painting the window frames and fixing the plumbing, right? I’ll take care of it.”

You blinked, your eyes widening in surprise.

Bucky… helping you?

This was completely out of character for him. You braced yourself for the catch, waiting for him to follow up with something like, “As long as I can bring home whoever I want, play my music as loud as I want, and get a discount on my monthly rent,” but nothing came.

“I don’t know, Bucky—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he grinned, that taunting tone creeping back into his voice. “Let someone help you for once.”

You searched his eyes, trying to catch a punchline, but still, there was nothing.

You didn’t quite believe him. You figured this was just his way of tossing you sympathy points to get you to praise him some more, only for him to end up doing absolutely nothing.

So, you just sighed, rolled your eyes, and pushed yourself up off the floor.

“Whatever you say, Barnes.”

To your surprise, Bucky had actually made true to his promise and helped you around the complex.

He was already up most mornings before you even arrived, blasting his music from his speakers. Instead of just fixing the paint on the window panels, he reinstalled new ones and painted them over with the pretty blue you’ve been eyeing.

It made you feel giddy, seeing him in a tank top and jeans that were covered in both dirt and blue paint.

“Morning,” you shouted over the music, setting your cup of coffee down at your desk. Alpine was still here—curled up in your chair. Bucky must’ve let her in.

“You’re already working on the window panels?”

Bucky didn’t hear you at first, sweeping his paintbrush back and forth until he lifted his head in your direction. He reached over to his Bluetooth speaker, lowering his music to a much more appropriate volume for seven in the morning.

“Oh, yeah.” He pushed himself up with a groan. “Thought I’d get started on the easy stuff first.”

He crossed his arms, taking a step back to admire his work. Then, he looked at you for your reaction.

“How… how do you like it?”

You wanted to jump up and down in glee with how beautiful the windows looked. The bright blue color made everything much more welcoming and inviting, but you didn’t want to give Bucky the opportunity to gloat just yet.

“Hm,” you tilted your head. You could feel Bucky growing anxious beside you—though he tried his best not to show it. “I think I want it in a different shade of blue, actually.”

Bucky’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He raised his hands, about to protest, but you broke down in a laugh.

“I’m kidding,” you said, wiping a tear at his reaction. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

He let out a heavy sigh of relief, but you could still see the grump lines on his face. “Good. Otherwise I would’ve painted your face blue,” he muttered, motioning to the paintbrush.

“Oh? You mean like this?”

You quickly snatched the brush out of his hands, and before he could even process what was going on, you had already swiped a stripe of blue paint over his stubbled cheek.

Bucky stood there, wide eyed. He swiped his thumb over the paint and looked down at his fingers, appalled. But while you were busy laughing in his face, a slow smile cracked across his lips. He suddenly lunged for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body from behind. He hooked the paintbrush back out of your hands, smearing a streak of blue over your face as well.

“Bucky, stop!” you yelled, thrashing in his arms as you just barely dodged the bristles that were tickling your chin with paint. “Stop! I can’t be covered in paint—I have to work!” you argued, despite the breathless laughter breaking in between your words.

“Yeah, well. You should’ve thought about that before you attacked me first, sweetheart.”

From that day onward, your week with Bucky had been filled with more laughter than you’ve had in the entire course of previous months.

Each day was eventful—Bucky was always up early in the morning working on the complex, somehow always managing to find new things to fix, while you arrived with cups of coffee and a bag of treats for Alpine.

During break times, you and Bucky would eat lunch together in his apartment, and he introduced you to more and more of his music.

Every time you two worked, he always had his music playing. Slowly, you started to become fond of it. There were even a few tracks of his that you liked so much, you actually saved them to your own playlist. And every time you asked him for the track title, Bucky would laugh and say, “See? I told you my mixes are good.”

Now, you were sitting on his beanbag chair with your legs crossed, the two of you eating pitas with cold beers to wash them down.

“It’s all about the frequencies,” Bucky said, gesturing to the DJ controller sitting on his desk. He set his beer down, leaning forward as his fingers traced the knobs and sliders. “You’ve got your lows, mids, and highs. If I want to drop the bass out to create suspense before the hook hits, I twist this dial right here.”

He clicked a button, and the beat lost its thump thump, turning into an airy synth. Then, he slid a fader up, and the thumping beat came back in.

“That’s pretty cool. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” You leaned your head back against the beanbag, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I just thought guys up there would bop their heads to pre-made music and pretend like they’re doing something. I didn’t think they played it all live.”

Bucky chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he swiveled his chair to face you. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

He glanced at his desk, then back to you. “Come here,” he nodded his head toward the console. “Try playing something.”

“What?” you said, sitting up straight. “No. Knowing my luck, I’d touch something and it’d break.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Who would’ve thought that the very woman who had threatened to throw his entire DJ setup out the window was actually too scared to even touch it?

“Enough of that. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, you knew he wasn’t going to let this up. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the beanbag chair and walked over to him. He scooted his chair back, giving you the space to step right up to his setup.

You felt your face warm up instantly when he swiveled right back around, locking you between his desk and his lap.

“Sit down,” Bucky instructed from behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and swallowed hard. His lap was spread, and he was leaning as far back in his chair as possible to make space for you. You wanted to make an excuse, to say you were much better off standing, but you knew Bucky would just fight you on it.

Mustering up your courage, you sat down, pressing your bottom directly into his lap. Bucky didn’t seem to mind it at all—meanwhile, your face was burning like crazy.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching around you to grab your arm. He guided it toward one of the sliders and placed his hand firmly over yours, setting your fingers down gently on the control.

Bucky’s palm was rough and warm against the back of your hand.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing into your back, and you could feel the rumbly vibration of his chuckle against you.

“Relax,” he murmured right against your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

You hated him. You really did.

“Bucky, I swear to God—”

Bucky nudged your hand forward, forcing your fingers to slowly push the slider upward. As the fader moved, the track playing through the monitors began to warp.

“That’s the high-pass filter,” Bucky explained softly. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his thighs under your bottom. “Hear how it cuts out the low end? Now, wait for the timer on the screen to hit zero, and slam it back down.”

You did exactly as instructed, yanking it down the second the timer hit zero, and a smile broke across your face at the bass.

“Wow, that sounds pretty good,” you breathed.

Curiosity got the best of you, and you started to play around with the different sliders on your own—creating a whole new funky and out of beat mix. You messed with the distortion and the reverb, and it sounded terrible enough to make you burst into laughter, with Bucky laughing right along beneath you.

You pressed a button, then a beep! noise came after. A red light started blinking at the soundboard.

“You’re recording now,” he said. “Want to sing something?”

“God, no.” You laughed.

Sooner or later, you felt his hands slowly drift from your arms down to your hips. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind his touch one bit. It felt entirely natural. Like his hands were always meant to be right there—guiding you, holding you…

“Come watch me play on Friday,” he murmured gently.

You looked down at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. Bucky had been staring up at you this entire time. His blue eyes bored right into yours the minute you made eye contact, with no intention to break it first.

“Bucky, I…”

“I can get you in for free—you can skip the line, or come whenever you want. Just take one night off for yourself. You deserve it.”

You chewed your lower lip, feeling apprehensive. You and Bucky had done enough hard work over the last few days to compensate for the rest of the week, essentially clearing your schedule.

Looking into Bucky’s eyes—seeing the blue glimmer with hope just like the Greek ocean does on a sunny day—made it so much harder to say no. He had done so much for you these past few weeks, and the very least you could do was watch him do something he was truly passionate about.

“Fine. But only if you play my favorite tracks,” you said with a teasing smile.

Bucky blinked, as if he hadn’t heard you right.

Then, his lips pulled into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen from him. His grip on your hips tightened before trailing up to your waist. Hell, he’d delete this entire set he had been working on for months if it meant you’d come watch him.

He was so overjoyed with excitement that he didn’t offer any words to prove it.

Instead, he pulled your waist a little tighter, tilted his head up, and kissed you.

You froze, your eyes going wide as his warm lips connected with yours.

You?

Kissing Bucky?

You never thought you would see the day. But the second his slick lips began to dance with yours—the second his tongue pushed past your lips to taste you—it was like all the stress from before this, all the emotional drain from your breakup with John, disappeared in an instant.

“Mmm,” you moaned into the kiss. Your hands flew to the back of his neck, burying into his messy brown hair and giving it a firm tug that made him groan right back against your mouth.

Bucky’s hands slid up from your waist, his large palms smoothing against your ribs and moving to your back to pull you closer against him.

He tasted like the cold beer, but his mouth was intoxicating heat.

Bucky had his fair share of kisses with women—just as you had your fair share of makeout sessions with John. But neither of you had to say a single word to know that this was it. This kiss shared between you two was like no other.

His hands roamed under your tank top, his fingers tickling your lower back as he trailed upward.

Of course, you had no bra on. You never wore one in this suffocating summer heat. That was one of Bucky’s favorite things about you.

Bucky broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head leaning back against the chair to gaze up at you. His eyes flickered down, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal your smooth belly. He had seen your midriff from a distance whenever you bent over in your office—but never up close like this.

He groaned hungrily, then leaned in, pressing soft, warm kisses to your abdomen.

“A—ah, Bucky…” you mewled, squirming from the ticklish sensation.

He looked up at you with the softest eyes a boy could have, leaning his cheek right against your fluttering stomach. His stubble made you ticklish, but he didn’t pull away.

“I love it when you say my name like that,” he sighed dreamily. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your face warmed and you stammered, avoiding eye contact.

It was clear to Bucky that you weren’t used to receiving compliments, especially not from your no-good ex-boyfriend, John Walker.

But that was okay, because Bucky was here to change that.

“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. You tried to shy away from his compliment again, but his fingers trailed up to your chin, tilting your head down so you were forced to look at him.

“The prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile,” his thumb traced patterns on your bare hip. “And the prettiest lips. God, those lips.”

He leaned in to press his lips against yours once more. Your tongues danced in a warm embrace as he slowly began to undress you, starting with your tank top. His hands eagerly lifted the fabric, breaking the kiss momentarily just so he could pull it over your head before his mouth crashed right back down onto yours.

In between kisses, he would murmur things like, “So beautiful,” and “Mine,” every soft word matching the steady blood flow pumping from his heart and straight to cock.

When his hands found the button of your shorts, you rolled your hips forward, grinding that hot, delicious heat right against the growing bulge in his jeans.

He chuckled raspily against your lips before pulling away, his lips swollen and his chin sheen with exchanged saliva.

“Eager little thing, are you?”

You groaned in annoyance, though it sounded incredibly sexy to his ears.

You worked at his belt, then moved to the button of his jeans. “Take these off.”

Bucky clicked his tongue. His hand caught your wrist, gently prying it away from his pants. “You’ve ought to learn how to say please.”

His arms wrapped securely around your body, lifting you up from the chair so suddenly that you yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He led you quickly over to the edge of his bed, setting your body down and tucking himself right between your thighs.

“Besides,” he breathed, eagerly pulling your shorts down along with your panties and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’m still not done with you. I want to take my time worshiping this fucking body.”

You lay there sprawled out and bare while Bucky was still fully clothed. It was overwhelming, but you didn’t have time to fully process it before Bucky’s head tucked between your thighs, his nose pressing to your base as he inhaled deeply.

“Fuck, you’re dripping already.”

You arched your back, letting out a shocked gasp. “B-Bucky—! What are you—!”

“Relax,” he murmured against your sensitive skin, his hands finding your outer thighs and prying them wider for him. “Just want to taste you, baby.”

Bucky’s tongue swiped flat against your dripping center, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. He groaned, letting the taste of you linger on his mouth.

He glanced to look at you between your legs, and the sight of your face—brows pinching together with your bottom lip caught between your teeth—made his cock painfully hard. You lying bare in front of him was an invitation for him to sink his cock into you, but he wanted to savor this.

He tucked his head back down, lapping at your pussy sloppily. His warm tongue would tease your entrance with every flick, before slowly dragging up. He’d press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing his tongue deep against your clit and dragging his tongue up and down quickly to make you cry out in pleasure.

“Bucky—please, oh god, Bucky—!”

He swirled his tongue around the swollen peak of your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a light tug that had your toes curling around his head.

You were so deprived of intimate touches, never being ate out in a way that Bucky was eating you out, and you already felt like you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.

“Don’t stop, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, hand coming up to your mouth to muffle your cries.

Bucky had no intention of stopping.

He doubled his efforts, the sound of his wet tongue squelching against your cunt, lapping at every drip your arousal gave him. He was eager to make you fall apart, to listen to you cry out his name as you came all over his face.

Bucky inhaled sharply as you began riding his tongue with abandon. You were being selfish—chasing your high. He knew you were that kind of woman, to take what you wanted, and fuck, did he love you for it. Especially when you’re riding his face for your own pleasure, not even caring if he could breathe or not.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, tossing your head. “Fuck me with your tongue, Bucky. I’m gonna cum—!”

Your eyes went wide when you realized you were about to let out more than you could handle. But you couldn’t stop—not when Bucky was pressing his tongue firmly against your clit and holding your thighs down with his strong hands.

“Bucky—wait, I…” before you could warn him, your back arched off the bed into a cry.

Your orgasm came hot and hard, pleasure suddenly flooding your senses as you felt yourself gush around his tongue. Bucky’s face was drowning with your juices, your puffy cunt clenching around his mouth. Your wet essence trickled down your thighs and stained his bedsheets vulgarly, leaving a wet spot beneath you.

“Oh my god,” you panted, face burning hot as you fought to catch your breath.

Bucky finally pulled away, a smug grin plastered on his face while his chin was dripping with your juice. You watched as he licked his lips, the gesture only making you want to sink deeper into his bed from embarrassment.

“Look at that,” he kneeled back, hand rubbing his hard cock through his jeans. “You made a real mess on my bed.”

Your eyes were shamelessly glued to the way his dick was printed against his pants. It was strained tight against the denim, and you could see the heavy outline of his tip, spurting pre-cum and dampening his thigh with his own juice.

“I’m… I’m sorry…”

Bucky chuckled—a deep, raspy sound that made you clench around nothing.

“God, baby. You’ve got my dick so hard, it hurts,” he rasped, finally pulling his cock out of his pants and kicking the article off the bed. “You already came so much. I don’t know if you can go another round.”

You weren’t sure, either. But with the way he was jerking himself off, that heavy string of pre-cum dangling from his tip, and the way his balls looked so full and desperate for relief, you were determined to go another.

He crawled over you, dragging his tip along your shaking inner thigh and against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness as he probed you.

You were so sensitive, your pussy puffy and aching, yet when he pushed his tip in to test you, your cunt parted for him so easily. You winced, your overworked pussy already fluttering around his tip despite yourself.

“Please, Bucky…” you whined, and it might’ve been the cutest thing Bucky had ever heard. “Put it in. It hurts…”

“It hurts? Aw, baby. But I bet you’re not hurting as much as I am.” He grabbed your hand, guiding it down to his cock. It was so hot, his skin smooth as it twitched under your fingertips. “Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, aligning himself perfectly so he could sink in deeper, pushing his tip past your tight walls until half of his cock was embraced by your warmth.

“Fuck, you’re tight… even after cumming,” he hissed, his face tightening as he eagerly pushed his hips forward to stretch you out. “Like you were made for this.”

Already sensitive, the sudden fullness was overwhelming. A high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on him, tightening around the middle of his cock where he was thickest.

You whimpered and winced, trying to accommodate him, and Bucky felt his heart soar.

You were usually always so demanding, wound up so tight from constantly being overworked, and now you were wound up tight from his cock bottoming out in your pussy. Each moan and gasp of breath that left your lips made his cock twitch and his balls heavier.

“Those cute little noises—it makes my cock throb so hard,” he groaned.

Once his cock was fully sheathed inside, he started to pick up the pace, his balls slapping against you with wet and obscene smacks. His room—usually filled with the sounds of his music—was now filled with the sounds of your moans, and that was the greatest sound Bucky had ever produced.

He was fucking you so deep, each thrust met with curses and grunts. “So fucking beautiful,” “What a tight little pussy, fuck.” “You’re gonna make me cum so fast. M’already getting close…”

Each moan that left his lips made white spots dance around your vision. He was so deep, you could feel him in your gut. Pressure was building fast in your lower abdomen—a fullness that was equally agonizing and overwhelming.

Bucky’s big body was enveloping yours, his chest pressed into your sweaty one as he rocked his hips sensual and deep. He quickened his pace, in and out, in and out, until he felt his balls clench up.

“Shit, shit—” he gasped into your shoulder. “Not gonna last.”

Your pussy was like a drug. It was addicting, the way you would squeeze and flutter around him. Despite him making you squirt all over his sheets just minutes ago, you were already edging on your next orgasm. He felt every ripple and pulse your cunt had to offer—pumping him with your pussy before you cried out in pleasure so overwhelming, it made you see stars.

“Bucky!” you screamed, “oh my god—I’m cumming again—I can’t—”

Fuck, this was the fastest he had ever came.

“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” he pleaded with a broken voice.

That was essentially your warning that he was gonna cum inside. And when you nodded, that was his invitation to do it.

His entire body coiled up tight as he started pumping you full of his backed up seed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex before you. All that mattered now was that his balls were finally being drained inside the person he wanted to pump them in the most—his precious landlord.

“Shit. I’m cumming, fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight—” he gasped as his body collapsed over you, huffing angry groans as his body tensed—draining every drop of his cum into your overly fucked pussy.

The two of you lay tangled in each other’s sweaty limbs, melting under the shared, musky scent of sex.

While Bucky was catching his breath, he peppered you with wet kisses—to your collarbones, shoulders, neck, and chin.

“You’re so pretty. Could lay with you forever—just like this.”

Who knew that Bucky Barnes, of all people, was the one person you slept with who made you feel more pleasure and adored than John ever had?

Your heart felt too big for your chest, and you felt like you wanted to cry. The way he held you and murmured sweet things to soothe your heart—it all became too much.

A small sniffling sound escaped you before you could stop it, and Bucky caught it immediately. He tilted his head up and looked at you, wide eyed.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed so softly, his palms coming up to caress your cheeks so you would look at him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Bucky was so soft, looking at you with wide, adoring eyes, like you were the only woman in the world and the only one he wanted to be with. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who always made sure to get a rise out of you just weeks ago.

“I’m… I’m okay,” you stammered. “I just… didn’t expect all this.”

Bucky frowned, his touch so delicate as if he were afraid of hurting you.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t apologize,” you interjected gently, your fingers running through his sweaty strands of dark hair so you could see his eyes. “I loved every bit of it.”

He searched your eyes, his brows furrowing with vulnerability as he tried to find the truth in your words. When you held his gaze, showing how sincere you were, his frown tilted back into a sheepish smile—a far cry from his usually smug grins that you always wanted to wipe off.

“Good. Because I don’t regret a single bit of it,” he leaned in, capturing your lips with a wet kiss. “You better come on Friday. Watch me play. Then, after my set, we’ll come back home and make love all over again.”

You grinned at how blatant he was. But lying here with him, soaked up in each other’s essence, it was hard for you to say no.

“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”

With how busy you were taking care of the complex, Friday night came in the blink of an eye.

Despite living in Greece, on an island notorious for its nightlife, you weren’t a fan of clubbing at all. You were always so busy, elbows deep in the run down housing complex just to keep it afloat—so naturally, you didn’t have anything to wear.

When you had asked Bucky for advice, he told you, “Whether you wear a short skimpy dress or a skirt that goes down to your ankles, I’ll be tearing it off later in bed.”

You had rolled your eyes at that before settling on a dress that was far too short and far too tight for your liking. But you couldn’t be bothered to care, considering the club would be dark and packed enough with bodies that no one would notice your outfit anyway.

You arrived later than you had anticipated, having been caught up with last minute paperwork and calls. By the time you got there, the club was already packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with colorful neon strobe lights dancing across the crowd.

Your eyes naturally gravitated to the stage, where a familiar—if slightly fancier—DJ setup stood right in the center.

And of course, Bucky was right behind it.

He was manning the mixer, getting lost in his own music while the lights danced around him. One hand was resting on the mixer while the other rested on his headset. He kept his promise of playing your favorite tracks—and you couldn’t help but smile with the way he had everyone dancing in the center.

You felt out of place, standing awkwardly by the bar while everyone danced drunkenly around you. Unlike Bucky, this was not your element at all. But you took the night off, making a promise to yourself, and Bucky, that you would enjoy yourself.

Remembering Bucky’s instructions from earlier that day, “Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want,” you pushed your way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention for a drink.

A guy with a slammed expression who looked like he’d been dealing with unruly tourists all night finally looked at you.

“Hey,” you shouted over the music.

“What’ll it be, miss?”

“A double Tsipouro—I’m with Bucky,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the DJ who was currently mixing your favorite track.

The bartender paused, looking at Bucky on stage, then back at you with an irritated scoff.

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” he grabbed a double shot glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it towards you. “That’ll be €8.”

You frowned. You contemplated on arguing back, but the local girls next to you giggled after they eavesdropped on the interaction, and by then, the bartender was already tending to the next person.

With a sigh that felt almost self-deprecating, you downed the shot without a chaser, and tried to enjoy the rest of the night listening to Bucky’s set without letting that interaction get to you.

After a couple of shots—that you all paid for—you went from being buzzed to intoxicated. You were dancing by yourself in the crowd, relishing every bass and beat that Bucky was throwing up on stage. When an unexpected hand came to rest on your lower back, you instantly spun around to tell the guy off.

“Hey, get your hands off—!” but you stopped when you saw Steve standing right in front of you with Sam right next to him.

“If it isn’t Bucky’s landlord,” Sam teased with a tone that brought good intentions, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you here.”

“Did Bucky drag you out tonight?” Steve asked.

With the alcohol bubbling in your bloodstream, you weren’t sure if you hid your flustered expression well.

You had no clue how much Bucky had told his friends about you—how you two were technically a ‘thing’ now, despite not officially talking about it.

“Yeah,” you shouted back. “He wanted me to come out tonight to watch his set. He’s really good.”

“He definitely is,” Steve agreed, then grabbed your hand. “Well, if you’re out here to party, better make the most of it.”

You laughed as Sam and Steve pulled you further into a clearer pocket of the crowd. With the two guys next to you—warding off the other drunk men who tried getting close to you—you actually started to let loose. You were laughing, your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.

During a transition, you looked up at the stage to see if Bucky had noticed you in the crowd yet.

But then your smile faltered, and you realized you were no longer dancing.

A small group of girls—dressed in tight outfits and looking beautiful—had managed to bypass the side security and were now crowding his DJ setup. They were drunk, based on the way they were stumbling and trying to grind on Bucky—who you thought was just trying to focus on his music. But he smiled.

You didn’t know if that was him trying to save face because he was right there, in front of a whole crowd, but from where you were standing, it seemed like he enjoyed every bit of the attention they were giving him.

You looked down, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious in your dress.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sam reassured you as he continued dancing. “People get on stage all the time, no matter who’s playing. His set is ending soon, anyway.”

Based on Sam and Steve’s expressions, they weren’t soothing your insecurities, but rather assuming you were just expressing concern for a friend’s safety. They didn’t know you and Bucky had a thing going on at all.

You tried to push those thoughts away for the rest of the night, but how could you? Not when every single time you looked up to see Bucky—the person you came out tonight for—he was being smothered by and dancing with half dressed girls.

You tried to get lost in the music, but instead, you were getting lost in your own thoughts.

It was a horrible, familiar feeling.

It was the exact same feeling you had felt with John, who had sworn he only had eyes for you while routinely crossing boundaries, making you feel like you were crazy for caring, and eventually cheating on you. You had promised yourself you would never let a man make you feel that way again.

And yet, here you were.

You thought about the night you and Bucky had just shared. But what was it to him? Just a fun distraction with his landlord? The woman he always swore he hated? Were you just another checkbox on his list—one he sought after simply because you were ‘playing hard to get’ in his eyes?

Bucky was a playboy. His friends knew it. You knew it. And hell, even the only other tenant in the complex—who was deaf, mind you—knew it.

You were the one who had to watch him constantly bring different girls back to his place week after week. You were the one always barging in on them with noise complaints. He was charming, hot, and clearly popular in clubs, and he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted.

“Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want.”

And on top of it all, you remembered what the bartender had said.

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before.”

He had heard it before because Bucky had probably used that exact same line on a dozen other girls.

You weren’t special.

You were just the latest girl on his list, foolish enough to believe his sweet compliments after he ravished you in bed—the very same bed he had shared with countless other women.

Tears stung the backs of your eyes, blurring the flashing strobe lights into a messy smear of color. Your throat choked up, your chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.

“Hey,” Steve leaned down, noticing your expression. “You okay?”

You couldn’t even answer him. If you opened your mouth, a sob would escape.

You tried to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt—that this was just his job, that he had to put on a pretty smile and perform. But as you looked up and saw him with a drunk smile, leaning closer to a woman who had her hand on his chest and was shouting something in his ear, that was it for you.

“Sorry, I—I… um, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s due tomorrow morning,” you lied, trying your best to sound steady. “Have fun tonight.”

Steve and Sam offered to take you home, but you couldn’t let them. You needed to be alone.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You took a cab back by yourself, drunkenly stumbling into the complex’s office with only one thing on your mind. It wasn’t because of stupid paperwork or bills. It was to tear up Bucky’s lease.

You shoved the key into the lock with a clumsy hand. Bursting inside the small office, you slammed the door shut behind you.

The office was dark, but sitting right there in the very center was Alpine. The white cat lifted her head from her food bowl, kibble crumbs decorating her white, fuzzy chin as she blinked tiredly at you.

The sight of her made the tears spill over your cheeks. You were intoxicated, heartbroken, and your emotions were at an all time high— looking at the cat you two took care of together only made the anger burn hotter in your already fragile heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you choked out, pointing a shaky finger at the cat. “You and your stupid dad. Your stupid, lying, playboy dad!”

Alpine blinked before letting out a mighty yawn for such a small body. Then, she turned her attention back to her food, completely indifferent to your emotional breakdown.

“Yeah, go ahead and eat!” you cried, wiping furiously at your wet face. “Enjoy it, because both of you are packing your bags! He thinks he can just… smile and say the right things, and I’ll just let my guard down and let him in?”

You marched past the cat and stormed over to the filing cabinets. You grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer and yanked it open so hard that it rattled.

“Where is it…” you muttered, your vision blurred by tears as you began rummaging through the folders. You tossed utility bills, maintenance requests, and old plumbing receipts over your shoulder. “Where is that stupid piece of paper?”

You were going to find his lease.

You were going to tear it into a million pieces, throw it in his face, and kick Bucky Barnes out of your complex.

The office door suddenly pushed open, and you jumped at the unexpected intruder who just barged in.

Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as the moonlight outlined his body from behind. Any other woman probably would’ve seen him as a god, but to you, he just looked like a man spawned from the very depths of hell.

He looked like he had run all the way from the club—but he couldn’t have, not with how fast he got here.

“Why did you come back here?” He panted.

“Get out of my sight,” you mumbled, so quietly that it was like a part of you didn’t want to mean it.

He ignored you, stepping closer as he caught his breath. “Steve told me you left before I could finish my set—said that you had paperwork to do, but that can’t be right. You told me you cleared your schedule just so you could go to the club tonight—”

“Yeah—well, plans change,” you muttered, finally pulling his folder out from the others. You sorted through it until you found his paperwork, gripping it firmly in your hands.

When Bucky stepped closer and realized what you were doing—your fingers positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like you were about to rip it—he stormed over and snatched the paper right out of your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with that?!”

You glared up at him, your head spinning so fast it hurt. “I’m tearing up your lease. I’m evicting you.”

Bucky blinked, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.

“Are you trying to play with me right now?” He sighed, setting the paper safely on top of the filing cabinet before bending down to try and lift you up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re drunk right now—”

You slapped his hands away, pushing yourself up to stand on your own. “What? Get me in bed so you can add me to the long roster of women you fuck?”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes went wide, looking nearly as hurt as you felt just from that accusation alone. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t think I don’t know!” a sob ripped from your throat, and you hated how weak it made you sound. “You and your notorious record for being nothing but a player who plays stupid music. You know—it makes sense, actually!”

You hiccuped, slurring your words between tears.

“You being a DJ and playing in clubs and all. It’s such a classic tale, isn’t it? How easy it is for men like you to just… pick up women and bring them home in the middle of the night. And I’m always the one cleaning up your messes and kicking them out the next morning,” you laughed at yourself.

You probably looked insane in his eyes, but you didn’t care.

“Now, look at me. I’m the mess, and no one is there to clean me up. I was stupid to think I was different.”

What the hell were you saying?

None of it even made sense to you anymore. All you felt was an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt. Your head was pounding so bad that you just wanted to lie down and sob until there were no more tears left.

Despite every cruel word you hurled at him, Bucky didn’t get angry. How could he? When almost every word you said was nothing but the truth. All the talk about him being a player, blasting his stupid music loud enough to hurt your eardrums—he couldn’t deny any of it.

Except for one thing, and that was you thinking you weren’t different.

With a soft sigh, his shoulders slumped. He stepped closer, moving quietly so as to not startle you like a cat. When he was finally within reach, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body, pulling you close against his chest in a comforting hug.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered gently against your temple, his voice rough. “You saw all those girls huddled around me at the club, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I made you feel like this.”

You jammed your fists against his chest, weak and uncoordinated. But the alcohol had drained all your strength, leaving you hollowed out and drowning in your own tears.

Bucky took every pathetic blow you gave him, and instead of pulling away, he just tightened his arms around you. With a broken sob, you collapsed into his chest, burying your wet face in his shirt.

You hated this. You hated how every time you were upset, Bucky was always right there, comforting you in this very office. And you especially hated that, despite him being the cause of your current distress, you were still seeking his comfort.

One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers caressing through your hair, while his other arm held you around your waist.

“I’ve got you, baby. Just breathe.”

You were a weeping, hiccuping mess, your shoulders shaking violently as months of built up insecurity and old, unhealed wounds from John came pouring out all at once. You stained his shirt with your tears and ruined makeup, but Bucky didn’t seem to care at all.

He just held you, swaying you slightly from side to side in the quiet, dark office.

“I know what you’re scared of,” Bucky started with a gentle murmur. “You’ve gotten your heart broken, and you’re scared of opening up and getting hurt again.”

He rested his chin on your head with a sigh, looking blankly at the wall with eyes full of regret.

“And I don’t blame you for feeling that way towards me. I’ve been an awful guy to you from the start, and even now, I failed to make you feel secure with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, hoping it would help.

“There was no woman that came before you, and I have no intentions of anyone coming after.”

You wanted to believe him, but everything that left his mouth was just noise. Even drunk and vulnerable, you could feel your heart closing on him to shut him out.

You slowly pulled back, your hands pressing against his chest—not out of anger, but out of a desperate need for distance.

Bucky let you go reluctantly, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips, his blue eyes searching your face with a fragile and heartbreaking hope that made it even harder for you to look away.

“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you whispered. “I like you. I like you so much, and I want to love you... but I can’t. I don’t want to get hurt again. I just want things to go back to the way it was before. Me as your landlord, and you as my tenant. That’s it.”

Bucky knew he deserved every ounce of your doubt, but he hadn’t braced himself for the hurt that came with it.

Still, he forced a pained, tight lipped smile, his eyes telling you just how much he was hurting. His hands twitched on your hips, a painful urge passing through him to pull you back, to hold you against his chest and never let you go.

The words I love you rushed to the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He wanted to shout it, to promise you the world, to prove to you that he was entirely yours.

But as he looked down at your tear-stained face—at the exhaustion and fear written in your eyes, all because of him—he stopped himself.

Even drunk, you still had the strength to look out for yourself. And because he cared about you more than his own need to fix things, he respected your wishes. He wouldn’t use your vulnerability to force a confession on you. He had always been a selfish man, but he couldn’t afford to be one now.

Bucky swallowed hard, a visible lump forming in his throat as he forced the words back down. His shoulders slumped as he finally accepted defeat.

Slowly, his hands dropped from your hips. He took a single step backward, giving you the space you asked for.

“I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re ever ready to open your heart to someone again—please, let me be that person.”

Bucky kept his word and left you alone.

Yet, there were countless times when he found himself pacing in his room, or lingering just outside your office, waiting to see if you would open your heart to him again. He held onto the smallest bit of hope that the words you had shouted in a drunken blaze were words you didn’t truly mean—that they had simply come from a place of deeply unhealed hurt.

He stayed close, waiting for a knock on his door, hoping you would tell him you were ready to talk. But that knock never came.

Just like him, you also kept your word and went right back to treating him as if he were nothing more than the annoying tenant from the very beginning.

He still helped you around the complex whenever he had the time—entirely on his own insistence. But every time he found himself in the same room as you, you would make up some excuse just to get away from him.

“I need to stop by the store and buy litter for Alpine.”

“Georgia forgot to pick up her mail. I’m going to hand it to her.”

You were like a stone of indifference—not happy, but not angry either. It was starting to get frustrating.

He knew he should have respected your space, but the more you strayed away from him—not only emotionally, but physically—the more restless he grew. Maybe it was the immature side of him creeping in, but he started to take your pleas as a challenge. You wanted things to go back to normal? Back to how things were before his heart fell for you?

Fine. He would make sure to do exactly that.

The next afternoon, the entire building—which had been quiet for the past few days—began to shake.

It was that same, robotic warping noise that always rattled the ceiling of your office. It started with the usual thump, thump, thump, before the bass dropped into the most annoying sound nonsense you had ever heard in your life.

It was Bucky’s music. Except this was nothing like the tracks he knew you actually liked, and it was louder than it had been in months.

For the past few weeks, he had been playing his music through headphones or keeping the volume respectful. But right now, he was blasting it with a vengeance, the aggressive electronic beats making the light fixtures tremble.

You tried to ignore it for ten minutes. You tried to focus on your paperwork, but the relentless oonts oonts oonts was making your teeth rattle and your head pound. You knew exactly what he was playing at. He was trying to get your attention—but you wouldn’t give in. You refused to.

But then, a family of tourists walked past the front of your office. The daughter pointed up at the building, and the mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head in disapproval at the noise.

Shoving your chair back, you marched out of the office and stormed up the stairs.

You banged on Bucky’s door roughly. “Bucky! Turn that music down right now!”

You were furious, but for Bucky, this was the greatest moment of his week. He grinned, pretending not to hear you, and bumped the volume up just a tad louder.

You knocked again, but he ignored it. When you started cursing under your breath—which Bucky thought was the cutest thing he’d heard in what felt like forever, aside from Alpine’s meows—you finally fished out your master keys to unlock his door yourself.

“Do you mind?” you snapped, stepping into his apartment. “I have potential tenants walking past, and your absolute garbage music is running them off!”

Bucky was leaning back in his chair, lazily reaching over to slide a fader down.

“Garbage?” Bucky echoed, the cocky grin on his face not shrinking one bit. “You didn’t call it that when you were sitting on my lap and playing with my mixer, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widened—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he had gotten a reaction out of you, and to him, that was like a man finally finding water in the desert.

“Just turn it down!” you demanded, already turning away and slamming the door shut behind you.

Throughout the rest of the week, Bucky realized he couldn’t hold your attention for more than five minutes with just his music blasting alone.

He was working on a mix—one that wasn’t meant for his club sets, but one that would definitely catch your attention. What was distracting him more, though, was the sound of your giggles echoing all the way from your office.

A tourist had been sitting in there with you. Initially, Bucky thought it was just a potential renter. But as the minutes dragged into over an hour, he realized that the man in question had absolutely no intention of signing a lease. He was trying to get with you.

With the floorboards being so thin, Bucky could hear everything. The guy was a blatant flirt, and you were laughing and giggling cutely at every single word he said, convinced you were just sealing the deal on an apartment.

Bucky, moved by petty retaliation, queued up special track he was working on.

The beat was slower than usual—the exact kind that would have people drunkenly grinding against each other at a club. He dialed a knob, weaving the explicit, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathless moans right into the track, letting it echo loudly through the thin flooring.

Downstairs, your laugh died in your throat.

Your eyes widened slightly, your jaw hanging loose before a rush of heat flooded your cheeks. The tourist blinked, his charming smile faltering as the loud, provocative audio filled the small office space.

“What an interesting song,” he forced an awkward chuckle. “Didn’t know you had a DJ living in here.”

You sat stiffly in your chair, a storm of emotions thundering in your chest. Embarrassment came first, but right behind it was a wave of shock and a sickening twist of jealousy that nearly choked you.

He brought a girl over? While I'm down here working?

He actually had the audacity to do that after everything he said to you? After he said he’d be your person once you opened your heart again?

“So, anyway,” the tourist continued, oblivious. “Since you’re a local—do you think you could show me some cool spots around here? Maybe we could start with dinner?”

You didn’t even realize how jealous you actually were until that exact moment.

Knowing that another woman might be in his apartment, touching him, making those sounds, made your blood boil and your fists curl tightly under the desk. You thought you were protecting your heart by keeping him at a distance, but hearing this only proved your heart was still hopelessly tied to him.

And right now, those ties were threatening to snap and hit him right in the face.

“Excuse me,” you choked out to the man seated in front of you, abruptly stepping away from your desk.

Every step up the stairs was a stomp accentuated by your anger, the explicit moaning getting louder and more humiliating with every flight you climbed. By the time you reached his door, you were already drowning in an emotional cocktail of rage and heartbreak.

You threw the door open, ready to scream at him and whatever woman he had hidden away in his room.

“What the fuck is your problem, Bucky!”

The door banged hard against the wall as you stormed into the apartment, your chest heaving, your vision tunneling with pure rage. You were so flustered, so blindingly angry, that the words just started spilling out of you before you could even think to filter them. You were desperate to cover up the humiliating jealousy tearing through you, but it only made you sound more unhinged.

“I am trying to run a business downstairs! I just had a guy down there, a potential tenant, and then... then you had to go and bring some woman over and—and do this while—”

You paused, letting your eyes sweep across the room, only to find an empty bed.

“Where is she?” you hissed.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, leg crossing the other as he folded his arms over his chest, looking far too smug for his own good.

“Where’s who?”

Your brow twitched with annoyance. You huffed a stray hair out of your face, waving a hand around the room. “The girl.”

Bucky tilted his head, playing dumb. “What girl?”

“The girl!” you screeched out. “The girl you have over right now—that’s… that’s making all these vulgar and indecent moaning noises because you don’t know how to keep your dick, much less your promises, in your pants for more than a week!”

Bucky’s lips quirked up into a smile.

“I have been keeping both of those in my pants, thank you very much.” He turned back to his screen, his hands hovering over his mixer. “And you mean your vulgar and repulsive moaning noises?”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, defensive. “What?”

“Listen to it closely,” he said, slowly amping the volume up. Your soft and breathy moans of pleasure filled the room.

“That’s you.”

Your face twisted. With the heavy distortion overlaid by the beat, you couldn’t tell if he was just pulling your tail or being serious. You didn’t even remember recording anything like that when you played with his mixer.

“Stop playing in my face, Bucky.”

Bucky, still impassive as ever, simply shrugged. “You don’t recognize your own voice?”

Then, a breathy little whine came in that sounded much too familiar. “Bucky, Bucky, oh—”

Your eyes shot open so wide that your pupils stung. That was you, no doubt about it, just remixed in a way that an outsider couldn’t tell.

“That’s you moaning my name, sweetheart,” Bucky said, turning to you again with a smile.

He watched as your once angry posture began to deflate into a look of pure embarrassment. You started to stammer, your eyes darting everywhere in the room that wasn’t him. “I… I—I don’t even remember recording that.”

Bucky pushed himself off the chair with a light groan, sauntering over to you with confidence now that he knew he had the upper hand.

“You pressed the record button yourself when you were playing with my table a few weeks ago,” he explained casually.

Standing in front of you, he lifted his hand to gently caress your cheek. When his palm made contact with your soft skin without you pushing him away, his smile grew wider, and the prideful flames in his heart glowed hotter.

“What’s with that face?” he taunted, his voice low and gravelly in a way that did nothing but make your heart race faster. “After everything I said to you, did you really think I would bring a girl up here? Hm?”

Bucky tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes, which were currently glued to the ground—refusing to give him any attention.

“Don’t tell me—are you jealous?”

He knew the answer, and you did too—you just didn’t want to admit it. Despite you telling him, “No more relationship!” there was a part of you that didn’t want anyone else to have him, as selfish as it might be.

“No,” you lied.

“Okay,” he hummed in amusement. “But I am.”

You scoffed. “What are you on about?”

His eyes trailed the curves of your face—the very curves he had fallen in love with and peppered with kisses just a few weeks ago.

“I’m jealous over the fact that you have a guy downstairs making you laugh, when I haven’t seen a smile from you in days,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your lower lip. The sensation made you shudder.

You hated how much you were leaning into his touch. And you hated even more how much you liked the idea of him being jealous over you, just as you had been over the simple thought of him having another woman over.

“I’ve tried so hard to be patient,” he continued. “To wait and see if you’ll open your heart to me again. To see if you’ll finally let your walls down and believe the words I said. But I can’t be patient when there’s a guy down there capturing your attention so easily, when the only way I can get yours is by playing loud music.”

“And you playing a track with my moans in it makes you think you’ll win me over?” You furrowed your brows at him. “If anything, it only pisses me off. You’re distracting me and my customers, and I need you to stop.”

You tried to make yourself sound more furious than you actually felt, but it didn’t translate very well. Bucky simply licked his lower lip before catching it in a subtle bite, making your body tingle all over again.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “If you give me just one more chance to prove to you how much I care about you and how serious I am.”

You wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep that shield locked up with the key swallowed. But as you stared at him, hearing every sweet word that came out of his mouth, you realized how terribly you missed him.

God, you missed him.

You missed the moments when he would hold you in his arms after every problem, big or small. You missed the stupid afternoons down in the office, when you were supposed to be doing paperwork but ended up doing baseless chores with him instead—with Alpine inevitably scrambling up onto the desk and squeezing right between you two, demanding her own share of the attention. You missed hearing his music up close, sitting right on his lap while he guided your hand with his on the turntable.

You tried your best to keep your face stoic, to force down the screaming of longing in your chest so you wouldn’t cave. But Bucky saw right through you. He watched your shoulders ease up slightly, the way you chewed at your lower lip, and the way you were slowly unlocking that key in your heart.

Letting out a reluctant sigh that sounded like music to his ears, you mumbled, “Fine.”

Bucky’s smile widened.

“But you better not play this track anywhere. Not even to Steve or Sam,” you continued before he could speak, swatting weakly at his chest. “I’ll shoot you dead, Barnes—I mean it. That track is for your ears only.”

Rather than backing off, Bucky reached down and wrapped his arms firmly around your lower waist, pulling you close against him until your hips hit his, making you fluster at the proximity.

“Deal,” he whispered, leaning down even closer. “I’ll delete it if it makes you feel better, but only if I get to make you moan again like that for real—live and in person.”

Your breath hitched as his lips slid down to the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. Even though you two had been together like this before, the sudden closeness after days of agonizing distance made everything feel brand new, yet exactly right.

It was a feeling that, despite everything, you missed all too much.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” you breathed out as a final and weak attempt at keeping your guard up.

Bucky’s lips hummed deliciously against your neck, his mind already filled with things more than just hope.

“I’ll try.”

if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!

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Author's Note

Welcome to the result of my wrath. An expansion of my soldier boy x reader series, No Love Lost, made to be a more explict rewrite of the Boys season four and five. If you're going in with no prior knowlege of the other fic, enjoy! If you're coming over from No Love Lost, hello! I hope you enjoy this one as well. Going in, no matter what, please forgot everything released after season 3. Gen V, season four and five, Vought rising, none of it's real. I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter List

Prologue (7/6) (on ko-fi now!)

Season 4

Episode 1 - Down the Rabbit Hole Episode 2 - What's Dead and Buried Episode 3 - The Limelight Episode 4 - All of Us Heathens Episode 5 - Good Hair Day Episode 6 - On Shadowboxing, Spiderwebs, and Songbirds Episode 7 - Titanfall Episode 8 - The Firebird's Gambit Episode 9 - Metamorphia Episode 10 - You Scratch My Back Episode 11 - Buzz Buzz Buzz Episode 12 - Transmutation Episode 13 - Quick, Bald, and Broke Episode 14 - Heaven, Ohio Episode 15 - When You Hear the Bell Toll Episode 16 - Scurry Under the Mountain Episode 17 - Blinding Neon Glitter Episode 18 - hymns Episode 19 - Jersey Devils Episode 20 - Don't Wake the Sleeping Dragon Episode 21 - The King of Babel Episode 22 - Diet Euphoria Episode 23 - Event Horizon

Season 5

Episode 1 - It's Always Sunny Episode 2 - Go With the Changing Tides Episode 3 - That Big Silver Screen Episode 4 - On the Tenth Day Episode 5 - Put One Right Between the Eyes Episode 6 - Washed Up and Sold Out Episode 7 - Love Thy Neighbor Episode 8 - So It Goes Episode 9 - Bloodshot Episode 10 - Flipping Texas Episode 11 - The Untouchables Episode 12 - Mr. Butcher Goes to Washington Episode 13 - And When You Love Her, Remember to Look Back Episode 14 - Homelander: The Musical Episode 15 - Run the Gauntlet Episode 16 - Operation Ranch Hand Episode 17 - Hail Mary Episode 18 - Abandon All Hope Episode 19 - Benjamin, or Italy Episode 20 - Oroborus Episode 21 - Veni Vidi Vici Episode 22 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh Episode 23 - Sunrise, Sunset

—

By 10:30 AM, every resident that’s been remotely alerted of the newcomer has somehow gathered every possible legal (or illegal) information about him. Dean Winchester. Late twenties. Employee at Miller Automotive. Moved from Illinois—no sorry, Georgia—or was it Kansas? Definitely Kansas. But most of all? He’s unmarried. That’s what gets the older women hyped about the most.

You hear all of this secondhand while writing new recipe ideas in your notebook inside The Sugar Shoppe later that morning. The bakery smells of vanilla and brown sugar, soft instrumental music playing over the speakers while your daughter sits at one of the corner tables, aggressively colouring with a brand new pack of permanent markers she absolutely should not be having anywhere near her nice clothes.

The bell above the front door rings to capture your attention and you look up, already speaking out of instinct. “Hey, what can I—”

The words suddenly die in your mouth when you stare at who’s in the doorway. None other than your new neighbour, looking extremely uncertain about every life choice he’s ever made as he stands there, looking unfairly even more attractive up close. There’s grease faintly staining his forearms, dark attire visibly disturbing the sunshine and rainbows your bakery is practically made out of. But one thing’s for certain—anybody can get lost in those sage green eyes of his.

He glances around, making awkward eye contact with a few ladies in the bakery who are now all staring at him like they want to devour him whole. Which, they do, if you’re being honest. He smiles politely at them and they immediately start whispering and giggling together before his gaze finds yours again. “Looks like Barbie threw up in here,” he jokes blankly, clearing his throat when he approaches the counter.

You blink. Then laugh a little before you can stop yourself. “It grows on you,” you say with a sweet smile. “You’re the new neighbour, right? I live next door.”

You think his eyes light up for a moment—maybe in recognition, or something. Or you’re just being delusional because a really hot guy who seems to be out of your league; single, tired, working mom, is talking to you right now and the overhead lighting is reflecting off his eyes.

Instead, he nods once, eyes trailing over you for longer than necessary which has you sweating a bit. There isn’t any flour on your nose right? God, you hope not. “I’m Dean,” he introduces himself. Dean. You nod, telling him your name in response and he actually smiles. He smiles. You can then only wait patiently as he scans the menu, and then the very carefully crafted glass display filled with endless sugary sweets and pastries with mini chalkboard stands on each plate like a toddler scribbled on them. His gaze slowly drifts over to an actual toddler sitting not too far by—one that looks dangerously similar to you. Like the universe got lazy and decided they were just gonna make a mini clone of you and have you bring it into the world.

.....That is your kid. Right?

“That, uhh—” he stutters nervously, awkwardly gesturing to the child in the corner. He doesn’t want to sound rude, or assume anything. You follow the motion of his finger, spotting your daughter who simply flashes you a big toothy grin. You chuckle, shaking your head as you look at him again, “She’s mine, yeah.”

Phew. He was right, letting out a sigh in relief he didn’t even know he was holding in as your daughter waves furiously at him. He smiles, giving her a small wave back.

“Cute one you have there.”

“Thanks.”

He clears his throat, “....So what’s a uh—macaron.... and a macaroon?”

“Well macarons are kind of like a cookie sandwich. Um, we have vanilla, pistachio, salted caramel....” you explain, listing off the various flavours off the top of your head before moving on. “And macaroons, they uh—look like that, and are usually made with shredded coconut.”

“Who creates two different desserts with only one letter differing them?”

“The French and Italians?”

“....Fair.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and Dean swears the entire bakery suddenly feels a little warmer now. After embarrassing himself trying to pronounce more dessert names, he ends up just ordering a black coffee with two sugars. Valid. Atleast he knows how to say that.

While he’s busy digging for his wallet, you quietly start filling an empty pastry box. Two glazed cinnamon rolls and chocolate croissants, a cherry danish, and three sprinkle-ambushed sugar cookies your daughter, now standing beside you insists on adding herself.

Dean finally glances up, looking half-confused, half-terrified. “Woah, sweetheart—don’t think I ordered all of that,” he says with a laugh.

Sweetheart.

You just smile, ignoring the way your heart skips a beat at the nickname as you fold up the box effortlessly like you’d done this a million times (surprise, you have). “Call it a welcome to the neighbourhood gift. On the house.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Observing your sweet smile, pouty lips, the way your lashes flutter against your skin when you blink. God, wow. You’re something else.

But then he snaps out of it when your daughter who was previously standing alongside you, waddles over to his side, shoving the pastel pink box with the bakery’s name printed in cursive at the side into his hands abruptly.

“Mommy made these cinnamon rolls at four in the morning,” she takes a loud gasp suddenly—toddlers—before whispering just loud enough for Dean to hear—and you. “Because she’s crazy.”

“Hey—I heard that!”

Dean laughs, shaking his head as he politely accepts the gift, something softer settling into his rough features.

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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“But you didn’t,” Charlie waved him off, looking him up and down with a tiny frown. “And- Stop looking like you want to.”

“I don’t want to-“

“Yeah, but you look like it.”

“Well, I don’t-“

“That’s not what your face is saying.”

Dean scowled, his voice dropping under his breath. “Probably ‘cause you’re making me freakin’ want to.”

“That’s not nice,” Charlie stuck out her tongue. “I’m telling mom.”

Dean shot her a glare, running a hand over his face. He looked back to the water. The bubbles were gone, and she still wasn’t up. He should’ve put that GPS tracker on her. She could be a floating body in the Atlantic by now. Face down and alone and cold, where Dean couldn’t reach Her, where he’d never be able to find her. Washed out and empty eyed.

His stomach clenched into a tight, wired fist. His mouth watered with something sour and his head spun. Charlie took a small step forward, smile slowly dropping into worry.

“Dean, are you-“

“Shh- Shut it-“ He grunted, holding up a hand. Charlie took a step back, her lips in a tight line.

“Do you need to sit down or something? Or- Go to the hospital-“

“I’m fine,” Dean snapped. “And we don’t do hospitals.”

“We don’t do hospitals?”

“Not unless we’re in the waiting room with a Reaper.” Dean took a deep breath through his nose, looking back to the water. It didn’t seem to be moving at all. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. “How deep is this river?”

“Umm…” Charlie leaned over the bank, squinting at the water. “Deep?”

Dean sighed. He didn’t have enough in his stomach to vomit. He’d given Her his sandwich this morning, and Adam that fluffy croissant they’d gotten at the café. Dean had survivied without eating before. Charlie and Adam hadn’t, and She shouldn’t have to.

Nothing was going to stay down anyways. Not until She was back above the water. Not until they found Sammy.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Charlie said, awkwardly patting Dean’s shoulder. “She’s magic, right? Magic people don’t die.”

Dean grunted. Magic people died all the time. Everyone fucking died. He had a dead guy in a bottle in their fucking duffle bag. But Charlie was trying, and he was really trying not to be a dick.

Play nice, She’d told him, before she jumped in the water. In the moment, Dean had rolled his eyes and grumbled that he always played nice. Out of himself, Her, and Sammy, he played the nicest. He praised old ladies cookies and cracked jokes with the other hunters. Sammy said sweet words to the victims then picked fights with the other hunters when they didn’t want to do things his way. She stood off to the corner of the room with Her chin raised and arms crossed, like a scary hot statue. They were the weirdos.

But they were his weirdos. They were the reason he bothered being charming and stupid. And the longer he was left to himself, the more his fingers twitched. His skin was itchy. His leg was starting to bounce, and everything seemed short. Words had to be clipped or he’d lose it at Charlie. Movements were short, or he’d whack Adam upside the head for napping on the bench. 

She’d been right. She usually was. He wished She wasn’t. It would be easier to tell Her not to do crazy things like jumping into the Seine for some stupid bones.

“So,” Charlie cleared her throat, and Dean took a deep breath. “Do we have like, a submarine?”

Dean blinked. When he looked at her, she seemed real serious. “What.”

“If you’re going to dive in after her,” Charlie nodded to the water. “You have a submarine, right? Because otherwise you’re going to drown, and I’m going to get in a lot of trouble.”

“You’re not gonna get in trouble, kid.”

“I will if you drown,” Charlie shrugged. “I’m supposed to watch you.”

Dean snorted. “I don’t need watching.”

“You do if you’re going to drown yourself-“

“I ain’t gonna drown myself.”

“Sure,” Charlie shrugged. “And you weren’t about to dive into the water.”

Dean glared at her. She smiled back.

“Seriously. If she comes back up and you’re dead I think she’s going to nuke France.”

And Dean snorted. “Nice try. I’m not that important.”

Charlie stared at him, long enough for his brows to knit curiously. She looked into the dark water, then back to Dean, her mouth hanging open slightly.

“What-“

“Are you serious?”

“Uh- Maybe?” Dean felt like he’d lost whatever thread they’d been following. “Why, what’re you saying right now-“

“I- I’m saying that you- And-“ Charlie said Her name, and Dean swallowed. “She’s like- Oh my god-“ Charlie took a step back. “Sam’s right.”

Dean scowled. “Sam’s right?”

“Yeah, he and Jo, they told me-“

Dean cut her off with a groan. “Fuckin’- Sam and Jo don’t know what the hell they’re talking about-“

“I think they do-“

“You don’t know them like I do-“

“Yeah, but I’m not blind, dude,” Charlie laughed, rolling her eyes. “You’re like Han and Leia. It’s cute, if not gross.”

Dean’s jaw relaxed. is

His hands were still in tight fists. He looked back to the water, then did a tiny double take. “Gross? We’re not gross-“

“Not both of you,” Charlie shrugged. “Just- You know you’re batting out of your league right?”

Dean sighed. “That’s the second time you’ve told me that,” he grumbled, and Charlie laughed.

“Still true. And look at you, you know it.” She poked his arm, smiling wider. “So how do you not think she’d nuke France for you?”

Dean sighed and looked up to the sky. A low, huffing laugh left him, and something close to blowing in his ribcage deflated. Charlie whistled next to him, rocking back and forth on her feet. Dean looked over his shoulder to check on Adam. Still asleep on the bench. He’d gone out almost the moment She dove into the water, but he’d also been sniffing around her like a puppy all day. Dean had kept one arm around Her waist, his fingers splayed. Adam hadn’t done anything stupid, and Dean was—as instructed—playing very nice.

Everyone loved Her. He couldn’t stop that. Hell, he’d rather have to fend off an army of suitors to win her heart then find Her alone and trembling in a tower. Than be her only option. The default, that she’d learn to resent when he clung to her like a vampiric, over adoring barnacle.  

“She told me you died,” Charlie said casually, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah. While ago, though.”

Charlie hummed, and Dean expected the usually questions. What did it feel like. What was hell like. What were you thinking about in the last seconds. He had the answered locked and loaded.

It hurt. Hell sucked. He’d thought about Her and Sammy to the last seconds, praying to God he’d been so sure wasn’t real that they’d be alright.

But Charlie wasn’t giving him that wide-eyed pity look. She was watching him like a strange bug she was trying to poke at, to make it’s wings unfurl.

Charlie said her name. Dean felt like he was under a freaking microscope. “She felt you die.”

Dean blinked. His stomach clenched again, and either he was sick, or someone was stabbing him. “I- She wasn’t there-“

“Yeah, but she said she felt you die.”

No, She hadn’t. He would’ve heard about that. “She tell you that?”

Charlie nodded. Dean thought the world might be flipping over.

“What- When-“

“On the train.” Charlie gave him another weird look. “She told me that you liked Lord of the Rings.”

Dean swallowed. His voice sounded far away. “Uh- Yeah. Good movies.”

Charlie hummed. “You read the books.”

“When I was a kid.”

“Huh,” Charlie looked him up and down. “I would’ve thought you were like, a jock. If I saw you in high school I would’ve assumed you were going to shove me in a locker then call me a dyke.”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. This conversation was like driving on a freaking highway and trying to keep track of every single billboard. “Uh- I wouldn’t have- Said that.”

“But you would’ve shoved me in a locker?”

Dean’s lips twitched. “Were you annoying?”

“Oh, yeah.” Charlie grinned. “I was a monster.”

Dean didn’t laugh, but he let out another, longer breath. His head hurt less. Charlie was still watching him like a scientist, but he minded less now.

She asked him about what kind of kid he’d been. He told her about moving around and finding things he was good at. Wrestling. Flashing a smile and leaning over girls in the hall. Cracking a joke and getting a rush off of it. Charlie didn’t tell him much in return, but she’d watched Scooby Doo as a kid, and that was enough to carry conversation for an hour. Dean didn’t notice the time pass. Not the way he’d been counting seconds, before.

Then the water moved. Something shifted and rippled, and his head whipped around. That was either a very sexy fish, or his girl.

He dropped to his knees, reaching out an arm, and let out a sharp breath when he could pick out Her features through the waves. She burst out of the water like a damn mermaid, catching Dean’s hand and hauling herself out of the water with a grunt.

“Get the towel,” Dean ordered Charlie, pulling Her fully onto the land. She was soaked to the bone, her clothing stuck to her skin and her eyes squeezed shut.

Dean grabbed Her face between his hands, angling it around for signs of danger. Bite marks, burns, gashes, anything. She wasn’t saying anything. She should be saying something.

“C’mon, Princess, talk to me.” He took the towel from Charlie without looking, wrapping it tight around her shoulders. “Who’s the president, what day is it, uh-“

“Alphabet backwards?” Charlie suggested, and Dean nodded frantically.

“Yeah, alphabet backwards-“

“That’s for drunk people, De,” She mumbled, and Dean’s shoulders sagged.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, wiping the dripping hair out of her face. “You were down there forever, baby, next time breach up and check or something.”

“Sorry, I just-“ She dropped Her face into Dean’s neck. “’S bright.”

Dean sighed, and nodded. She didn’t fight him scooping her up, one arm going around his neck and her body slumping against his chest. Charlie got Adam up. They’d go find a hotel, get her cleaned up, then go after Sammy.

“Got the bone,” she whispered in his ear, and he grunted.

He’d forgotten about that part. “Nice job, sweetheart.”

“Were you nice?”

“I’m always freakin’ nice-“

“Dean.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Fed them. Talked to Charlie a lot. Waited around. Rowena ain’t texted me back yet, but-“

“What’d you and Charlie talk about?”

Dean paused.

She felt it when he died.

That wasn’t the kind of thing She’d just say. But She’d never told him. He didn’t even know what the hell to make of it. Not right now.

“Lord of the Rings,” he said. “And Scooby Doo.”

She smiled against his skin. “Told her,” She said smugly, and Dean glanced down with raised brows.

“Told her?”

“To distract you.” She turned Her face, Her cheek pressing against his collarbone, her eyes starry and lidded. “If you got grumpy.”

A small, inevitable smile pulled at Dean’s lips. “You think I get grumpy?”

“Super grumpy,” She whispered. “Like an old man.”

Dean chuckled. “Alright, baby. Let’s get you warmed up, huh?” He pressed a kiss to her brow, murmuring against Her skin. “You’re talking crazy.”

“You’re talking crazy,” She grumbled, turning Her face back into Dean’s neck.

He grinned, and looked back ahead. Charlie was staring around at the Paris streets, whistling casually, while Adam glanced over his shoulder every few moments, then going red and looking back ahead. Dean sighed. He’d been trying with the kid. He’d grown out in the past year—broader, strong, smoother hair and less of a baby bird look in his eyes—but he still was closer to Sammy’s build. Lanky and waving on legs too long for his body. Dean figured himself lucky that the stick gene missed him. He wouldn’t have made it past ’05 if he blew over when the wind picked up.

Playing nice with Charlie had been easy. Adam was… Different.

“You gonna head back to the Letter guys after this?” Dean asked lamely, when they got to the motel. Adam jumped off the bed, fumbling with his phone.

It clattered to the ground between them. Dean pressed his lips in a thin line, running a hand over his face as Adam scrambled to grab it.

“S- Sorry-“ Adam cleared his throat, rushing back to his feet. “You- I, um- I didn’t think you were going to talk to me-“

“I’ve been talking to you all day,” Dean muttered, and Adam went even redder. Dean was worried he was about to self-detonate.

“I- Um- I know, but- You know.” Adam shrugged, looking at his hands. “You know,” he repeated, quieter.

Dean swallowed, crossing his arms over his chest. This was awful, and sticky, and he shifted on his feet like the ground was burning coal. He took a half-step back, and Adam looked up at him with soft, puppy eyes. He had Sammy’s eyes. Dean’s jaw was clenching again.

“Good work today,” he grunted, taking another step.

Adam frowned. “I napped on a bench.”

“Well, good- Napping.” Dean nodded to himself. That was enough. And nice. Compliments were inherently nice, and now he could be done. “Get some sleep.”

He didn’t wait for Adam’s response, before retreating back into the bathroom. Dean closed the door, turned around, and let out a sharp exhale.

She blinked at him from the bathtub, knees curled, hands pressed to her chest, and eyes wide. She gave him a tiny, overly-sweet smile. Dean frowned.

“What’re you up to, sweetheart?”

She shrugged, twisting the skin on Her finger. “Nothing. How are Adam and Charlie?”

“They’re fine,” Dean scanned over Her. Sunken half under the mountain of bubbles he’d prepared for Her, hair fanning out in the water like the halo of a better angel, eyes wide and innocent. The towel was on the toilet, Dean’s phone under the folds. His brow knit. “Where’s your phone?”

She pushed Herself further back against the edge of the tub. “You, um-“ She looked down at Her locked over hands. “You can’t get mad.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and pushed off the door. She squealed when he reached over, trying to keep Her phone out of his reach, but Dean knew her pretty tricks.

“De- Dean- Just-“ She batted at his hand, glaring up at him like a spited kitten. “Dean, wait-“

He grabbed Her jaw, and She went quiet real fast. Her eyes widened like a cartoon, Her breath hitched, and Dean smirked.

“Hey, Princess.”

She made a tiny noise from the back of Her throat. Dean kissed Her nose, then her upper lip. When he pulled back, She was panting like they’d just ran the mile.

“Breathe,” he reminded Her, before pressing a deeper, longer kiss over Her parted lips. She was just as sweet as always. Dean was never going to get sick of it.

Her swiped the phone from Her slack hands, and she squawked with a short-lived protest. Dean squeezed Her jaw once, tucking the phone in his back pocket.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. That earned him Her high, sweet whine.

When he pulled back, She was looking at him like a baby lion. Trying to build up the courage to pounce and growl at him, but still unsure if She’d land the kill. Dean patted Her cheek, then brushed the hair from Her face.

“Good?” He murmured, and She nodded quickly. “And- Warmer?”

Another nod. Dean sighed, kissed Her hairline, and sat fully on the lip of the tub. He grabbed Her phone back out, and she twisted in the water, moving to Her knees. Her tits can out, soft and covered in bubbles. Dean coughed, and forced his attention onto the phone.

“You said you wouldn’t get mad-“

“I’m not mad,” he said, running his fingers through her damp hair. “Just-“

“If you say disappointed,” she grumbled, pressing Her cheek against his thigh. “I’m gonna stab you.”

Dean laughed, and peered at Her screen. There were texts from Jo, and Cas, and Jody, and-

“She called you?!” Dean scowled at the screen, then Her. “I told her to call me, you- You were at the bottom of a freakin’ river-“

“I know, I- I mean- She says you’re-“ She cut Herself off, reaching for the phone. “Just let me finish talking to her-“

“Ah.” Dean raised the phone over his head. “No, you gotta tell me what she thinks I am.”

She sighed. “Dean, just- Give me my phone-“

“Did she call me a fuck toy again? ‘Cause- I feed you too-“

“And you’re not even fucking me,” She grumbled.

They both froze. Dean’s brows shot up. She flushed, mouth hanging open and panicked eyes flitting to Dean’s, then away. He dragged his face down to cup her neck, keeping Her against him before she could dive under the water and use the bubbles as a guard. Dean’s grin hurt his face. He didn’t care what Rowena called him anymore. Couldn’t possibly matter, when he had this at his feet.

“You got something you wanna tell me, sweetheart?”

“I- Um-“ She took a deep breath, avoiding Dean’s gaze. “Don’t- Stop looking at me like that-“

“I’m not lookin’ at you like anything,” Dean purred, and She dropped Her pretty face straight into his thigh. “You’re the one getting bratty because I’m not fuckin’ her.”

She hit his leg, but it was clawness and soft. Dean laughed, leaning down to kiss the top of Her head.

“Finish your bath, baby,” he murmured. “Call me if you need something.”

She grumbled something low and probably mean, but Her angry face was too cute for Dean to care. He dragged himself out of there with long, heavy steps. There seemed to always be a rubber band tied to his legs, when he tried to get away from Her, even for a few minutes. If he didn’t close that door without looking back, he would’ve just seen Her flushed and ethereal in the bathtub and snapped right back to Her side.

Dean didn’t even know where the hell he’d gotten the willpower to get that far away in the first place. His jeans were painfully tight, and his hands were getting cold just adjusting his jeans and holding Her phone. He’d toss it up to Sammy, and Rowena. That came first. She’d want it to come first. If she didn’t have that sleep-addled, drunken look in Her eyes.

Rowena had, apparently, called Dean Her idiotic man-servant. He’d been called worse, and at least Rowena wasn’t saying it behind his back.

“I am not speaking to the man-servant,” Rowena said, the moment Dean called her. “Where is your boss, boy.”

“Probably getting mad at some bubbles,” Dean shrugged, glancing at the bathroom door. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, Rowena.”

“Why would I do that-“

“’Cause it’s my baby brother who’s missing. And if you don’t tell me where the hell he is,” Dean paused, reaching for his gun on the bedside table, turning it over in his hand. “Well. Let’s just call it that you should tell me where he is.”

Rowena sighed. “You know, I like you better when you’re a pretty slab of meat that knows his place.”

“I like me better when I get to be a slab of meat,” Dean grunted. “Talk.”

Sammy was with Crowley. Rowena told a real long, pointless story about finding a demon and tying him to a bed to get the information. Dean was pretty sure they fucked after, from the way Rowena kept wistfully sighing. He added it to the list of reasons he was grateful for not eating today.

“You got a way into hell?” He made the mistake of asking, and Rowena did—of course she did—but it involved a gargoyle she’d also definitely fucked, and Dean was getting worried his stomach was going to create food just so he could throw it up.

He wondered if Rowena was this explicit with Her as well. He couldn’t imagine that she was. Rowena seemed to know that, for all Her skills, she was on wobbling legs when it came to sex. 

“Are you taking care of her?” Rowena demanded after they set up a plan, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah.” Of course he was. He’d pull out a fucking rib if She needed to make it a hairbrush. “She’s just in the bath.”

“Hm.” Rowena sniffed. “You know, she adores you. Pathetically. I tried to cut it out of her, when she was with me, but-“ She sighed. “It’s a cancer.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Oh, be proud, you twat.” Rowena snapped. “I haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

Dean supposed she hadn’t. He thought about telling Rowena she really didn’t have to bother with that, because if Dean ever slacked on Her, it was because he was already dead. But the door to the bathroom creaked open, and She poked her head out with those wide, pretty eyes. She was wrapped in a towel and flushed. Dean cleared his throat, and sat up at attention.

“See you in the morning,” he said into the phone, and hung up before Rowena could insult him and his boyfriending skills again.

His girl seemed into them. And that was all that really mattered.

Dean reached out a hand, and She shuffled over to his side. He pulled Her between his legs, grabbing Her waist with a grin. She ran Her fingers through his hair, glancing between him and Her phone, tossed off to the side.

“What-“

“Hell.”

Her eyes flashed. All the colors in the room went sharp. “What?”

“Crowley’s got him,” Dean sighed. “In Hell. We’re going in the morning.”

“In the-“ She shook her head, pushing back on Dean’s shoulders. “No, we- We need to go now-“

“That’s- Princess-“

“He could be in danger, he could be hurt, he- He could be- Crowley could’ve given him to the Leviathans, and- And-“ She pushed harder, head whipping around the room like a caged animal looking for an our. “Dean, let me go-“

“Not until you breathe-“

“I am breathing- Sam’s in danger-“

“I know, I-“ Dean said Her name firmly, pulling Her tighter against his chest. He ducked Her hand, grabbing it and squeezing it three times.

“Dean-“

“I know,” he said, reaching up to cup her face. “I know Sammy needs our help. You know that no one knows better than me, baby.” He gave Her a stern look. “Right?”

Her throat bobbed, but She nodded. Dean sighed, and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“We need Rowena to get through the doors without, you know.” He gave Her a tight smile. “Dyin’.”

She still didn’t speak. Dean wrapped an arm around Her waist, pulling her right up against him. He rested his chin on Her chest, holding Her gaze. The color was still pouring off of Her. He wondered if this was what astronauts felt like, when they got to see all the glory of the universe. If they felt like the stars would scatter, if they swiped their hand through the dark.

Dean felt like the stars would gather, under his fingers. They seemed to be, the longer he stared at Her. There seemed to be a black light, almost emitting off her body. Her nails were digging into his biceps and the whole roomed smelled like honey and Her apples. Dean let out a slow breath, his smile heavy on his face, but it was a dragging weight he was happy to carry. Someone needed to. If he dropped the joy behind them, no one else was going to pick it back up.

“We’re gonna get him,” Dean murmured. “Swear it.”

She swallowed and offered Dean her pinky. He took without breaking Her gaze, and shook it tight before kissing the back of Her hand.

She knocked out fast, that night. Dean didn’t. He lay next to her, watching the light of the street shift over her face and counting Her every breath. When he closed his eyes, he got worried She’d vanish by morning. And if he lost both of them…

It was better not to think about it. The last time that happened, he’d dove into the deep end and almost drowned in the currents. He couldn’t afford to do that again. There were people who needed him to be steady. With Bobby gone, he was the only one who could keep his feet firmly planted in the ground.

He sighed, and pressed his face into Her neck. She sighed in Her sleep and curled over him. Dean swallowed, his lips grazing soft skin, and clung around Her stomach. Warm and soft and relaxed. Her heartbeat was even. When he dragged over Her spine, she let out a breathy sound that could’ve been his name, and he smiled.

At least he had this. He really, fully had this.

Charlie and Adam had shared an adjoined room last night. Dean got them up at the crack of dawn with a loud knock, and blocked Charlie’s thrown pillow without looking. They both blinked at him, bleary eyed and grumpy, and he gave them the rundown fast. There were going to be questions. He’d try and push through them fast, before the ride showed up.

“I- I want to go to hell!” Charlie protested, and Dean sighed.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do-“

“Hell smells bad,” he said, and Charlie paused.

“Like, really bad? Like- Stinky shoes bad, or- Or dead body bad?”

Dean shrugged. “Whatever’s worse to you.” He looked to Adam, jerking his head at Charlie. “She’s hitching the angel-mobile back to America. You wanna do the same, you better be ready to listen to everything Jo tells you.”

Adam nodded, then paused. “Um- Who’s Jo?”

“Blonde chick. Mean, and your boss for the next- Uh,” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “Forever.”

“Forever?” Adam gaped, and Dean shrugged.

“Or until you run out. Just-“ He pulled the bone out of his jacket, waving it in the air.

It was smaller than he’d been ready for. Whiter than pearl and dull on all the edges from years under the water. They’d sharpen it, after they got all that blood and oil and fluid. It was going to be a fun few weeks.

“Take this,” he tossed it to Charlie, who caught it with frantic hands. “You don’t let anyone touch it but Jo and Kevin, you got that? You don’t leave it alone in a room, you don’t take it out of the house, you don’t even touch it unless you think someone else is tryin’ to grab it first. You lose it or break it or anything, you’re diving back down to get another one. Got it?”

He glared between them. Charlie nodded quickly, staring down at the bone with a nervous awe. Adam stared at Dean. 

The kid said he was going back with them. That those British assholes didn’t forgive easy, and he’d be better off just shooting himself or jumping into the ocean than going back. The nice one—Rick, or Mike, Dean couldn’t remember—might have a chance, but he’d grown up in their little club. Adam was a rookie. They’d  cut him off and not think twice.

Dean was worried they were starting a home for wayward losers. Bobby would’ve complained about the grocery cost going up, and asked Her to stop bringing home all her strays. She would’ve said that if they went, she went too, and Bobby would’ve grumbled and given in. Dean was wearing those shoes now. They were a size too big. He was worried he would trip and wipe out and not be able to get back up.

“Did you tell him he’s welcome with us?” She asked him when he walked back to their room, and Dean sighed.

She was sitting cross legged on the bed, reading while they waited. Dean had planned to let Her sleep until Rowena got here. She’d been up with the sun.

“Yeah, but- We’re running outta rooms, Princess.”

“The house is big-“

“Big doesn’t mean Bed and Breakfast.”

She hummed, not looking up from her book. “Okay.”

Dean paused. “Okay?”

“Mhm.” She looked up at him, brows raised causally. “Who are you kicking out?”

Dean blinked. She tilted Her head, hair falling over her eyes, and brushed it away. Dean sighed, running a hand over his face, and shook his head.

“You think you’re funny,” he muttered, and Her lips twitched.

“I think,” She looked back to her book. “That I’m right.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you not think I’m right?”

Dean snorted, crossing the room in a single stride. He took Her face between his hands, thumbs tracing over Her cheekbones, and felt her damn flush under his palms. He waited for Her to look at him. She didn’t cave easy. She stared at the pages, flipping them a little too fast to be actually reading them. Dean drawled Her name, and pretty eyes fluttered. She still didn’t move.

“I think you’re sweet,” he said, dropping his voices so only she’d hear. “And you’re lucky you’re sweet, or I’d argue more.”

She hummed. “You can argue with me whenever you want, Winchester.”

“Nah,” he kissed Her brow. “I don’t like losing.”

A smile ghosted over Her lips. When Dean guided Her face up, she didn’t fight it. He brushed a featherlight kiss over Her lips, and when he leaned back, She was watching him with glossy eyes.

“We’re alright,” he muttered, pressing his brow over her’s. “I’ve got it.”

That little wrinkle pressed into Her brow. Dean soothed it with his thumb, and kissed Her one more time before moving to his feet. He knew She was worried about it. All of it. He could almost see it bubbling under Her skin and in those bright eyes, ready to flare. Ready to explode.

Which was why Dean had to handle this. He might not have Her on a leash—that wouldn’t be possible if he wanted to try—but he knew how to smooth out the wrinkles before they bunched so tight they crumpled. Because when She crumpled, it wouldn’t be like a piece of flimsy paper. It would be a coil, springing up and exploding. A tsunami, waveless and quiet until it wasn’t.

So Dean handled it, and he did it well. Cas popped into the motel room, and Dean gave him the rundown.

“Sam’s in hell, we gotta get him back so- You, me, and Bambi,” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, back to where She was waiting on the bed. “We’re heading down to the pit to get him. You bring those two home, then you come back. Got it?”

Cas nodded. Dean looked him up and down, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

“Tell me what you’re doing, buddy.”

“The pups go back to the nest,” Cas said plainly. “I follow the earth back around the sun, until we return to proper orbit, the sun settles, and the sunflowers stop facing north.”

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and waved his hand. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Charlie gave him a hug, before she left. Dean hugged her back, and muttered an apology about not bringing her to hell. It wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. They’d probably wade through an acid swamp to get to an ugly fortress or something. He’d tell her all about it, when they got back. That seemed enough to satisfy the little gremlin’s curiosity, and she went with Cas without a fight.

Dean and Adam stood in awkward silence, until Cas popped back in. Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to say. What the hell they could even talk about. They’d had one nice moment in the catacombs, but the glare of reality had been dimmer. Last time he’d been alone with Adam, he’d punched the kid’s lights out. He’d been ready to take the fucking shot. Adam shifted on his feet, pressed on the opposite end of the room, and they both remembered. Dean didn’t want to break the silence, even as is rubbed over his skin like something scratchy and hot.

He glanced back to their room. She was peering at them through the crack in the door, and Dean gave her an amused look. She flushed, but narrowed Her eyes. He sighed, worked his jaw, and looked  back to Adam. 

“You did good.”

Adam blinked, glancing around the room, then back to Dean. “Me?”

Dean grunted. Who the hell else. “Yep.”

“Oh- Um, yeah.” Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “You- You too. You did great.”

Dean nodded, standing a little taller. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. “Stick around. Sammy’ll wanna see you.”

Adam swallowed, and nodded quickly. Dean didn’t know if that was true or not. For all he knew, Sam hadn’t really been thinking about Adam at all. But he walked back into their room—after an awkward handshake with Adam, and Cas wooshing him away—and found Her smiling at him. He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t-“

“You’re a good brother.”

Dean snorted. “I kicked him out on his ass, Princess, that’s not-“ He cut himself off, shaking his head tight.

That was something Dad would’ve done. It sat like a boulder in his stomach, pressing that pit open every time it threatened to close. Every time he got close to thinking maybe, maybe, his hands were good at just the size they were. That maybe he was alright, without all those soft places in his chest being barbed and painted in white-hot lead.

They’d been like that when he got out of hell, and She hadn’t been there. They’d been like that when She and Sammy fell in the cage, and it had just been Dean and the dark. When he sharpened himself and pressed the parts into each other, they made a flickering, harsh kind of light that let him see. It was artificial and cold and just enough to keep him from collapsing on the ground without giving up.

Then She’d come back. Dean would be made of spit and balled fists and Her light would cleave through it all. He’d melt under it. He’d see the sun and remember why he’d always hated the cold. Dean became a tree in the thaw of winter, bare bones and daggered branches turning green. Coming alive.

She reached up, grabbing his arm with a light touch. Dean held Her there, and let out a long, slow breath.

“Don’t clench your jaw,” she murmured. “It gives you a headache.”

And Dean smiled.

Rowena didn’t waste time, when she showed up. Smart choice. That was how you got stabbed.

“Did you bring gold?” She asked, looking at them down the bridge of her nose, and She frowned.

“No? I- Why would we have brought gold?”

“To go to Hell, dearie,” Rowena drawled. “It’s hell. They have a tollbooth.”

“I- We didn’t know we were going to hell-“

“Well, that will teach you to be better prepared.” Rowena looked around the group, then sighed. “You’ll owe me, if I’m paying for the braindead angel and folk boy to ride with us.”

She rolled Her eyes, spinning the Blade in her hands. “I don’t owe you anything. Let’s go.”

Rowena scowled, looking at Dean like he was supposed to do something about that. He wasn’t going to. If She wanted to be mean, she was allowed to be as mean as she wanted. If anything, it was a beam of sunlight, poking through the thick clouds of empty eyes and tears.

“I will turn you into a hamster, boy,” she hissed, while She and Cas were talking in the other room.

Dean smirked, shrugging casually. “Good luck with that, grandma.”

“Grandma-“

“Dean?” She called. “Can you grab my shoes?”

Dean ran away from Rowena. He really didn’t want to be a hamster.

Getting into hell was worryingly easy. They just needed an empty road and matchstick, and some black-eyed son of a bitch took the gold and gave them a path down. Dean was worried it was going to a walk—he could walk, but Rowena liked to move at the pace of a slug and they were kind of on a timer—but hell had a rental car business. They had a fucking Mustang.

“Order of the new King,” the demon grumbled. “We’ve been behind on the times, or something. Why we’re takin’ gold, to pay,” the demons lips curled. “Humans. To build.” He sighed. “  We have a McDonalds now, too.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathed. “Princess, can we come down here more-“

“No.” 

“Yeah, right. ‘Course not, just- Y’know.” He laughed, running his hand over the sleek metal. “Joking.”

She hummed, leaning against the hood of the car with Her arms crossed. If Sammy wasn’t still missing, Dean would think he was having a wet dream. “You want us to leave you two alone?” She teased, and Dean grinned.

“If I’m being left alone, it ain’t because of shit I’m gonna do to the car.”

He winked. She flushed and rolled Her eyes, but Dean knew that huff. She could stomp over to the door all She wanted. He could almost smell his favorite place in the world, getting wet and sore.

“You remember last time we got the car to ourselves,” he murmured, walking up behind Her. “You almost makin’ me crash it, me tossin’ you over the seats and showing you why I like to keep both my babies clean?”

He nipped at Her neck, and She grabbed his wrist. “Dean,” she glanced back, to where Rowena was intimidating the demon salesman. “You- We can’t-“

“Not here, no.” He kissed Her throat, rubbing her sides. “But, y’know. How long is it gonna take Kevin to get us another lead, after we grab Sammy?” Dean teased his hand under Her shirt. Her breath hitched. “Lotta time for some lessons. Some chances to get nice and messy.”

She looked up at him with those damn eyes, and Dean grinned. He kissed Her upper lip, then moved away. He had to get in the drivers seat, before he gave up and just bent Her over the hood of the car.

“I hate you,” She grumbled, sliding into shotgun, and Dean chuckled.

“Sure, Princess.” He squeezed Her thigh, then started the engine. She slumped in the seat, glaring at the long, tar-paved road down to hell.

Dean whistled, glancing back at Cas in the rearview.

“Literally highway to hell, huh?”

Cas shrugged. “Water flows downhill unless turned to steam.”

Dean snorted. “Right. ‘Course it does.” 

They took off. Rowena sat stiffly in the back, refusing to speak. Cas made fun little comments every mile or so about the snakes being covered in oil and the diamond still being a rock. Dean nodded along and entertained it. She leaned into his side after about ten minutes, then tugged on his shirt after fifteen.

“I don’t hate you,” she mumbled, and Dean chuckled.

He worried about a lot of stuff. He felt small in all the wrong places some nights, and he still tested his grip when She seemed to be getting slippery. The pit stretched open, when the tension over all his muscles—always wound up tight and pressing down everything he needed to cling onto—got to tight.

But he didn’t doubt that anymore. If She hated him, she’d leave. She was a lot of things. They both were. But for all Her running, Dean could at least know that She wouldn’t stich herself to him if She didn’t really damn mean it.

So he wove their fingers together, and squeezed three times. They were getting Sammy. Everything was going to be just fine.

Dean felt a little bad. Hell was not a swamp and Crowley’s place was pretty far from a brutalist fortress. There were forests, and rushing rivers that gleamed pure white. Flowers bloomed on fields with deep green grass. Pale red clouds floated on a permanently dark sky. It almost seemed like everything was made of plastic, but when Dean poked tall weed with his foot, it swayed in a chilling breeze, and diamond dust glitter fell off the leaves.

Dean leaped back. “What the fuck-“

“Don’t breathe that, De.” She grab his arm back from the plant.

“I wasn’t gonna-“

“You were standing too close-“

“I was close to me,” Dean grumbled, glancing back to the glitter. “Uh- What was it?”

“Seraph tongue,” she said. “They have it in Heaven, too. It’s an aphrodisiac.” She sighed at Dean’s confused expression. “Magic Viagra.”

“Oh.” Dean blinked, then smirked. “Oh-“

“No.” She pointed a stern finger, then spun on her heels, marching back to Rowena’s side. Dean laughed, then followed.

It was shockingly easy to get into Crowley’s castle. It was a tall, gothic thing, right down to stained glass windows of snakes and apples and pale trees. Dean craned his neck, but he couldn’t see the scrape of the highest tower against the sky. He whistled, glancing at Cas next to him.

“The hell does- Well,” he coughed. “Hell need with a freakin’  fairytale castle?”

“Falling stars resided in the sky before the met the dirt,” Cas said, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah. I guess that’s true.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’re tellin’ me Lucifer drew this place up?”

“No,” Cas gave him a flat look. “He never had a steady hand.”

Dean wasn’t able to get that one himself. He’d ask Her to translate, but there were other things to deal with. They barely made it across the wrought iron bridge before demons were dropping in front of them, black eyed and-

“Are those fuckin’ wings-“

“Don’t be rude,” She whacked Dean’s arm, throwing the demons a polite smile. “I’m sorry. He’s never been to hell before.”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, and threw the demons a winning, apologetic smile. He’d been to Hell before. But apparently the freaking slums, because his neck of the woods had been all blood rivers and  echoing screams and wingless assholes. He would’ve cut off his hand to hitch a ride over to the rich side of town.

The demons already weren’t glaring. They’d barely even spared Dean, Cas, and Rowena a look. Apparently being a Winchester, angle, and the mother of the king didn’t count for much, when you were standing behind Her.

“We’d like to speak to Crowley, please,” She said. The demons stared at Her, mouths hanging open and wings flopping behind them. Dean was wondering if they were gonna fall to their knees or something.

She cleared Her throat, stomping her foot once. The iron seemed to glow out from where her heel met the ground, like light had been poured into the metal. The demons stumbled back, exchanged a quick look, and glanced at the sky.

“The- The King-“ One of them cleared her throat. “He is occupied-“

“Good,” She shrugged. “He’ll be glad that I’m relieving him from his work.”

She started forwards, and the demons moved out of the way like waves being parted. Dean glanced at Rowena—who was watching Her with a proud smiled—and jerked his head. Rowena sighed and rolled her eyes, but walked after Her. Dean grabbed Cas’ arm and dragged him with them, giving the demons awkward nods as they passed.

Crowley really needed to hire better security. That was the only resistance they met, on the whole way to the throne room. They even had a few demons point them in the right direction. Dean couldn’t really blame anyone, though. She was a damn force, marching through the halls on a war path. With all the light and color Dean could see—with his little, beady human eyes—he imagined that to a demon she seemed like a descending wall of rainbow wildfire. Flowers weren’t blooming behind Her, but old, frayed tapestries on the wall were regaining color, and a few had water pour out of the fabric and roses bloom from woven hands.

Dean paused at the sight of one. He’d seen this one before. The girl in the flowers, hair around Her like a halo, little, firefly-like lights over her body as the earth seemed to grow and bloom around her. He couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before, but he knew he’d thought the same thing as last time.

Her. It was Her. It was always Her, and the longer Dean looked, the clearer it got. When he lingered, She seemed to be crying, and his chest tightened. Her nails weren’t painted, but blooming with roses. Small creatures gathered on the edge of the woods, watching Her as she lay. Under her, the dirt got thick and rich. A sunbeam was splitting through an invisible sky, but she seemed to be trying to bury herself from the warmth.

And Dean squinted. There was a knife curled in her one of her hands, hidden lush grass and overgrown flowers. His gaze dragged up, and in the thick of the woods, he could make out something, something like a figure-

“Dean!” She called and he forced himself away. It was just a tapestry.

Just a tapestry.

Crowley was waiting for them, lounging on a pretty boring and ugly throne, holding a goblet like some old-timey, cartoon evil king. He beamed at the sight of Her. Most people did.

“Hello, love-“

“Shup up,” She snapped, pointing Her blade at his throat. “Where the fuck is Sam.”

Crowley smiled, raising his hands in a mockery of surrender. He looked around their little group, smiling until he saw Rowena. Dean figured that was also a pretty universal norm.

“You,” Crowley sneered. “You dare show your face in my kingdom, you Whore?”

His voice echoed off the walls. Rowena didn’t even flinch. “Oh, please. You cannot scare me, Fergus. You know that temper tantrums aren’t how we get what we want.”

“That’s- You-“ Crowley spat, pointing his free hand at Rowena. “Dispose of her, now-“

The demons started down Crowley’s little dais. They didn’t make it past Her.

“You dispose of her,” She said lowly. “I turn you into nothing.”

Crowley sighed dramatically. “Fucking- You come into my house, and you bring my- my harlot of a mother, and you won’t even let me kill her?”

“You kidnapped Sam,” Dean growled, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I did not kidnap him. I bought him. For quiet a lot actually, so- You should be thanking me-“

“Thanking you-“

“Yes, thanking me!” Crowley rolled his eyes, slumping in his chair. “I spent the moon on that little boy prince, and- None of you seem to appreciate that. Even Moose kept telling me I didn’t own the moon to spend it, which,” Crowley laughed. “Just shows you his lack of killer instinct, I supposed. Azazel was right. He would not have made a good lawyer.”

“That-“ Dean ran a hand over his face. “I don’t even know what the fuck you want me to say to that-“

“That you’ll get your snarling kitten in line and let me kill the bitch?” Crowly said, and Dean gave him a flat glare.

“Look, I’m all for killing Rowena-“

“Dean-“

“But,” he added quickly, throwing Her a quick smile. “We’re just here to grab Sammy. Sorry about your net loss with the moon, but we’re takin’ him, or I’m letting the kitten loose.”

She glared at him, and Dean gave Her an apologetic, sheepish smile.

“I said I’d let you loose, baby-“

“You called me a kitten,” She hissed, and Dean threw Crowley a look.

“You see? You don’t wanna piss her off.”

Crowley looked between them with thin lips, brow knit. Dean wasn’t that worried. These weren’t Leviathans or angels. She could probably conquer Hell like a hotter, sexier Gengis Khan if she wanted.

“Do you like my castle?” Crowley said suddenly, and Dean blinked.

“Do we… like your castle?”

Crowley nodded. “I’ve made renovations, in the past few years. Lilith wasn’t very aesthetically oriented, and well- She was rather devoted to Lucifer. Half the place was in ruins, due to historical preservation. And I never had a real home of my home,” Crowley shot Rowena a glare, and she scoffed.

“Don’t  be a child, we had a lovely shack that you were never grateful for-“

“But,” Crowley raised his voice over Rowena’s “This place is mine. Do you like. It.”

“It’s, uh-“ Dean glanced around the spare, large throne room. “Clean.”

Crowley hummed. “It is, isn’t it. Sam’s quarters are more decorated, I promise. The throne room just takes time, to get it just right.”

She and Dean exchanged sharp looks. She stood a little taller. “Sam- Where-“

“He’s been given his own little space. He’s a valuable guest, and prime bait.” Crowley smirked at them, and Dean swallowed.

“Bait…” He muttered, taking a half step in front of Her. “You- You knew we’d come for him-“

“Of course I knew you’d come for him,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “That’s what you people do for each other. One of the young ones gets kidnapped,” he waved a hand at Her. “Then daddy comes to grab them and get them home. You really should put trackers on your pets, Squirrel, it’s getting disgustingly easy.”

Dean scowled, his hands balling into fists. It was moments like that, that he really wished he hadn’t lost Excalibur or the Colt. “Where the hell is Sammy.”

Crowley grinned. “I’m so glad you asked. He’s been taken care of. I’m actually rather fond of all of you. That’s why you’re still alive. Except you, mother.” He shot Rowena a glare. “You’re alive because we’re not near my scorpion pit, and I don’t think you’re worth a body bag.”

Rowena gave him an unimpressed look, but still made Cas walk in front of her and Dean behind her as Crowley led them to Sam. He was, just as Crowley had promised, in his own quarters. It was like walking into a damn luxury hotel. The kind of shit Dean only saw on TV, that he used to think was exaggerated, because there was no way there were such perfect places in the world. Flat screen TV, stereo, mini bar, a freakin’ massive bathtub- ‘

“Dean, stop playing with the fridge.” Sam sighed from the bed, and Dean flipped him off.

“It gives you whatever the hell you want, like- Like freakin’ magic-“

“That’s because it is magic.”

Dean shot Sam a glare. “We came to rescue you, bitch-“

“Yeah, and you’re doing a really good job of it, jerk-“

“Well, I’d like to see you do better-“

“Dean.” She gave him a stern look, and Dean sighed. Sam stuck his tongue out, behind Her back. Dean glowered hard enough for Sam to feel it.

It was annoying, when Sam was right. This was not the heroic rescue Dean had pictured.

“Squirrel here is bound to this room,” Crowley drawled smugly. “Show them.”

Sam sighed, and raised his hand. There was a black band around his wrist, and She grabbed his forearm. Sam whined Her name, and she let go with a mumbled apology.

“This is just a location binding spell,” She said slowly, and Crowley cleared his throat.

“Yes, but breaking it might hurt our lovely Sammy. And I don’t think he has much in him left to break.”

Sam bowed his head, and Dean glared at Crowley.

“Fine. You got us here. What the hell do you want.”

Crowley beamed. “Oh, I don’t want anything. But Eve,” he shrugged. “She’ll be here in a week. And she’s the one who you’ll be negotiating with. I’m just-“ He waved a hand. “The charm and pretty face.”

A week. For once they weren’t on a timer, but Dean still didn’t like it. A week in hell to free his brother sounded like something out of a bad Disney movie. They even got their own quarters, with their own soda machine, and Dean sat on the edge of the bed in protest, his hands clasped between his legs.

“I don’t trust it,” he muttered Her name, watching her move around the room. “It’s like that one movie, with David Bowie and the Muppets-“

“Labyrinth?”

“Yeah, that one-“

“I love that movie,” She murmured, and Dean sighed.

“I know you do, sweetheart, but-“

“This isn’t like Labyrinth.” She frowned at him, leaning back against the dresser. “We’re already in the castle. Jenny has to get to the castle.”

Dean paused. “Who the hell is Jenny.”

“The girl in the Labyrinth.” She tilted Her head. “And David Bowie is trying to marry Jenny. He’s not trying to marry us, De-“

“That you think. He could be tryin’ to marry you.”

She sniffed, crossing Her arms. “Or he’s trying to marry you-“

“He’s not trying to marry me-“

“Well why does he have to marry me-“

“He’s not gonna marry you, Princess, just-“ Dean ran a hand over his face. “Forget about the movie, alright?” He reached out, beckoning her forward. “C’mere.”

She wrinkled Her nose, but shuffled between Dean’s legs. He held Her lower back, looking up at Her with a tight jaw. She traced the line of it, and he let out a long breath through his nose.

“I just don’t trust it,” he muttered. “Crowley, Eve, Sammy bein’ bait for us- I don’t like it.”

“I know,” she whispered, giving him a sad smile. “But- We play the game. Then we win, right? And we go home.”

Dean swallowed. He wasn’t sure. They hadn’t been winning much lately, and whenever they did, it felt like their luck was just a few cards away from running out.

“Yeah,” he muttered, pressing his face into Her chest. “Then we go home.”

The first night passed, and Dean stared at Her, and the ceiling. Crowley had given them silken, embroidered pajamas. Dean had opted for his boxers, and he wasn’t getting any complaints. She’d crawled over him in bed with an adorably flushed face, then curled in his arms like deadweight blankets. Dean ran his fingers through Her hair and watched the shadows move over the ceiling. Hell didn’t have a sun, but She said it had strange kinds of moons that took light breaking in from the outer edges and cast it around. Dean asked Her if anyone had named the moons. She said there were thousands of them, and no one in Hell really cared about documentation of celestial bodies. He only knew it was morning because someone rang a bell. The sound pounded through his skull, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Jesus, fuckin’- You’d think we were living in the medieval ages,” he groaned. “Hasn’t anyone heard of a freakin’ alarm clock?”

She giggled against him, lips grazing under his jaw. “Crowley’s from the medieval ages. Maybe it’s nostalgic.”

Dean grunted. “Well, if I was the king of hell I wouldn’t waste time tryin’ to recreate a shit childhood. If I bothered, we’d be waking up to a gunshot.”

She got quiet. She did that sometimes, when Dean talked about Dad. He leaned back to get a good look at Her, and she was pouting at his tattoo.

He murmured Her name, tracing Her upper arm. “I’m fine now-“

“I know.”

She didn’t say anything else. Dean sighed, and kissed the top of Her head. She hugged him tighter. He didn’t bother to tell himself he didn’t need it. That pit closed up again, over grown with honeysuckle and sweet, flowering oranges. Dean might be hungry.

“You want some breakfast, baby?” She nodded, but didn’t move. Dean didn’t try to make Her. He’d lie here all day, if he was allowed.

“I don’t like him,” She muttered, after ten minutes, or maybe an hour, of lying in bed. “I- I fucking hated him. I hate him now.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah. I’m not-“ He sighed, closing his eyes.

He still couldn’t say it. Every time he tried it was like something was pressing down on his tongue, threatening to cut it off. He’d think the words and flinch, ready for the blow to come. And a small part of him that still looked down at Sammy and over examined Her every glance whispered he did his best. You weren’t easy. Weren’t useful, ‘till he made you. Not much, until you got a gun in your hands.

She looked at him like he was a lot. Held him like She was just as scared to let go. And Dean still couldn’t say it. But he took a deep breath, watched Her under lidded eyes, and tried.

“He didn’t like you,” he murmured, and Her brow knit tight. “But I do. And you know what I woulda done. If- If he’d given me the choice.”

Dean ran his thumb down Her nose, and her gaze softened. She glanced at Dean’s lips, then met his gaze. He chuckled and kissed Her. And he still didn’t trust this, but Christ, compared to weeks in motels and hovels, running from crazy or watching Her waste away in ghostless house that was haunted, this might as well be a freakin’ vacation.

There were some small payments, but nothing good came free. Rowena wasn’t allowed to leave her quarters, because—in Crowley’s words—she was an untrusting, sticky-fingered whore. Sammy wasn’t in the best shape, but that was kinda always the case. Crowley made them eat with him all the time. By dinner on the first day, Dean thought Eve wasn’t actually coming, and Crowley just wanted some damn friends.

“You got no one else to ea’ with?” He snapped with a mouthful of turkey, and She hit his thigh under the table. “What? We’re the only feeple a’ dinna-“

“Chew,” She hissed, and Dean rolled his eyes.

He chewed and swallowed dramatically, then opened Her mouth for her to examine. She made a face, pushing his away with a flat hand, and Dean laughed.

“Did you find them in a barn,” Crowley drawled Her name, and Sam frowned.

“I’m being polite, Dean’s the one who’s a- A freakin’ dog-“

“Dogs are trained, Moose,” Crowley sniffed. “And you are using the wrong salad fork.”

“But-“ Sam glanced down at his food. “There isn’t a salad…”

He looked at Her, and she gave him an apologetic smile. “Yeah, but- You are using the wrong fork.”

Sammy sighed, and leaned over his plate with a sigh. They separated after dinner. They’d meet up again in the morning for another, weird breakfast.

“I’m not crazy, right?” He asked Her, pulling on his socks. “Crowley trying to wine and dine us, it’s freakin’ weird.”

She hummed, smiling at him from the mirror. “Maybe he really is trying to marry us.”

Dean snorted. “No. It’s more- I don’t know. I’m gettin’ romance book vibes. But a bad one. An airport read.”

“Hm,” Her lips twitched. “How would you know what an airport read is?”

Dean scowled, glaring at Her through the mirror, and She giggled. He walked up behind Her, tracing her sides with light, teasing fingers and kissing over her shoulder.

“Maybe he’s just trying to sleep with us?” She said, and Dean hummed, making out with that soft spot on Her throat.

“He ain’t tryin’ to sleep with us-“

“He’s just trying to sleep with you- Dean!”

He poked Her underarm and she squealed, shoving him back. Dean caught Her with an arm around her stomach, stealing fast kisses all over Her face.

“She’s got jokes,” he muttered, nipping at Her nose. “Dishes it but won’t take it, huh?”

She shoved his chest, and Dean knew that flustered, breathy voice too well. Went straight do his damn cock.

“I hope he gives you a bad blowjob,” she grumbled, turning back to the mirror, and Dean chuckled.

“If anyone’s givin’ me bad head, it’s gonna be you, sweetheart.” He paused, watching the slight waver in Her expression. “Or- Good head. You’re the only one giving me head. Not sticking it anywhere that’s not you, or- Somewhere you tell me to stick it. Your joystick. That’s-“ He cleared his throat. “I’m gonna stop talking.”

“Good call,” She whispered, and Dean nodded, pressing a kiss to Her cheek.

He took a cold shower. Breakfast was slowly, but Crowley said sausage twenty times, about they exchanged looks until She broke down in giggles. Everyone else seemed confused except for Cas, who announced to the whole table that Dean’s progeny were in the pipes of the castle.

“Dude,” he muttered after breakfast. “Why did you fuckin’ know that, do you have like- A freakin’ radar on my sperm? On everyone’s sperm?”

Cas shook his head. “Just yours.”

“I- Why?”

Cas said Her name. “She ordered me to keep you safe.”

“She-“ Dean rubbed his jaw. “She told you that like- Forever ago-“

“Commandments do not erode with the sand they are written on, Dean-“

“And,” he snapped. “She didn’t mean all of me! Not- That part!”

Cas frowned, and Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t getting it at all.

“Where’s my sperm, right now.”

“Much of it has been scattered through waste plants, or bodies of water.” Cas frowned at the air. Dean didn’t love that this was the most lucid he’d been since Purgatory. “A large amount was put inside-“

“Alright!” Dean shouted, marching back into Sam’s room. “That’s- I think that’s good!”

She and Sammy were sitting on then ground, playing cards. They looked up when Dean stormed in, Cas shuffling behind him, both wearing curious expressions. Dean marched over to Her side, grabbing her face and pressing a quick, rough kiss to Her lips.

“Good news,” he muttered. “Cas knows whenever we have sex.”

Sam choked on nothing, and Dean got shoved for that one. Cas got a talk about inside thoughts. Dean didn’t think it was going to take.

He left the dork squad to their card games and conversations about Hell’s Geography so he could sneak around the castle. The place was fucking huge, but She attracted attention everywhere—shining like a damn lighthouse in a storm—and Crowley was keeping too tight tabs on Sammy and Rowena, so Dean was in solo spy mode. He’d said he was Bond. She said he could call it whatever he wanted, as long as he was careful.

The goal was to find something about the Leviathans and Eve were aiming for. Crowley had to have some clue, working with both of them. Dean wasn’t finding jack shit, but that didn’t stop his nerds from speculating. Sam’s theory was death for death’s sake. She wasn’t so sure.

“God seems really worried about them,” She murmured, shuffling the cards. “He made me another offer, which he only does when he’s desperate-“

“Hold up,” Dean grunted. “God what.”

She froze, mouth hanging open, and Sam sighed Her name.

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Didn’t tell me what,” Dean pushed the words through his teeth, and She sighed.

“I- I was going to, De, I promise, I just-“

“You didn’t,” Sam muttered, and She hit his arm.

“You got kidnapped, dickbutt. I was worried about you.”

“Excuses- Ow!”

Sam whined, rubbing the back of his neck. Dean said Her name, stalking over to glare down at Her. He got that sweet smile and those fluttering eyes, but he’d been ready for that. He raised his brows, bracing himself for the pout. She sighed, and flopped flat on Her back.

“God visited me,” She mumbled. “When we were with the Men of Letters. He- He offered to fix everything. To bring- Bring Bobby back. And get everyone out, and give you guys the weapon, and make sure you lead good lives. He said you could visit me-“

“Visit you.” Dean snapped, and She swallowed.

“He asked again,” She mumbled, rubbing the scar on her palm. “But- I said no! I told him no, De- I- I did.” She swallowed. Dean could see Her nails, pressing into her skin. “I promise.”

Dean believed Her. For this, it wasn’t a hard thing to do. But he had to take a deep breath. He sat back down, pressing his face into his hands, and tried to unclench his jaw. A light hand rested on his knee, and he took it. He wasn’t pissed. Not at Her.

But there was this asshole out there, who wanted to take his girl. Who made Her cry and bothered her and promised to give Bobby back after helping kill him. Dean rarely bothered with what ifs. They didn’t do much but make his chest ache, because yeah, what if Dad hadn’t made him leave all those years ago. What if She hadn’t been forced away from him after the car crash. What if he’d told her about the deal sooner, what if he’d put his foot down about that dumb plan with Jo, what if he’d never promised Her not to let Michael in, what if She’d come home right after getting out of the cage, what if, what if what if. It swirled like a storm over the ocean, and got dragged down to the dark where he couldn’t see or breathe or find his way back up.

But what if.

What if this just wasn’t their life. What if he had a normal job, and She was a pretty girl he ran into at the gas station. What if they dated and he proposed and they got married and the time flied without getting caught in spiderwebs. What if She had a stalker and Dean was allowed to just sock the son of a bitch in the face.

What if he could protect Her.

They spent the rest of the day making quiet plans. She looked at Sam’s cuff, trying to find a way to get it off without damaging his soul. Dean did another lap, finding the library and the garden. Most everything in the library was written in languages he couldn’t read, the only English books being the Harry Potter series, the Wealth of Nations, Fifty Shades of Gray, and a copy of the South’s Constitution when they broke from the Union. Dean tossed that last one in the fire and watched it burn. It was, if nothing else, pretty damn therapeutic.

The garden was nicer. There weren’t any clues about Eve, but at the very least nothing tried to eat him, and he’d kind of been ready for that. That damn hallugian plant was growing in a quartered off section, and when Dean tried to casually drop his lighter in the crop, it bounced back and hit his jaw. The diamond glitter sex plant was back, and a very loud, animalistic part of him wanted to take a whiff just to see what kind of juice it would have. He managed not to, only for Her sake. He’d had himself on a leash for eleven years, and he’d been giving slack as She got more comfortable, but they were pretty far from full blow collar off. If Dean turned into an lustblind, magic pilled wolf on a mission to hump Her leg, he was pretty sure She’d break. 

Not that he’d hurt Her. He’d never hurt Her, even whammied up. But he’d toss Her around the bed and die between Her thighs. He’d pull Her into his lap and rut up into Her, sucking on Her breasts until they were raw and red. He’d bury himself in Her until one thrust made them both come apart, then he’d rail Her into the mattress, and a while after. She wouldn’t be able to walk. He might end up breaking his dick off. Would be worth it, if She could say cum without getting flustered.

He gave up on the garden. Wasn’t gonna find Eve’s master plan in there anyway.

She was already in their room, when Dean got back. He kissed the top of Her head and went to shower. He stared at the drain for five extra minutes, the water pouring down his face. Freaking Cas.

“I can’t jerk off in the shower anymore,” he grumbled, walking into the bedroom.

She dropped Her water glass. Dean caught it, set it on the minibar, and kissed Her cheek.

“Careful,” he muttered, and She nodded, staring at him like She’d never seen his chest before.

Dean tried not to puff up too much, but the way she was looking at him might as well be a shot of helium. It was a lot of effort not to slip his hand under Her oversized shirt. He was supposed to still be pissed at Her, for not telling him about the God thing.

He moved around the room, grabbing clean boxers from the duffle bag and making sure Bobby’s bottle was comfortably hidden under some sheets. One sex trauma was enough for the day.

“You-“ She cleared Her throat, and Dean glanced over. She hadn’t moved from that one spot. “You can’t what?”

Dean sighed. “Jerk off in the shower. Not when I know I got Cas doing a freakin’ sperm count.”

“Why- When do you jerk off in the shower?”

“I dunno. All the time.” He laughed to himself, pulling on his boxers. “Only thing that got me through the past eleven years. You know.”

Dean shrugged, because yeah, She hadn’t really been doing sex, but it wasn’t like she’d just been hands off. Then Dean looked at Her, and she was swaying slightly. He’d think there was a breeze, if this room wasn’t perfect temperature. He frowned at Her parted lips and glazed features, like steam was literally forming under Her skin. He cleared his throat, turning slowly, and said Her name.

She made a tiny sound and took a step back. Dean swore under his breath, and looked up to the ceiling.

“Princess-“

“I’ve masturbated!” She shouted, and Dean bit back his snort.

“Yeah, alright-“

“I have,” She protested, arms wrapped tight around Her stomach. “A- A few times in Europe, and the Middle East, and- When- Once when- I- Um-“ Her eyes widened. “Never-mind.”

Dean frowned. “No, you gotta finish that sentence.”

“No, I don’t-“

“Yeah, you do, once when what-“

“Once when nothing!” She took another step back, pressing against the minibar. “It’s- It’s not, I said nevermind-“

“I heard you, baby, just-“ Dean crossed the room, grabbing Her hands when she tried to hide her face. “Hey. Hey,” he ducked down, trying to catch Her eye. “Princess. Look at me.”

She didn’t. Dean sighed.

“Look, I can tell you right now, nothing you’ve got is gonna shake me. I, uh-“ He cleared his throat, steeling his voice. “I’ve- I’ve done it in some weird ways. Weird places. Kinda places I shouldn’t have been.” He shrugged. “It ain’t a big thing. Most everyone’s gotta sometimes, and- What’ve I been tellin’ you?”

She swallowed, head still bowed. “It’s okay to want things.”

“Louder,” Dean coaxed, and She shot him a glare from under pretty lashes.

“It’s okay to want things.”

“Good girl,” Dean kissed the space between Her eyes, and remembered that he was supposed to be mad at her. He’d never been good at that anyways.

They got into bed, and Dean pulled Her into his chest. He’d spend the night watching the moonlight again. Were worse ways for that time to pass. At least this way, he had Her in his arms.

And he knew that he could’ve pushed that somewhere. She’d been ready. She’d been looking at him with those fuck-me doe eyes, and if he’d pulled Her pretty ass into bed, she would be singing his name into the sheets right now. He’d had fun teasing Her, the past month. Getting her right to the edge, then cutting off. He’d thought she’d like it, and he hadn’t been getting any complaints.

But he’d also been assuming that She, like he, would be touching herself on Her own time. He should’ve known better. Should’ve known his awkward, anxious girl well enough to figure out that she was just pent up down there. Ready to burst.

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. He was half-hard, and trying to convince himself not to touch Her. The Bobby wound was too raw. The man was in a damn bottle in the room, what if he heard the whole thing and shot Dean when he came back. 

The night passed slower than the last one. Dean was sore from blue balling himself, when they got to breakfast. He grit his teeth and took it, like a man. She patted his jaw at the table, and that didn’t help at all.

“De, don’t-“

“I’m not clenching,” he muttered, and She gave him a flat look.

“I can see it.”

“So? We can all see things, Princess-“

“Dean Winchester.”

He winced, hand frozen midair to reach for the syrup. Crowley whistled, grinning between them. Dean had a new theory. They were in house entertainment.

He unclenched his jaw, and poured the syrup over Her pancake. She glared at him the whole time. It was pretty hot.

“Sorry, baby,” he kissed Her cheek, and She huffed. “You look pretty this morning-“

“Eat your pancakes.”

Dean sighed, and stuffed the food into his mouth. Sam was snickering into his pancakes, Dean glowered at him. If he told Jo about this, Dean didn’t care how tall and big he was. He was getting his ass tossed in Crowley’s stupid fucking moat.

“Your majesty,” a black eyed demon walked into the dining hall, and Dean exchanged a shaper look with Sam.

 They hadn’t had an interruption yet.

“Oh, for-“ Crowley sighed dramatically, gesturing around the table. “Can you not see I have guests?”

The demon cleared his throat, scanning over the table. Sam and Dean got the distain they were used to. Cas got a slight double-take. The demon’s eyes landed on Her, and they didn’t move until Crowley loudly cleared his throat.

“If this is not time sensitive, I advise you leave now before I slit your ugly meat-sacks throat and let the Winchester play with the leftovers.”

Sam sighed, and Dean glared up the table. “We ain’t doing your dirty work, Crowley-“

“Of course you’re not. I am trying to make a threat.” He glared back to the demon, his voice raising. “What. Is. It.”

“Oh- Um-“ The demon stood a little taller, giving Her one more look. “We have news from Edgar that they found another nest. This one did not contain any young first beasts.”

She sat up, eyes going sharp. “I’m sorry- Another nest?” She looked between the demon and Crowley. “What kind of- Like a monster nest?”

Crowley ignored Her. “Well, just- Tell them my demons will remain out of their way, but if they throw another one in like shark bait, I will remind Eve just how many of her children are wasted on her brutish tactics.”

“Children?” She hissed, and Sam gave Dean a nervous, do something look.

Dean shook his head. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Sam jerked his head at Her. Fix it.

Fix- Dean rolled his eyes. Not that fucking easy, Sammy.

Sam’s nose wrinkled. Seems easy.

Dean flipped him off. You fucking try.

Sam just scowled, and jerked his head again. Dean didn’t need him to keep doing that. He could already tell that the air was soured.

“Crowley,” she hissed. “What the fuck are the Leviathans doing.”

Crowley sighed, dismissing the demon with a wave. “In all honestly, love, I don’t fucking know. They tell me they need demons, I give them demons. Eve tells me she needs demons, I give her demons. They all come back talking of- Of parasites and nests and reeking of that godawful smell.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know what their failure to find a first beast has to do with me.”

Her fingers were curling over the butter knife. That Silver light was pouring out of Her. Dean could almost see the color of every particle, floating through the air in a strange, war-like dance. “What do they want with a first beast,” she muttered, and Crowley shrugged.

“Oh, who cares-“

She shot to Her feet, and Crowley toppled back in his stupid, velvet chair. She was clinging to the butter knife the same way she held her blades. If Dean was Crowley, he’d start protecting his eyes and crotch.

She took several long, deep breathes. The flowers on the middle of the table were withering. Dean heard a chirp, and glanced over at the platter of eggs to find a smack of baby chicks. He swallowed, and grabbed Her hand.

He squeezed three times, and those blinding eyes shot to Dean’s. He held them, and squeezed again. He knew She was still angry about not being able to track down Balthazar for that monster daycare thing—which Dean had thought was crazy, but it had mattered to Her, so he’d been down with it—and wasn’t gonna be taking this one lightly, but not here. Not now. Not for a parasite like Crowley.

She let out a sharp breath, and the power waving off of Her dampened. She took a stumbling step back, then another. She stormed away, and Sam followed with a call of Her name. Dean stood up, tossing his tablecloth down, and gave Crowley a tight, empty smile.

“Breakfast seems done, then-“

“Dean,” Crowley cut him off, staring after where she’d vanished. “May I offer you some… advice.”

Dean almost laughed. “Hell, no. I- Why the fuck would that be a yeah, I don’t even listen to self-help coaches, or- Or Oprah-“

“Keep her out of this,” Crowley said, his voice dropping to something low and darker. Dean froze, a chill over his skin that didn’t seem to belong in hell.

“You know that ain’t up to me,” he muttered, and Crowley gave him a hooded, iron look.

“I’d do my best, if I were you,” he moved to his feet, smoothing his coat. “And it is not as if we all don’t stand against the same thing, is it?”

Dean opened his mouth to say they didn’t, but Crowley vanished. Leaving him with Cas, who was still eating his pancake. He raised his brows, and Cas frowned at him with puffy cheeks.

“There is a blessing, over this meal.”

A chick hopped on Cas’ spoon, and he smiled like a child. Dean sighed and clapped his shoulder. “Don’t eat the chicks,” he muttered, before following after Her and Sammy.

They’d made it back to their room. Sam was sitting next to Her on the bed, mumbling something that he quickly gave up on when Dean walked through the door.

“And- Look- Everyone’s fine-“

“Sam,” Dean muttered, nodding to the door. Sam took the cue with a sharp breath of relief.

She hadn’t once looked up from Her hands. They were restless, picking at Her nails and rubbing her wrists raw and red. Dean didn’t wait for the door to close, before he crossed the room to Her side. He knelt before her, covering those twitching finger with his own, and murmured Her name. She dropped Her face down into his shoulder without a word. He cradled the back of Her head, closing his eyes and taking a long, slow breath.

He didn’t get it. Not as much as he wanted to. Part of him might always hear Dad’s voice in his head, telling him to shoot first or be the one bleeding on the floor. That had gone for monsters, for ghosts, for other hunters when it had to. Didn’t matter how old, how big, how small. You grow a spine and pull the trigger, or you get your feeble one ripped out of your body.

But She trembled in Dean’s arms, and he rubbed her back slowly, and she had a strong spine. Sometimes he worried it was too strong. That She’d get some bright idea that would scare anyone else shitless, and he’d finally run out of that thin, borrowed luck. And Dean knew it wouldn’t take much. If she thought she had some way to protect those baby monsters, he was gonna need to start throwing pennies into water fountains.

And there wasn’t anything he could say. Not to make this better, or worse. Which was the worst goddamn kind of pain. It seeped between cracks and stuck, stubborn and angry. Dean leaned back, pulling Her face between his hands. They’d been here a million times before. They’d be here a million times again, and saying this isn’t your fault never worked on either of them.

“Dance with me.”

She blinked at him, tears clinging to Her lashes. “What?”

“Dance with me, Princess.” Dean wiped a stray tear, offering Her a small smile. He stood, holding out a hand, and beckoned Her. “C’mon.”

She stared at him, glancing between his hand and his face. He raised his brows, tipping his chin to his hand, and She swallowed.

She took his hand with light, fragile fingers. Dean grinned and pulled Her right up to his chest. His arm went around Her waist, and he squeezed Her hand three times, rocking them back and forth through the center of the room.

It wasn’t a coordinated dance. It was quiet until Dean started humming, and he wasn’t following any of those fancy steps She probably knew. They mostly swayed to a silent rhythm, Dean guiding them through a made up waltz that felt better than it probably looked. But She watched him with soft eyes, and Dean leaned down like a moth to the candle. She wasn’t crying anymore. When he kissed Her, she let out a shaky breath against his lips.

And he smiled. Nothing was better.

But it felt cleaner. And everything hurt just a little less.  

Dec. 18th – 2011

Princess,

There’s a moon that’s coming around every night. Never see any of the other ones twice (you told me something about hell being a sphere like Earth, but we’re on the inside, but then Sammy started talking about an old book and you got excited about a map and I kinda stopped paying attenition) but this one keeps coming back. thought I was going crazy at first, but I’m sure. It’s the only one with the craters that look like a peach. I called it the butt moon last night. Not sure if you remember, but it’s the butt moon.

I don’t know if it always does that. I’d ask you, but you’re doing a lot right now, and the butt moon isn’t that important. I asked Cas before dinner and he said it that everything found gravity eventually. Not sure what that meant. I thought moons needed gravity to function at all, but I also didn’t think hell had moons, and I was pretty damn positive that hell was all floating rocks and fire rivers.  Didn’t know they did real estate. Makes sense, though. They probably invented it.

If this is Hell, though, I’ve been wondering about Heaven. When we popped up there it was all memories and a garden, but that can’t be the whole thing. Wouldn’t make sense for God to give the demons their own little planet that could run on National Geographic, but the angels are stuck wandering around human’s lame memories. I mean, Sammy and I had good memories, but they’re mostly in random forests and motels. That’s not gonna be a fun eternity. There’s gotta be something more, or God’s more of a dick than we thought.

The butt moon is coming back around. Staring to see it out the window right now. You’re out. Went right down, after I got you in the shower. I’m proud of you for sleeping more, lately. You’d been freaking me out with everything, and I know it’s hard right how, but

I don’t know. I really wish I knew, sweetheart, but no one fucking knows. When my Dad died I fixed up Baby then bashed her in again. Sammy got quiet. We got through it, but it’s different. Dad was different. We’re different, than you and Bobby. So I don’t fucking know what’s gonna make this better, but you’ve got me. Whenever it hurts, please just fucking remember that you’ve got me. I’d rather you scratch me up than go down alone. That’s what I’m here for.

Please don’t go alone.

Butt moon is up, now. Don’t know if Hell names its moons. Think I’m gonna call this one Bobby.

Sleep well, Princess. I love you.

Yours,

DAW

Every day, Crowley held four meetings. Two in the throne room, two in an off chamber with a big table, lots of chairs, and a pretty cool looking layered map of Hell and Earth. Dean knew this, because he’d been stalking the son of a bitch all week.

Crowley sat at the head of the magic table. His top demons—mostly of them wearing generic meat-suits that had to have been pulled right out of Wall Street—gave pitches about things Dean had expected, and things he really hadn’t. Demons didn’t eat, but they had a department of agriculture. That demon sat between the department of torture, and the department of nightmares. Dean stayed hidden behind the thick curtain, listening to them discuss the best was to torture the ballsack. At one point—based on sound alone—it seemed like someone had pulled theirs out for experiment. Dean was really glad She’d slept through breakfast, and given him an excuse to skip it all together.

The room cleared after the meeting, and Dean slipped out. If anywhere was going to have some kind of plans written down, it had to be the damn war room. The walls were lined with tattered books he couldn’t read, and art of humans getting their skulls cracked open and blood drained. There was a painting of some red smoke behind the head chair, and after a few seconds of squinting, Dean figured it had to be Crowley. No other red smoke was that ugly.

“Admiring my portrait, Dean?” 

Crowley stepped out from behind another curtain, and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Fuckin’- Christ-“

“Not here,” Crowley smirked. “Disrespectful.”

Dean scowled, fisting his hands. Crowley was a crossroads demon. Dean could land a blow and run, before he got stripped down to sinew and bone-

“Oh- Put the guns away.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re not that happy to see me.”

Dean didn’t unclench his fists. Crowley sighed, giving him an unimpressed look.

“I’m not about to kill you. Not right now.”

“Why not,” Dean grunted, and Crowley snorted.

“Because I am in my house. And if I kill Dean Winchester in my house,” he said Her name pointedly. “She’ll blow it right to- Well, below hell. And all the money I poured into renovations? Waste.”

Dean swallowed. “You’re not killing me ‘cause you like your freakin’ curtains?”

“I’m not killing you because I am not a fool, Squirrel,” Crowley said. “But you- You are quite the monkey-skulled pain in my unholy ass, aren’t you.”

“I try.”

Crowley smirked. “Oh, I’m sure you do,” he looked Dean up and down, and Dean’s lip curled.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna have to remind you I’m a taken man.”

“As if I don’t already know. She practically written mine on your forehead.” Crowley hummed. “You know, if you intend to remain claimed, I’d try to be more official than flashing fists and- Being a human brute-“

“I’m not taking your relationship advice.”

“Ah, well. Your loss,” Crowley shrugged. “Why are you poking around my war room, Dean. As a host,” he raised his brows. “I need to remind you it’s rather rude.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. Crowley was circling him like a fucking shark. He remained planted in his spot, tracking every damn step. “Didn’t know you cared so much about manners.”

“Of course I care about manners. I’m a demon, not a billionaire.” Crowley tipped his head. “May I guess, why you’re snooping around my castle like a bloody fucking racoon?”

Dean didn’t answer. Crowley hummed, and tipped his head.

“I mean, it’s not a very fun game for me, is it. You want to stop us. Stop Eve.” Crowley sighed. “What did I tell you, Dean, about us all being on the same fucking side-“

“We are not on the same side,” Dean spat, and Crowley gave him an amused look.

“You believe that. Humans,” he sighed. “So easily manipulated. Do you have any idea, the kind of glory that could come for you, if you’d just give up that horrible, weak, humanness?” Crowley shook his head, a mocking sympathy coated over every word. “You learn to take what you need. Do what you want, have what you want, and keep it.”

“I have what I want-“

“Oh- Please,” Crowley laughed. “You have a girl with God over her fucking shoulder and a brother whose soul is patchier than a whore’s bush. You could have power,” Crowley stopped in front of him, eyes gleaming in the dark. “You could have everything, if you’d remember what you are. What we let you be, here.” His mouth curled into a crude smile. “You remember it. The fun. With my business instinct, and your- Muscle,” he waved a hand to Dean’s arm. “With the Moose’s brains and the Bride of God on our side-“

“Are you tryin’ to fucking recruit us?” Dean cut him off, taking a large step forward, and Crowley smirked.

“Took you a moment, didn’t it. Only get away with being the thick one because of that pretty little face.”

Dean worked his jaw. “You thought this was gonna work? You don’t kill us and we flip to the dark side?”

“Dark side,” Crowley shrugged. “I get what I want, don’t I?”

“By fuckin’ everyone else over-“

“Because that is the goddamn game,” Crowley hissed, taking a step forward. “Which you will, one day, finally get through that thick, pretty head. The rest of us already know. Everyone knows. Me, Eve,” he sneered Her name. “Even Castiel before he lost his rocker. You play to win, or you lose.”

Dean held Crowley’s stare, keeping his head tipped up. “Why the hell do you care, if we win or lose.”

“I told you already. I’m fond-“

“You’re fond of our power.” Dean said Her name tightly. “You’re fond of keeping on her good side.”

And Crowley just laughed. “Aren’t we all?”

Dean didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to dignify Crowley with one anyway. He flinched, when Crowley patted his chest, holding his breath like the sulfur could creep up his nose.

“Think about it some more,” Crowley said. “And- I have a party tomorrow. For myself. No occasion, but you don’t need on when you’re the king.” He smiled. “Bring the team. And think about it. If not for me,” he took a step back. “For Sammy. And his poor, tattered soul.”

Crowley vanished, leaving Dean alone again. He swallowed, and looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t want to go to that damn party. His damn brother and soulmate would. If he was smarter, he just wouldn’t tell them.

But he wasn’t smarter, and just as always, he got outvoted.

“Could be a trap-“

“This whole thing is a trap, Dean.” Sam said. “I mean, we’re trapped in Crowley’s house, if it was the kinda trap where he wanted to kill us, he’d just freakin’ kill us.”

Dean frowned. “Yeah, but if he wants to kill us, we could at least not make it easy for him.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be easy for him,” She said softly, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah, but I also don’t think he’s tryin’ to kill us. I mean, he pretty much spelled that part out.”

Sam gave him a doubtful look. “And you trust him?”

“You’re the one who wants to go to his fuckin’ party, Sammy-“

“Because I think we might be able to get a lead there-“

“Or we get drugged. And put in the human zoo.”

She blinked. “They have a human zoo?”

“Everything is a zoo when you cannot be put in a cage,” Cas mused, flipping over the cards in his hands, and Dean sat on the bed.

“Wise words, buddy,” he muttered, glaring around the room. “Rowena, you wanna contribute?”

“I don’t care,” she said, not looking up from her book, and Dean sighed.

“Great.” He looked between Her and Sam. “You two are doin’ this whether I like it or not, aren’t you?”

They exchanged guilty look, and Dean rubbed his jaw. He knew better than to lock them up or tell them a hard no. He’d watched a documentary last week—She’d watched it, but Dean had also been there—about decriminalization. Parameters rather than cages.

He could work with that.

It took the whole day to get the feral nerds to agree to Dean’s plan. There was a lot of negoations, and apologies, and kissing Her until she stopped glaring and pouting.

“I could help more-“

“I know you could, baby,” Dean cooed, kissing one cheek, then the other. “But the demons are scared of you.”

“So they’ll talk more-“

“They’ll either hit on you, or not say anything.”

She rolled Her eyes, but didn’t move away from Dean’s hold. “They won’t hit on me.”

Dean chuckled. “Mhm.”

She twisted, fixing him with a glare. “They won’t-“

“Princess,” Dean said gently, brushing the hair from Her face. “You can’t tell when I’m hittin’ on you.”

She flushed, and turned back away. Dean kissed Her nose, and she jerked her head away. He sighed, squeezing Her side.

“You get to just have fun hanging out with Cas-“

“I hate fun,” she grumbled, and Dean laughed.

“I know. Just- Try.”

Dean didn’t have a lot of faith She would, but at least she wasn’t going to be leading point on this one. He didn’t know how he’d swung it—probably by getting Rowena and Sam on his side, although he wasn’t sure how he’d done that either—but he and Sammy were going to do the actual work, while she just attended Crowley’s stupid party.

“Rowena,” he said, as they waited for Her to get changed. “You’re in charge of watching her, alright. Not sneaking off to do your own thing, no trying to pull interrogations, no freakin’ spells.” Dean held up a hand, counting off each banned item as he spoke. “I swear, if I see one demon getting dog walked, I’m letting Crowley keep you.”

“Yes, yes, I get it.” Rowena huffed, watching Dean under hooded eyes. “No fun.”

“Oh, you can have all the fun you want, long as it’s not murder fun.”

“That’s the only kind of fun, boy. You’d know that if you weren’t so soft.”

“Uh huh.” Dean sighed. “Cas, you’re in charge of watching the ladies.”

Rowena scowled, and Cas nodded dutifully. Dean might not want him running around asking demons what kind of thorns and poisions were in bloom this season, but he could trust Cas with any damn order, it was watching Her.

“Sammy,” he grunted, pulling at his tie. It was too tight. Felt like it was choking him. “You’re movin’ with me. Whatever we can get about Eve and Crowley’s plan, it’s better than what we got right now.”

“Nothing?” Sam mumbled, and Dean just shrugged.

The door creaked open, and he turned with his tie tight in his fist. She was standing in the doorway—hair shining, skin almost glowing, eyes bright and soft and highlighted by that smoky makeup he saw on billboards and magazine covers—and Dean’s hand slipped. He choked, pounding on his chest and refusing to take his eyes off Her, even as they bulged out of his head. She darted forward, pulling the knot loose, and Dean coughed, a grin already pulling at his lips.

“Jesus, Princess-“

“Save it,” She muttered, glaring at his tie. “I’m still mad at you.”

Dean just hummed, watching Her fix the knot. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

She flushed. Her eyes darted up, and Dean threw her his best, winning grin. She flushed and looked back to the tie. Dean chuckled, and swooped down to kiss Her cheek. She batted his face away, but pressed closer to his chest.

“I like this,” he whispered in Her ear, pulling on the strap of her gown. He was gunning to get kneed in the crotch. Would still be worth it. “You might convert all those demons into believers, sweetheart.”

“Dean…” She mumbled, staring at his neck, her fingers stilling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean drawled Her name back, leaning down until their noses bumped. “We could just skip, y’know. Sammy’s a big boy, he’ll take care of it-“

“No, I won’t,” Sam said loudly, and Her eyes widened adorably.

She took a large step, back to Cas’ side. Dean’s hands hovered in the air, where they’d been holding Her. He sighed and bowed his head.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he muttered to Sam, as they made their way downstairs.

Sam just shrugged, gaze fixed ahead. “Next time don’t say you’re gonna fuck your girlfriend in front of me, man.”

“I- That wasn’t what I was saying-“

Sam gave him a flat look, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Well, did you see her-“

“Yeah. And she’s like a sister to me, so I don’t really wanna hear about this.”

“Prude,” Dean muttered, and Sam snorted.

“Please. You’re the one who’s pissed about Jo knowing your dick size.”

Dean’s ears heated, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “And Charlie,” he muttered. “She fuckin’ told Charlie. Next I know, she’s gonna be taking out billboards or something.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “That’s pretty dramatic, Dean-“

“How’d you feel, if Eileen went around telling everyone you were uncut-“

“Eileen wouldn’t do that,” Sam shrugged. “Because she can actually- You know. Talk about sex like a normal person.”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered. “’Least I’m having sex, instead of moping around like a little bitch.”

“Yeah, only took you ten years.”

Dean shoved Sam so hard he toppled into an expensive looking vase. She whipped around, giving them both a stern look, and neither of them got a chance to point fingers before She was stomping away.

Sam whistled, smirking slightly. “Someone’s on the couch tonight.”

Dean scowled, and stomped away. Sam laughed and followed him.

At least the kid seemed to be doing better. It was the small, painful victories like that one, that got Dean through this.

The party was kind of exactly what Dean pictured rich, demon parties to be. Crowley had gotten one of those tiny orchestras—an ensemble, She called it—to play on a dais, there was as banquet of fancy food and drinks, and a lot of demons milling about the thick, shrouded room and lounging on velvet sofas.

“Huh,” Sam muttered. “I was kind of expecting- I don’t know. Wall street? College party? Not…”

“Demon fairytale?” Dean suggested, and Sam nodded.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dean hummed, glancing over his shoulder. She, Rowena, and Cas had gone off to one of the quieter corners. They’d be alright. “How’d you know what a college party is like? Weren’t you a book nerd?”

“I had a social life, Dean. I had a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but I always kind thought she was a sex doll you wished to life.”

Dean ducked the first punch. He didn’t punch the second.

“Nice hook,” he mumbled, rubbing his jaw, and Sam shook out his hand.

“Thanks,” he paused, glanced over his shoulder, then muttered, “and you’re talking a lot of game for someone who probably had a fleshlight he named after his best friend-“

Sam didn’t duck Dean’s first punch. They stared at each other for a moment, then snorted. Dean had kind of missed this. Not the getting socked part, but the ease. Talking to Sammy without worrying or fighting. It was nice.

He wished it wasn’t in the middle of a demon ball, but that didn’t make it any less nice.

“So,” Sammy shifted on his feet, grinning around the group of demons. “What do you think of Eve?”

“Creepy, right?” Dean tipped his glass, nudging the demon closest to him with his shoulder. “Real spooky bitch, like- You guys ever seen the Ring.”

The demons had never seen the Ring, but they were shockingly open to movie suggestions. Sam pulled Dean away from that group after about fifteen minutes of explaining the plot of the Untouchable, hissing that they were supposed to be working. Dean rolled his eyes, but followed. ‘

If he let himself forget that he was surrounded by demons—which, when his goal was to charm them into talking, was actually surprisingly fucking easy—he wasn’t having a bad time. Most of them were pretty thick headed and cocky, but Crowley must’ve imposed a no killing the humans rule, because they were civil. Dean talked to one who’d been a French chef or something, and he could do mouthwatering things with bread. There was another who went topside to work fashion week, and those were some pretty good stories.

Sam, annoyingly, didn’t really want to hear about celebrities flipping out because their lipstick got discontinued.

“They make a million of every color,” he muttered. “It’s just- Just go find another red.”

Dean laughed, clapping Sam on the back. “Spoken like a guy who doesn’t understand women at all, Sammy.”

Sam scowled. “You don’t understand women-“

“I understand women-“

“You understand one woman.”

“Yeah, and I’m well trained.” Dean grinned, and Sam wrinkled his nose.

The demons were impressed with Dean’s fashion knowledge. He’d spent enough time staring at Her and listening to Her and thinking about Her to understand dress cuts and makeup. He was in with the group quickly.

They, though, seemed to know even less than the last group. And the group after them might know next to nothing. Even the demons who Dean had seen playing war-footsie with Crowley said Eve was closed off. That they followed the king to glory, and not much else.

“This might’ve been a bad plan, Dean,” Sammy muttered after almost three hours, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah. I’m gettin’ that.” He glanced around the room. “Maybe they’re just playing stupid-“

“Or they are stupid.”

“Or that.” Dean pressed his lips in a thin line. “So- What? We calling it?”

“I mean, what the hell else are well supposed to do? All of this,” Sam waved a hand around the room. “It’s nothing, dude. Just- demons and Crowley.”

Dean grunted an agreement, then paused. Demons and Crowley.  

Sam saw his brow knit. He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Dean? What- Stop making that face, whatever you’re thinking isn’t a good idea-“

“Crowley,” Dean breathed, and Sammy blinked.

“Uh, yeah- That’s what I said-“

“Crowley, Sammy.” Dean grinned, hitting Sam’s arm in excitement. “We got Crowley right here, and what did Kevin say we needed?”

“Uh… Angel oil, tears of a loveless man, fluid of a great father, and-“ Sam’s eyes widened, and Dean’s grin stretched his face. “Dean-“:

“Blood of hell,” he said, jerking his head at Crowley, lounging on his throne and laughing. “Guess who’s head of hell and filled with blood.”

Sam swallowed, and Dean wiggled his brows. That was a plan. A step forward. They wouldn’t need to know any damn plan, if they knocked off all the Leviathans.

“See you in the morning, Sammy,” Dean said, setting down his glass on a table. “We’ll work out the blood grabbin’ then.”

 Sam nodded, and Dean turned to go grab Her. He made it a step, before Sam caught his arm.

“Have you talked to her yet?” He said, looking over Dean’s head to where She’d been waiting.

Dean shook his head, yanking his arm away. “No. I’m waitin’ for the time.”

“You’re always waitin’ for the time-“

“And I find it.” Dean shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, Sammy. I got it.”

Sam didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t have to. Dean was the one who had to have the retirement talk with Her. Dean was the one who was gonna have to get on his knees and beg his girl to just move upstate with him. Take that little cabin Bobby had left them. Do what Bobby would’ve wanted, and have some damn peace.

He’d told Sammy about it already. They’d gone up for a look around again, while telling Her they were at the grocery store. The place was plenty big. They could take Claire no problem. Take Jo and Sammy and Cas, maybe add a few rooms and start up that bed and breakfast. Dean would sell Bobby’s place for building money, or keep it and turn it into an office. But he didn’t want Her staying there. It was fucking eating Her alive.

He’d almost told Sam about the soulmates thing again, on that trip. But he’d bit it down. That was something he had to tell Her first.  

She was sitting between Cas and Rowena, hair falling over her face and soft giggles falling from her lips. Cas was rigid and silent. Rowena kept pulling Her back up by the scruff of Her neck, like she was some misbehaving cat. Dean scowled, ready to knock the old lady’s hand off his girl, but he froze. 

Those weren’t Her usually giggles. They were too airy, almost ditzy. She didn’t get ditzy. She got mean and sweet and sharp-tongued and doe-eyed, but never fucking bubbly and empty-headed.

He said Her name slowly, kneeling before Her, and her head lolled up with a wide, sunstruck smile.

“Dean!” She grabbed his face, smushing his cheeks, and he bit back a grunt of surprise. “You came.”

“Yeah, uh- I wasn’t goin’ far to start- You feelin’ alright, baby?” He reached up, pressing the back of his hand to Her brow, and she giggled again.

“I feel good,” she leaned forward, glassy eyes locked onto Dean’s. “You look pretty.”

Dean grunted. “Thanks, Princess.” He flipped his hand, and frowned. No fever. “You been eating anything?”

“Cas gave me shrimp and cocktail.”

“Right, well-“ Dean paused. “You mean shrimp cocktail?”

She shook Her head, pressing her brow to Dean’s with another giggle. Their noses bumped, and Dean swallowed, cupping Her cheek. She was flushed. Her eyes were pretty unfocused, and she was swaying sitting down, and-

“Princess-“

“You have good eyebrows,” she whispered, tracing them with her thumb. “They’re strong. They make you look so serious.”

She pinched them together, then laughed to herself. Dean stared at Her, sort of empty headed. He’d only ever seen Her this carefree once.

“You never get serious at me,” she mumbled, and Dean swallowed.

“I get serious at you all the time, sweetheart.”

“Hmmmm,” She titled her head. “Can you be serious right now?”

“Yep.” That wasn’t gonna be a fucking problem. “You had anything to drink tonight, ma’am?”

She giggled, dropping Her head onto his shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

“Jesus fuckin’-“ Dean groaned, pinching his nose with one hand and holding Her upright with the other. “This is not fuckin’ take of her, Rowena-“

“It wasn’t me,” Rowena snapped. “It was the angel.”

Dean gaped. “Cas?”

“She asked,” Cas said plainly, almost confused. “And I cannot deny the giver when she asks for something in return-“

“You can deny her when it gets her fucking wasted, dude, just-“ Dean shook his head, scooping Her into his arms. “I’ll deal with you both,” he glared at Rowena, who’d gone back to examining her nails. “Later. C’mon, Princess. Bedtime.”

“I’m not tired,” She whined, but there was no struggle. Dean marched Her out of the ballroom and through the halls, back to their room. That was the one, weak protest She gave before she was playing with the hair on the back of his neck, and humming some song he didn’t recognize.

Dean set Her down gently on the mattress and started to work on Her dress. The thing was all ribbons and lace, and Christ, he would’ve loved to be doing this under any other circumstance.

“You’re grinding your teeth again,” She whispered as Dean rolled down her sheer tights, and he sighed.

“I know.”

She was silent for another moment, but Dean could feel Her gaze. He pulled off the tights and carefully set Her legs back on the bed. His fingers wanted to linger on the warm skin. This wasn’t the place. He  balled up the tights and tossed them to another corner of the room, before patting Her thigh.

“Up.”

She didn’t move. Dean risked a look at Her blown out face to find Her mascara running and her face shining with silent tears. His fingers dug into the skin of Her thigh, and her lip wobbled, and son of a bitch, it ripped his damn chest in half.

“Baby…” he said, low and sore in his throat. “What- Don’t look at me like that-“

She sniffed and rolled over. Dean groaned and crawled up the bed, soothing down Her skirt as he went.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Dean traced Her upper arm. She curved further into herself, and he sighed. “Sweetheart, you gotta talk to me-“

“You’re mad at me,” She said, so quiet he almost didn’t hear. “You- You’re mad.”

Dean let out a long, slow breath. He wasn’t thrilled. Last time She’d been drinking it was because she was hiding a world ending secret and losing her mind about it. This wasn’t exactly a habit he wanted to encourage, even if he had no damn legs to stand on himself.

“I- I’m sorry,” She sounded so fucking shaky. So fucking quiet. “I- I’m sorry-“

Her words broke into sobs, and Dean couldn’t allow that.

“Woah, hey-“ He grabbed Her around the stomach, hauling her into his lap. “I’m not mad at you, Princess, I swear. I’m pissed at- At Rowena and Cas for lettin’ you get drunk-“

“’m not drunk,” She whined, and Dean huffed.

“Oh, baby girl,” he pet Her head, smiling at Her pouting, scrunched up face. “You’re wasted.”

Her nose wrinkled tighter, and she pressed Her face into Dean’s neck. He chuckled, adjusting Her in his arms. He traced circles on Her lower back, humming low and quiet as Her breath evened out. She slowly went limp, the only sign that she was still awake the was She fidgeted with the buttons of Dean’s shirt and pulled at her own dress.

“You wanna get outta this thing?” Dean asked softly, and She rolled off of him with a disgruntled sound, pulling at the fabric.

“It’s hot,” She whined, clawing at the lace. “Why is it so hot?”

“’Cause you’re drunk.” Dean caught Her hands and pinned them to the bed. “Kicks up your body temperature. You’re gonna be hot all night.”

She hummed, watching Dean move under hooded eyes. He stripped Her with slow, careful hands, trying to keep his attention locked only where it needed to be. She spread Her legs, when he dragged the dress over her head. He cleared his throat, and focused on getting off Her bra.

“You still think I’m mad at you?” He murmured, letting his thumb trace over Her nipple just once. Just to see Her shiver, and get that dazed quality in Her voice.

“No,” She whispered, and Dean hummed.

“Good girl.”

She whined, and Dean swallowed. He was a good, controlled man. He was going to get Her a shirt, make her brush her teeth, then tuck her into bed and jerk off in the shower like any civil person would.

But he tried to get up, and got dragged down by the collar of his shirt.

“Fuckin’- You gotta stop doing that, Princess-“

“Where’re you going,” She whispered, watching him with wide eyes. “Are you leaving? You- You said you weren’t mad-“

“I’m not,” Dean said quickly, wrapping his hand over Her’s. “I’m not mad, baby, pinky promise. I’m just gonna get you a shirt, alright?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t want a shirt. It’s hot.”

“You got no idea,” Dean muttered under his breath, and She blinked.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he sighed. “How about we get you in the shower, alright? Cool you down, clean up, then you can sleep this off.”

She frowned. “Sleep it off?”

“Yeah, just- Get the drink outta your system,” Dean squeezed Her waist, offering a gentle smile, and Her frown just deepened.

“But- I wanna have sex.”

“You-“ Dean’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t really remember how to close it. He couldn’t really remember anything at all. He made a low, undignified sound, and She titled her head.

“Can we?”

“Can we- Have sex?!”

She nodded eagerly, pushing up on Her elbows until their lips were brushing. “Please,” she breathed, and maybe She was mad at Dean. Maybe She was trying to fucking kill him.

“Princess,” he muttered. “We- We can’t have sex right now.”

Her face fell, looking at him like a baby duckling he was denying bread. She wasn’t gonna make this easy.

“You’re drunk,” he explained gently, pulling Her slowly up, back into his lap. Maybe he could trick Her into falling asleep. “We can’t fuck while you’re drunk. That ain’t how this works.”

“Why not,” She grumbled, snuggling into his chest. Her legs were looping around his waist, Her bare core pressing over his crotch. Dean had to breathe through his nose.

 “’Cause,” he muttered lamely. “’S how it works. Uh- Consent.”

“I’m consenting right now-“

“You’re drunk. Doesn’t count.”

She scowled, and wrapped Her arms tight around his neck. “Stupid,” she grumbled, and Dean chuckled.

“I know.”

They just lay there for a moment, the moons turning light through their room. Dean thought She might’ve fallen asleep, with how still She’d gone. Then She murmured his name, and he sighed, saying Her’s back.

“What was the weird way?”

Dean blinked. “The what?”

“The weird way,” She repeated, pushing up on his chest. “That you used to- To-“ She glanced around the room, voice dropping to a whisper. “Masturbate.”

“Ah.” Shit. “Uh- You know,” he laughed nervously, leaning back against the headrest. “Weird.”

She shook Her head, leaning down. “I don’t know,” she whined. “I don’t know anything, Dean, I- I just- I get so- so-“

She moaned, loud and desperate, and Dean swallowed. His body hadn’t gotten the memo that this was no-go. All it knew was that She was sitting on top of him. Her hair tickled his face and She smelled like that intoxicating apple. Her lips were swollen and glossy with spit, another tiny sound falling from them as she ground down onto his crotch. Dean bit the inside of his mouth, but the sting did nothing against the unforgiving heat and tension wracking his body.

“I need it,” She said, and Dean’s fingers dug into Her hips. “It gets so- Mmm,” She moaned again. “And you- You know, but you won’t tell me.” She stared at him under fluttering eyes. “Why won’t you tell  me?”

Dean stared at Her. He was pretty sure he’d had this exact sex dream before, and in the middle of it, he had no fucking clue why he wouldn’t give Her anything she asked for.

“I meant doin’- Uh-“ He coughed, trying to force his thoughts together. “Just kinda stealin’ your panties. To, uh-“ His face was burning. Another bit of luck, that She seemed to drunk to notice. “Jerk off.”

“Oh,” She tilted Her head. “Really?”

Dean swallowed, and nodded. If She dumped him right here, that would be fine. They were right next to a window he could fling himself out of.

“Do guys like that?” She asked, and Dean frowned.

“I like it.” I’m the only fucking guy you’re ever gonna need, Princess. “But if you don’t- I don’t do it anymore-“

“Why not?”

Son of a bitch. She said it like it was an actual fucking question. Dean was pretty sure someone was out to get him. “Most people would count it as creepy, sweetheart. I- I shoulda been asking-“

“Okay.”

Dean blinked. “Okay?”

She nodded, smiling like a fucking siren. “You can do it.”

“Uh- Wha-“

“I like it,” She whispered, dropping Her full weight over him, and Dean couldn’t do much more but hold onto Her and stare. “I think I like it.” She pouted. “Do I like it?”

“I- I think you gotta work that one out yourself, Princess,” Dean breathed, and She nodded tightly.

Her brow wrinkled tight, and she nodded slowly. Dean wondered if he’d died getting into Hell, and somehow wormed his way into Heaven.

“I like it,” She said firmly, looking back to Dean. “What else do I like?”

Dean took a deep breath through his nose. Christ, he wanted to tell Her. The way he’d paid attention to every tiny gasp and flutter of Her pussy around his fingers or cock. The way She gushed on his face when he pinned Her down, or made the sweetest noise when he spanked Her clit. But this, here, with Her drunk and his dick at full attention, wasn’t the place, or the time.

“How about we work it out in the morning,” he said, and She paused.

“You mean you’ll fuck me?”

“I mean that when we wrap this shit up,” Dean rasped, dragging his hand down Her spine. “I’ll lock us in a room for a week, and we can work out everything you like together.”

He’d never seen Her smile so wide.

It wasn’t hard to get Her down after that. One pinky promise and a kiss and She was out like a baby, drooling all over Dean’s shirt.

They had a day until Eve showed up. A day to get Crowley’s blood, free Sammy, and get out. She wanted to stick around and deal with Eve right here. Dean gave a firm no on that one.

“But-“

He grunted Her name, shooting her a stern glare. “You ain’t stickin’ around without us. So either we all face off against Eve at once, or you hitch the ride out.”

She scowled, and slumped into Her seat. Dean sighed, and looked back to Rowena.

“You got anything on breaking Sammy free of the damn cuff?”

Rowena shook her head. “Fergus would need to make the split himself, but- If we’re getting his blood-“

“Might as well make him do that too,” Dean muttered, running a hand over his jaw. “Alright. That- It ain’t bad. As long as things are clean up on earth, I think we’re in good shape.”

They all nodded, and split off. She sat on Sam’s bed while the dorks watch TV. Rowena kept reading, and Dean went with Cas at the table, trying to sketch out the floor plan of the castle. Cas was quiet. It would worry Dean, if he wasn’t focused on getting everyone out without a scratch.

“You’re wrathful,” Cas said suddenly, and Dean glanced up to find him staring.

“I ain’t happy,” he muttered, and Cas tilted his head.

“You’re burning.”

“I’m fine, Cas-“

“Your soul is growing.”

That got Dean’s attention. “My soul is what.”

“The divinity,” Cas murmured, peering at Dean like he could see right into his heart. “It is growing. You’re made of helium. You’ll reach Heaven before the fastest doves.”

Dean swallowed. “Is that- Uh- That good?”

“For you.”

“Right. Good.” Dean paused. “Wait, who isn’t it good for-“

“Holy shit.” Sam’s voice cut over Dean’s, his eyes wide as he stared at the TV. “What the hell?”

Dean glanced at Rowena—still not looking up from her book—then stood and walked over to mattress. Hell was hooked up to MSNBC, and they were running some breaking news story about a billionaire who’d been found dead in his house. Dean counted it good riddance, but a look at Her and Sammy made him double take.

“He was found this morning by his house keeper,” the news anchor was saying. “In a scene that police have described as gruesome and rancid. And let me tell the people at home, just standing outside the house,” she shook her head, wrinkling her nose. “Whatever happened, it smelled.”

Shit.

“We don’t think-“

“The read the police report,” She said, wrapping her arms tight around her stomach. “They death shows all the signs of an animal attack, but the only footage they recovered from the camera is the guy letting people in about an hour before.”

“People,” Sam muttered. “Who were all already dead a weak ago from the same kind of animal attack.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean sat down, staring at the TV. “What the Hell would they want with some rich asshole? And- So freakin’ publicly. They’ve spent months under the radar, it doesn’t make any sense.”

She hummed, pulling Her knees to her chest. “Why would Eve let them destroy her nests,” she murmured. “Why would they need you and me for anything.”

“Because they’re doing a spell.”

All three of them froze and looked to Rowena. She still hadn’t looked up from that goddamn book.

“What do you mean?” Sam said. “Doing a spell? What- What kind of spell-“

“Well, how would I know that, Samuel.” Rowena rolled her eyes, and She sat up on the mattress.

“But- This can’t be a spell-“

“Oh, little tiger.” Rowena gave Her a flat look. “You know better than to say anything can’t be a spell.”

Her mouth opened, and closed. Her fingers curled in the sheets as she moved to her knees, and Dean muttered her name gently.

“What’re you thinking?”

“I-“ She shook Her head, lips pressing in a tight line. “I think I need to call Jo.”

Jo picked up in two rings for Her, and they started to talk in hushed voices. She paced around the room. Dean sat next to Sam, his leg bouncing, and fought the urge to ask her to put it on speaker phone. From what he could make out, this was a spell. Rowena looked too smug for it not to be, and She kept telling Jo about ingredients and shit. Dean glanced at Sam to see if he was tracking any of this. He looked just as lost as Dean, which was never an awesome sign.

“Just- Yeah, that’s good.” She muttered, glancing over at Dean. “We figured that out, and- It still doesn’t make sense- No, Rowena doesn’t know either.”

Jo said something else, and She swallowed.

“I know. I know. We won’t be. See you soon.” She hung up, and turned back to a waiting Sam and Dean. “We can’t be here.”

Dean frowned, exchanging a look with Sam. “We, uh- We kinda knew that, sweetheart, gotta be out before Eve-“

“No,” She shook her head.  “If they need you and I for the spell, it means Crowley might be putting up reinforcements before we try. We need to move, now.”

“But- What about this,” Sam raised his cuff, and She shrugged.

“I’ll make Crowley take it off.” She rolled Her neck, pulling off her jacket and tossing it into Dean’s lap. “I’ll be fast. Try not to kill too many demons, they’ve been nice. De, as soon as Sam’s cuff goes off, get everyone to the car.”

“I- That’s-“ Dean shook his head, moving to his feet. “If you’re about to try to pull this by yourself-“

“I’m not going to try,” She shrugged. “I am.” She gave him a small, deeply unreassuringly smile. “De, I’ve got it under control-“

“No, you don’t.” He took a step forward, hissing through his teeth. “Princess, we just had a talk about you and- Not having control-“

“Well, I’m fine now-“

“Yeah, you say that until you’re not-“

“Dean-“

Dean snapped Her name, and she went quiet. “I’m telling you, no.”

Her eyes narrowed. Dean didn’t let himself flinch.

I love you. “You and me, Princess,” he muttered, holding Her glare. “You say you’re gonna jump in a river, I wait on the bank. I tell you not to do something, you, for once,” he took another step forward, until they were almost pressed together. “Listen to me.”

Her nostrils flared. The power was pouring out of Her again, but Dean didn’t back down. He raised his brows in challenge, and Her scowl deepened. She wanted to do this, She’d have to go through him. And She wouldn’t. Dean might not know much, but he knew that.

“Fine,” She muttered, and Dean smiled.

“There you go,” he cooed. “That wasn’t hard, was it-“

“I can still stab you.”

“I know,” Dean kissed Her hairline, squeezing the back of Her neck. “Thank you, baby.”

He said that last part low, so Sammy and Rowena wouldn’t hear. She grunted, but leaned against his lips. Dean turned back around, giving Cas a tight smile.

“You think you can find the car, or do I need to jerk off in it first?”

Dean got gut punched for that one. He laughed, kissing Her cheek before marching over to Rowena, ripping her book out of her hand, and telling her it was time to earn her damn keep.

It was almost  embarrassingly simple and easy. They could’ve done it five days ago, if they’d paused to think. She and Cas would stay with Sammy until the cuff came off, then get him to the car. Dean and Rowena would deal with Crowley, then meet them at the exit.

Dealing with Crowley just meant storming him at dinner. Dean marched in, Rowena sealed the room and froze Crowley so Dean could draw the blood.

“What the hell is this-“

“A coupe, you son of a bitch,” Dean snapped, pulling out the needle. Crowley’s eyes widened, and his mouth curled in a sneer.

“After all the kindness I showed you, this is how you repay me-“

“Yep,” Dean shoved his arm up, pushing down for a vein. “I’d say sorry, but,” he shrugged, pressing the needle in. “I’m really fucking not.”

Crowley glared at him, as he took out the blood. Dean really didn’t care.

“Free Sam,” he stood up, shoving the blood in his jacket. “Or I let Mommy blow up your fuckin’ castle.”

Rowena waved with a beaming smile, and Crowley’s eyes narrowed.

“You bitch-“

“Language, Fergus,” Rowena scolded. “You free the boy, now.”

Crowley scoffed, and looked back to Dean. “You, You- don’t understand what you’re doing, what Eve will do-“

“I think I got it real clear,” Dean shrugged, crossing his arms. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Crowley freed Sammy. Dean knocked him out, and gave Rowena a tight nod. She was already out the door.

“You’re kind of a crap mom,” he muttered to her as they made for the exit, and she laughed.

“Please. He’s a horrid, ungrateful son.” 

Dean glanced back over his shoulder. That felt like one of those things he was gonna get monologued at about later, but right now, he forced the unease out of his gut. She, Cas, and Sammy were waiting in the car. She hugged him, and Sam gave him a small, thankful nod. They took off out of hell, no blood, no tears, no fight. The sunrise to Earth was red. They breached somewhere in California with two out of the five ingredients for their spell.

How hard could the rest of it be?

✦chapter 70

✦End note: crowley you're a star

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)

The grave didn't look like it used to when he first came here anymore.

Back then, after delaying actually visiting your grave for as long as his conscience allowed him to, Bucky had known that it wouldn't be easy to face this.

He'd been right. It hadn't been easy.

As a matter of fact, Bucky had broken down the second he'd read your name on the gravestone, more than grateful that Sam had insisted on coming with him, because he was pretty sure that he would've stayed there for the whole night if it wasn't for him, just staring at your grave as if that would make your death any less real.

As if it would be enough to bring you back to him.

It didn't, of course, but the human brain sometimes had a funy way of planting hope were sun could never actually reach to make it bloom.

Looking back on it, Bucky didn't think that the grave had been what set him off, at least not in the way he'd expected.

After he'd found out that you'd still been alive, living in a small nursing home in Brooklyn whilst he was all the way across the world in Wakanda, he'd promised himself that he would come to visit you, no matter what consequences going back to the US might bring for him.

Then the blip happened and before he knew it, yet another five year of his life had been taken from him.

After coming back, he had to come to the realization that during his absence, the inevitable had happened.

You were dead.

He'd known that it was going to happen, of course. Bucky wasn't stupid, after all, and 102 already was an impressive age, considering that you didn't have the same bullshit running through your veins like him or Steve did.

He'd just thought that he would have more time.

The grave had been in a horrible state when Sam and him first got there, which probably hurt the most.

His sister still had family that was taking care of hers, people he didn't really have anything to do with, but they kept it neat.

Whenever he visited, there was already a boquet of flowers sitting where he added his, the occasional candle burning sometimes.

You didn't have any of that.

Wether your family didn't care or you didn't have one, he hadn't known at the time.

After a little bit of research that Sam had done for him, Bucky now knew that you never actually had kids, let alone got married again.

That was enough of a reason for him to take the complete responsiblility for your grave, making sure that it was in good state again, visiting as often as his tight schedule allowed him to, because he would be damned if anyone ever walked past it again, smiling in pity because they thought that there weren't any people that cared about you to maintain it anymore, which couldn't be further away from the truth.

Bucky cared about you. And now that he couldn't tell you that in person anymore, he could at least make sure that all the love he carried in his heart had a place to go, which happened to be the place you were buried.

Bucky'd made a promise, after all.

On the evening before his deployment started, when you'd cried because you'd been so scared of never seeing him again, Bucky'd promised that he would come back to you.

He'd made it a pinky promise, too, well aware of how much those meant to you.

Sometimes, he liked to think that it had been the only reason he'd survived that hellhole of a place he'd spent more than seven decades of his life in, the gravity of what he'd promised you back then stronger than any pull towards death could ever be.

Unfortunately, he still hadn't been able to keep his promise to the extend he'd actually wanted to.

He did come back to you, just like he'd said he would, you just weren't alive to witness it anymore.

Now your grave was the only thing he had left of you, so he made as much of it as he could.

Sam had once tried to gently tell him that it maybe wasn't exactly the healthiest way of coping, but Bucky couldn't help it. 

He was thinking about you all the time anyway, so it didn't matter if he spent his time doing it at home or if he came to visit you.

The weather was nice when Bucky made his way to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was already a regular at by now.

He tried to get you flowers at least once a week, just like he used to when he took you out on friday nights, a tradition he knew you'd always looked forward to even though you had always scolded him for spending his money on that kind of stuff.

Bucky never cared, though. He did his damn best to treat you well, taking on a few extra shifts whenever he could so money wouldn't be too tight at the end of the month.

To be able to afford your engagement ring, he'd worked so much that he actually passed out on the job once, nearly crushing himself under one of the crates they always had to unload from the cargo ships.

You'd been mad as hell when you'd found out and Bucky'd only gotten half of the usual pay for the shift, but it'd been enough money for him to get the ring just in time for when he had the proposal planned.

Even though his whole body had ached for the next to weeks, you'd said yes when he had asked you to marry him, the two of you standing under the starts of Brooklyn, the moon illuminating your face beautifully when you threw yourself into his arms, knocking him over from where he was kneeling on the ground.

That had made all the strain he'd put on his body more than just worth it.

The weather was nice when Bucky made his way over to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was a regular at by now.

The familiar bell chimed when Bucky entered the flower shop, all the flowers shining with how the sun illuminated them. 

The young girl that worked at the shop sometimes looked up from where she was organizing some stuff, face lighting up immediately when she noticed that it was him, already familiar with Bucky because of how often he came here.

He never got you the same boquet- mostly because he thought that you'd find it endearing how excited the kid always got when he told her that she could put together whatever she wanted to, but also because he was sure you'd like the variety of it.

It wasn't like he really had a budget, anyway.

Now that he didn't have to worry about that kind of stuff anymore, there was nothing that could ever be too expensive for you.

"What's up, Mr. Barnes? Anything in particular I can do for you today?" Bucky almost had to smile at that. She never failed to check in with him, even though he could already see her fingers twitch against the counter, more than ready to get creative again.

"Nah, kid. You go ahead, don't let me stop ya."

She didn't need more permission than that and quickly made her way over to the buckets overflowing with color, hands reaching for all different kinds of flowers that Bucky couldn't even name if he tried.

"Can I ask you something, sir?"

Even though her eyes were still focused on the boquet she was currently arranging, Bucky could hear the nerves in her voice, which intruiged him a little too much to shut her down. He wasn't usually one for nosy questions, butt he supposed he could deal with them for once. "Go ahead, kiddo."

"Does your wife ever say anything about the flowers? It's just that you come here so often and always let me do whatever I want, doesn't she have any preferences?"

There was something so endearing about the innocent curiousity of teenagers, Bucky just couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.

"You got nothing to worry about, kid. She always loves them."

Bucky supposed that keeping the answer vague was a little better than actually lying, because he was certain that you would love the flowers. You'd adored the colorful ones the most, claiming that the uncertainty of what the next boquet he'd get you looked like was what made you look forward to receiving them the most.

You'd always made a game out of it, too, trying to get behind the pattern he used to chose the flowers.

There wasn't one, if he had to be honest. He always just picked whatever he thought suited you best.

"Well, I'm glad she likes them. She's really lucky, you know, It's cute that you do this for her so often."

Now, he couldn't help the quiet rumble of laughter that slipped past his lips. "Trust me, I'm the lucky one. This is the least I can do."

He should probably not be doing this. He should just tell her that his wife wasn't alive anymore, that he didn't get you flowers because he was such a great husband, but because they were for your grave.

He couldn't bring himself to do that, though. No matter how pathetic it might seem, it was nice to escape the reality of his life and just pretend that you were sitting at home, preparing pancakes for breakfast whilst he walked the familiar route to the florist, coming back home afterwards instead of going to the cemetery.

Maybe in another life that was the reality he got to have.

Not in this one, though, but he still liked to imagine sometimes.

"May I ask how the two of you met?"

Finished with picking all the flowers and seemingly happy with the result, the kid walked back to the counter again and started wrapping the boquet with practised ease.

She seemed to notice that Bucky didn't actually mind her curiousity, he noticed that she got more comfortable asking questions which was actually pretty nice to witness.

It was refreshing to talk to someone that didn't carry the usual wariness most did when talking to him.

"We go way back, actually. Been friends for ages before we started dating."

"Naw, that's cute. Friends to lovers is the best trope, actually. Hands down."

Bucky wasn't entirely sure about what that meant and made a mental note to ask Sam about it later, even though he would probably just make fun of Bucky's lack of knowledge about pop culture again.

She didn't keep asking questions, seemingly aware that any more questions might border on being too personal, which Bucky appreciated. So instead of feeling the need to keep the conversation going, she just handed the finished boquet over to him.

"That'd be fifty dollars, Mr. Barnes."

Bucky didn't hesitate to hand over a crisp hundret dollar bill, dismissingly waving his hand as she reached for the change. "Keep it, kiddo. Boquet's looking extra great today, thank you."

He grabbed the flowers and left before actually giving her a chance to answer, because he wasn't really up for an unnecssary discussion about whether or not the money was too much for a tip.

The kid was respectful and friendly, and Bucky was a grown man. It was for him to decide what he wanted to spend his money on.

Besides, if she even had to work on the weekend, maybe she could use it.

The remaining walk from the florist to the cemetery was quick, especially because Bucky was eager to get there as soon as possible. 

When he was still a young boy, Bucky never understood how visiting someone's grave would actually help to miss them a little less.

Now, he couldn't imagine going without it anymore.

In the beginning, talking to you had felt a little akward and weird, but he'd gotten usd to it by now. He didn't stumble over his words as much anymore and instead talked for hours on end sometimes.

He occasionally told you about missions, but it was mostly things that made him think of you or that he thought you would like if you were still here to experience them with him.

He often apologised, too.

Sometimes because he hadn't held his promise like he thought he would, other times because you'd lost him before the two of you ever got to live together properly.

You'd been freshly married back then, only four months into being Mr. and Mrs. Barnes before war took him from you without either of you actually being able to do anything about it.

Sitting on the grass in front of your grave now, sun shining down onto his back whilst the birds chirped in the background, something settled in his chest.

It wasn't uncomfortable like the anxiety he used to carry everywhere he went. In fact, it felt really close to something that could resemble contentment.

Bucky liked the life he got to live right now. 

He liked that he got to go on missions with Sam, but that they weren't what he spent the majority of his time anymore.

He adored his apartment in Brooklyn, had people in his life that he loved and cared about and got to visit you whenever he pleased.

He could finally spend his life the way he wanted to, not having to worry about money or war or the freezing cold of cryostasis running through his body anymore.

He was free.

And even though he really did enjoy his life after years of learning who he was again, he knew that he wasn't afraid of death either.

Bucky wasn't sure if an afterlife and heaven were things that existed for people like him, neither if he even really believed in that kind of stuff.

He was certain that he would get to see you again, though. After all, eight decades had passed since Bucky had fallen of the train and you never tried to love someone else again, didn't get married again.

You'd kept his name, and Bucky realised that the choice you made, the fact that you let him have the honour of being your husband until the very last moment of his life, was enough to reassure him that everything was going to be okay.

After that day, Bucky still came to your grave at least once a week. He still left the girl at the flower shop too big tips and told her about you, but he didn't hold onto you as anxiously as he did before, when it felt like you slipped through hands more and more with every second that he got to live and you didn't

Now it felt like he got to live his life, just like you lived yours, before the two of you would be reunited again.

And when he was lying on the battleground five years later, too much of his blood already covering the ground for him to have any hope anymore, he didn't feel scared.

Sure, he was going to miss Sam. He'd also miss Joaquin, Sarah, the kids and the flower girl, but he knew that they were going to be okay.

Just he was going to be okay, after his eyes grew heavy and he left the world with a smile that pulled on his lips, truly at peace for the first time in what felt like forever, because he knew that when he'd open them again, you'd be there with him.

And now, the time the two of you'd get wouldn't be limited.

Now, it was truly going to be forever.

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.