Smutty Side Blog!

You rolled your neck, the ache of a long day finally settling in your muscles.

Normally you didn’t mind staying late. But lately there had been distractions.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. The two men that haunt your dreams—keep your thoughts a little entertaining during lonely nights—their mere existence has been the biggest distraction you'd ever seen.

They worked a few floors above and every time your eyes met with either of the blue ones, your breath lodged itself inside your chest.

Not that either of them did anything inappropriate. If anything, they were polite.

Professional.

There were moments, when the lines seemed to blur before snapping back to focus again.

Steve’s hand lingering a second too long when he passed you a file.

Bucky leaning against the breakroom counter watching you like he was starving. The glances they passed each other whenever you walked by.

But there were rumors. Whispered words between interns and agents alike, how the two men belong to each other. That the shared history is now on its way to a shared future. That it's beautiful—the blood that spilled is now blood that heals.

And you respected the rumors too much to ever cross that line.

So you ignored the way your eyes search for them in rooms.

Ignored the way Bucky’s voice sometimes dipped lower when he spoke to you.

Ignored the way Steve smiled at you like he knew something you didn’t.

You ignored everything.

The elevator dinged softly when it arrived. The metal doors opening with a quiet swish, and the sight that welcomed you made you wish you were at home— in the comfort of your bed— so you could relieve yourself of the itch that awakens upon seeing both of them.

Steve Rogers stood near the control panel, jacket slung over one arm, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, veins that looked like they were drawn on.

Bucky Barnes leaned against the mirrored wall beside him, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, metal hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket.

Both of them looked up at the exact same time. Two pairs of curious eyes taking you in—no hint of professionalism to be seen anymore.

Steve smiled first, “Hey.”

Licking his lips, his eyes dipped down to your cleavage before snapping back onto your face, “Long day?” he asked gently.

“Mhm.”

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft thunk. The space suddenly felt very small. The scent of their combined colognes dancing in the air, filling your senses. Bergamot. Earthy musk. A hint of lilies. Rain.

You took a deep breath in, feeling one with them. Behind you, Steve adjusted his buckle, smirking at the brunet.

The elevator hummed as it began descending, floor numbers ticking down slowly.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

“Didn’t expect to see you here this late,” Bucky said, voice deep and raspy.

“I was stuck with the client. Timezones…” you mumbled.

Silence settled again.

You glanced up at the mirrored panel across from you and immediately regretted it—both of them were looking at you— gazes dark and hungry.

Your pulse skipped.

Seven.

Six.

Focus.

Just ignore them. Get home.

Five.

The elevator jolted. The lights flickered.

The hum of the machinery died abruptly, leaving a sudden heavy quiet in its place.

For a second, none of you moved.

Then the emergency lights flicked on, bathing the elevator in dim blue.

Your heart sank down to your stomach,

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bucky breathed, shaking his head in…amusement?

Steve stepped forward toward the control panel— ever the captain— still taking charge of the situation, his hands on your lower back as he guided you away, and the elevator suddenly felt even smaller than before.

He pressed the emergency button, to no avail. He tried again. Only to find the same result.

Still nothing.

A slow, strange tension filled the air. You felt smaller than you've ever felt in your life. Stuck in a small space with two large men that also happened to be the subject of all your unspoken fantasies.

You didn't realise you were panicking until Steve stood in front of you, tipping your face up by the chin, “You're alright. We're right here, aren't we?”

You didn't know what to do. All you could feel was his thumb stroking your jaw, his warm breath caressing your skin, his strong body pressed impossibly close to yours.

“What do you think you're doing, Steve? Let her breathe… poor thing's scared.”

Bucky.

You felt two hands snake around your waist, pulling you in till your back met a solid chest.

“She's so scared….baby, you scared of the elevator? Or are you scared of us? Hm?” He nosed along your throat, lingering on your erratic pulse before licking the skin there.

Your hands shoot up to Steve's chest—feeling the strength corded through his muscles beneath your palm— “Steve…”

“Oh honey… you weren't expecting this, were you? Bucky and I… we're not blind. We see the way you shy around us.”

Bucky's lips continued sucking on your neck, “We hear the way you talk about us,”

Chucking, Steve slid his hands down to your neck, down to your chest, unbuttoning your blouse with torturous patience —

“We smell the way that greedy little pussy drools for us.”

With the last button undone, he slides the silk down your arms, exposing your lacy bra to both the men.

Bucky barked out a laugh, “You really wear this underneath all the sweet little shirts, huh?”

You gasped as they groped each tit in their hands, kneading and caressing over the lace.

Bucky unclasps it from behind, his movements revealing his, no doubt, experienced confidence. With your bare tits finally in their sight, they groaned in delight, Steve's hips bucking against yours instinctively, desire flowing in his veins.

“Look at her Buck, so much prettier than we imagined.”

You swallowed down the whimper that threatened to escape when he wrapped his mouth around one of your nipples—the other man's fingers twisting and plucking the other, making sure they both get their share of attention.

Your hands weave through his hair, tugging at the roots as he continued sucking your achy nipples.

Steve groaned against your chest as he pulled you away from Bucky—hard enough to send him stumbling back a step— grabbing you by the back of your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist.

Ignoring your startled little noise, he slammed his lips against yours, big hands roaming your back and reaching down to squeeze your ass. His tongue roamed inside your mouth—playing with yours—teeth biting your lower lip until they were swollen and tingling with pleasure and pain.

“Fuck, angel— wanted you so bad… you're gonna make us feel so fucking good.”

He captures your lips in a filthy kiss, muffling your whines as Bucky rips your pants off in one clean move. Palming the softness of your curve as he removes the scraps of the fabric, pulling apart your cheeks to look at the leaky mess.

“God… I'm gonna ruin that pussy…”

With stupid ease, Steve turned you over, your back nestled against his broad chest, his hands under your knees as he pushes them up against your chest. His hard cock pressed against your ass, reminding you of the sheer size of him, just how much stronger he was than you.

Your drippy pussy was now on full exposure to Bucky.

He smirks as he studies your face, each expression flashing across your face like a storybook.

He kneels down—right there on the cold floor—face to face with your heat. Fingers trailing up your calves to your thighs, each brush of his hands igniting a heat inside you unlike any you've ever experienced.

His lips tug up in a crooked smile as he looks up—not at you, no— at the man holding you all spread up and open for him.

“She's crying so pretty f’me Steve. Wanna taste her?”

Steve laughs at that— a breathy, cocky sound—“Princess, you listening to this? He thinks you got this wet for him. Tell him the truth…”

Your words got lost in your throat as you felt two thumbs part your folds. Your hips jerked up on their own accord at the gentle exploratory touch, urging Steve to hold you tighter—hitching you up higher, till his chin touched the top of your head.

A drop of your arousal dripped down from your entrance, clenching at nothing. Bucky collected your juices on his finger, smearing it back to your pussy, rubbing it on your clit with gentle swipes.

“Bucky! Don't look down there—”

“Uh-uh. No need to hide from us…don't you trust us?”

With that he licked a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, humming loudly in wicked delight, relishing in your taste that he'd been craving like a madman.

“Fuck—she tastes so good, Stevie,” he groaned against your pussy, dipping his tongue inside your hole to taste more of you. You moaned out loud, your thighs closing on themselves—but unable to with Steve's vice-like grip on you.

“Yeah? Gimme a taste…”

Pulling away from your pussy— his beard drenched in your juices—he stood up to his full height. Fluttering his fingers up your ribs and caressing your nipples, he leaned in to kiss the blond. Lips moving with each other in tandem, you could only watch as they drank each other —drank you— in.

His hands left your tits and grabbed Steve's jaw to deepen the kiss, both men panting in each other's mouths, chasing each other with desperation.

Steve broke the kiss with a sigh, licking his lips, “yeah…she does taste good.”

“Hear that, angel? He likes how this sweet little pussy tastes…”

His words went straight down to your core, your pussy begging for any sort of relief now, any friction, anything.

“Please, Bucky…”

“Please what? Use your big girl words now.”

“Please touch me…”

“Aww...such a good girl for us. Gonna make you feel so good now, angel. Gonna make you regret not coming to us sooner….these fingers just never did the job, huh?”

You were on the verge of tears now, being in such a vulnerable position and being talked to, teased to, but never touched as you wished to.

“Bucky…please.”

Cooing at your pained voice, he dipped his fingers inside your entrance in one clean push. Your back arched in Steve’s arms as pleasure tickled at your nerve endings.

“Yeah? You like that?”

He pulled his fingers out, wet and shining, a string of your arousal connecting him to you, slowly pushing back in, following a slow rhythm.

Your eyes flutter close with each pass of his fingers against that one soft spot against you. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as you try to keep in your breathy whines.

“Open your eyes, honey. Look at his fingers inside your pussy, isn't he doing good?” Steve asked you, his voice rough and thick with arousal, his raging hard on grinding against your ass.

“Hmmm…so good…”

His thumb came up to massage your clit, and your toes curled in your heels, vision blacking out as fireworks burst behind your eyes.

“Oh God, Steve…” you threw your head back, nuzzling Steve’s neck as Bucky continued pressing against that soft, gummy spot inside of you.

“You're clenching so hard, angel…you're gonna squeeze his cock so good,” he rasped, eyes twinkling at the thought of Steve pounding into you.

It was instant, the way Steve put you back down and slammed you roughly against the wall, hand at the back of your head to shield you from any pain. Still so thoughtful.

“Gonna fuck you so hard now, love, you'll be screaming nothing but my name…” he purrs against your neck, nipping and licking over the marks left by Bucky.

His hands went to his belt buckle—shaky but determined—to free out his hard cock.

It was beautiful.

That's all you could think. Hard and throbbing and leaking precum all over the blushed tip, veins adorning his length all over.

That was a beautiful cock if you've ever seen one.

Noticing your dazed expression, he smirked, “like what you see?”

“So much, Captain. You're so beautiful…”

He paused at that. A sudden air of vulnerability seemed to drape itself over him.

Bucky strolled over behind him, hands stroking his back and pressing a tender kiss to his neck, “the most beautiful man ever…”

Steve's eyes glistened in the dead blue of the emergency lights. He took a shaky breath—composing himself.

Looking back down at your naked body, all wet and ready and waiting desperately for him, he felt grateful.

He felt loved.

Bending down to consume you in a kiss, pouring every thing he couldn't speak into your mouth.

Bucky’s hands dipped down, palming Steve's cock, dragging the head of his cock up and down through your folds, rubbing over you clit—making you cry out with how deliciously dirty this whole situation was.

“Gonna put him inside you, sweetheart…”

The first inch of him inside had you squirming against him. The girth unforgiving, almost too much as it slowly slid in.

Almost.

He bottomed inside you with a deep groan, the veins in his neck bulging out with his controlled restraint that was fraying at the edges.

Bucky cooed at him, hands playing with his balls as he whispered praises into his sweaty skin.

“Fuck— she's tight.”

His hand came up to your neck, holding you. Not choking, just resting there, letting you feel the weight of him.

He pulls out, only to slam in again—harder, keeping a brutal rhythm.

His hips slammed into yours again and again, his cock filling you up in ways you'll feel him forever.

“Such a good boy, Stevie…. You're doing so good.” Bucky rubs his bulge over Steve's hips, using his thrusts inside you for his own pleasure. His cock pulsing with each push, even through the layers of his clothing.

You moan out a name—you didn't know whose— your walls clenching with each thrust, your juices coating your inner thighs. Not that you cared about the mess.

"Oh god—Buck…” Steve whined, turning his head to kiss the brunet.

Your legs were shaking, if not for the wall and Steve’s grip on you, you'd have not been standing upright. Your eyes shut close as you could feel the knot inside of you tightening with each passing second, before finally coming undone. You come with a scream, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

Your pussy clenching and fluttering against his cock push him off the edge, his hands tightening on your throat as his head falls backwards on Bucky's shoulder, guttural sounds from deep inside his chest filling the small space.

His hips lose their rhythm, twitching with each wave of bliss he went through. Hot streaks of cum fill you up, making you shudder in delight at the foreign feeling.

Bucky was the last to let go, coming in his pants, still not stopping to rub his sensitive cock against Steve.

Your pussy gaped with protest when he pulled out, his cum dripping out of you. He smiled at that, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, before straightening up and looking back at Bucky—

“You can start the elevator now, Buck.”

well, it's finally here. I was struggling real bad with this. Changed out a few parts cus I just wasn't feeling bucky.

Oh and also, please please please come drop any filthy thoughts in my inbox. Requests are open. I've lost it for bucky. 🥹

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. The two men that haunt your dreams—keep your thoughts a little entertaining during lonely nights—their mere existence has been the biggest distraction you'd ever seen.

I relate.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bucky breathed, shaking his head in…amusement?

Abort, I repeat, abort!

“She's so scared….baby, you scared of the elevator? Or are you scared of us? Hm?” He nosed along your throat, lingering on your erratic pulse before licking the skin there.

Your hands shoot up to Steve's chest—feeling the strength corded through his muscles beneath your palm— “Steve…”

“Oh honey… you weren't expecting this, were you? Bucky and I… we're not blind. We see the way you shy around us.”

Bucky's lips continued sucking on your neck, “We hear the way you talk about us,”

Chucking, Steve slid his hands down to your neck, down to your chest, unbuttoning your blouse with torturous patience —

“We smell the way that greedy little pussy drools for us.”

“God… I'm gonna ruin that pussy…”

I would so let him.

Pulling away from your pussy— his beard drenched in your juices—he stood up to his full height. Fluttering his fingers up your ribs and caressing your nipples, he leaned in to kiss the blond. Lips moving with each other in tandem, you could only watch as they drank each other —drank you— in.

That was a beautiful cock if you've ever seen one.

OF COURSE IT'S BEAUTIFUL, IT'S STEVE'S!!!!!!

“You can start the elevator now, Buck.”

Those fuckers...

“Yeah,” you hummed, “Doesn’t seem much of a talker to me, either.”

“Why not try getting his number?” She shrugged as you glared at her. “Doesn’t hurt to try, right?”

“I’m pregnant, you fool.” you reminded her, deliberately pointing at the glass of water before you. “Who’d want to try and shack up with a pregnant broad?”

“You’d be surprised at that fact, actually,” She nudged your arm, but you hardly moved an inch. You knew all too well who that man sitting in the corner had been. After all, your growing belly was proof that you knew the man. But the bartender didn’t need to know the facts. You knew it was almost her job to get people drunk and hooked up.

“Fine,” you grumbled, choking back the remainder of the water in your glass as though it would give you courage and luck. Quickly you strolled over to the booth before settling down in the seat opposite the man. Without much acknowledgement in your direction, he continued to glare out the window, a finger running circles around the brim of the barely touched glass in front of him.

“Hey,” you pouted, almost afraid at what his words would be as he finally turned his head to look at you, fierce brow pulled up with a scowl at his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“You made sure of that, Y/N,” he scowled, turning his head to look at you with venom clouding his eyes. “Fucking leaving in the middle of the night with nothing but a text message on my phone and an empty spot next to me in your absence as a farewell, without so much as an explanation.”

“Buck, you can’t blame me,” you pouted, nearly shrinking into the seat, fear pooling into your chest. “I had my reasons.”

“I loved you,” he growled out, leaning over the table, his blue eyes glaring harshly in the dim lamp that hung above your table. “And what the fuck did that get me? A broken heart and an empty bed to sleep in; I should have listened to Zemo when he warned me that you weren’t all there in your fucking head. Fuck, you probably slept with all of them before you left.”

“Helmut has absolutely nothing to do with my decision to leave, Buck." you shook your head in defiance, nausea pooling in your stomach at the thought of cheating on him. "Nobody had anything to do with my decision to leave you. I know I did wrong, but-.”

“Then why the hell should I even talk to you?” he growled, leaning back in his seat with folded arms. “And since when the fuck have you called that man by his first- you know what? I don’t even want to fucking know that answer. Go, Y/N. Leave me in-” he became silent as you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, revealing the growing bump.

“You’ve gained weight,” he observed with a nasty scoff, “That is, I’m assuming?”

Quickly covering yourself, you shook your head. “No.”

“Why are you at a bar if you're fucking pregnant?” he leaned over the table again. You could feel the anger in his eyes. Not daring to look away, you sighed. “Tell me.”

“I’ve been watching you over the last few weeks, Bucky.” you admitted, tapping your fingers along the tabletop. “I’ve been missing you.”

“Don’t make me look like a fool.”

“Buck, the baby, it’s-” You couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Steve’s? Tony’s? Zemo’s, perhaps?”

You couldn’t help but feel incredibly offended. “Yours, you fuck.” You wanted to get up and walk away, never to see the man again after that assumption. Not believing he would ever assume that of you, you covered yourself up with your jacket before hurrying out of the booth. “I knew I shouldn’t have come; it was certainly a damned mistake.”

“Indeed, it was.” he growled. “DNA test when it’s born, or so help me.”

“Go fuck yourself, Barnes. You’ll be lucky if I allow you visitation after the shit you just said to me.”

“See you in court, darling.” He leaned back with a childish grin. Not wanting to cause a scene, you stormed out of the bar before getting in your car and pulling out your phone and erasing Bucky’s contact entirely. You’d be damned to hell if you ever allowed a man to treat you in such a way.

But twenty minutes later, you found yourself in front of a full-length mirror in a back dressing room, laced into something soft ivory with a fitted bodice, a slightly off-the-shoulder neckline, and a gentle tulle train that caught the light when you turned. It hugged your curves in all the right places.

And you—annoyingly—looked stunning.

“Oh no,” Wanda whispered from behind you.

“Oh no,” Natasha echoed.

You blinked. “What?”

Pepper leaned in from the hallway and gasped. “Oh my God. You’re done for. If Bucky sees you in that, he’s going to—”

A sharp ding from the boutique’s front door cut her off.

You all froze.

“…Was that the—”

“Ladies?” came a very familiar voice.

“Shit,” Natasha hissed, shoving a hanger at you. “Bucky’s here.”

“Why the hell is Bucky here?!”

"Who told him we'd be here?"

Pepper groaned. “I texted him to swing by to help pick up a gift bag I left in the car, but I didn’t think he’d come in—!”

Too late.

Bucky’s boots clunked across the polished boutique floor, his voice drawing closer as he called out, “Hey, Nat, you said it was in the trunk—wait, babe? You back here?”

Before you could even shout a warning, the curtain whipped open.

Bucky stopped cold.

His mouth dropped open.

You froze, wide-eyed, one heel half off, veil slipping sideways on your head like a drunk ghost. “I swear this isn’t what it looks like—”

But Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

His gaze raked over you slowly, almost reverently—like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real.

“That one,” he said hoarsely.

You blinked. “What?”

His eyes stayed glued to you. “That one. That’s it. That’s the dress.”

“Bucky, I—” you stammered. “We’re not even engaged, I was just—”

“We are now.” His voice cracked with something fierce and unshakable. “I’m not even joking. I’m gonna find a priest. A rabbi. Tony. Someone. You’re not taking that thing off until someone pronounces us married.”

Nat snorted behind him. “Jesus, Barnes, calm down—”

“I am calm,” he snapped, but his tone betrayed him—unhinged, elated, utterly overwhelmed. He stepped closer, eyes glazed and worshipful. “You—look at you. How the hell am I supposed to function knowing what you look like in that thing?”

You felt your heart trip over itself. “Bucky—”

“No, no. Don’t talk me out of it.” His hand curled gently around your waist, pulling you close. “We’re doing this. I’m putting a ring on your finger, you’re keeping this dress, and I’m legally binding myself to you before someone else sees you in it and I have to commit a crime.”

You laughed, cheeks flushing. “This is insane. We were just dating.”

“Not anymore,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “Now I’m yours. All the way.”

Your fingers curled in the lapel of his jacket.

“You’re serious?” you whispered.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

And just like that, Natasha was pulling out her phone to find a courthouse, Pepper was tearing up, and Bucky—Bucky looked like he’d just been handed the moon.

You should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve told him he was being dramatic, ridiculous, Bucky, with his hair a mess and his hoodie half-zipped like he’d run here straight from a mission. But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Not when he was looking at you like that.

Like you were the only living thing in a dead galaxy.

“Bucky,” you breathed, eyes darting to the others—Pepper discreetly dabbing at her eyes, Wanda beaming like she already knew this was written in the stars, and Natasha grinning like she knew her dare would end like this.

“I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “You think I didn’t know? The second I saw you—really saw you—I knew. This was always gonna be it for me.”

His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “You wearing that dress just made it impossible to pretend I could wait anymore.”

Your throat tightened. “But we never talked about—marriage. Or even living together.”

“I don’t care where we live,” he murmured, forehead pressing to yours. “I’ll sleep in your damn bathtub if I have to. I just want you. Waking up next to you. Coming home to you. Tying myself to you in every way I can.”

You could feel your pulse fluttering under your skin like a moth trapped in your ribcage. You wanted to say something smart, something grounded, something that might cool the fire in his eyes—

But instead you whispered, “Okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

And then—chaos.

Pepper shrieked. Wanda clapped. Natasha screamed, “CALLED IT,” and ran to grab a bottle of champagne off the nearest table. And Bucky—Bucky kissed you like you were oxygen and his lungs had gone dry.

“Wait—” you pulled back just a little, blinking. “Are we actually getting married today?”

“Yes,” Bucky and Natasha said at the same time.

“No,” Pepper said, already on the phone with someone. “You are not getting married without hair and makeup. I know a team.”

“I’ll get Tony to open the tower chapel,” Wanda said, typing furiously. “He owes me for that Sokovian dessert wine I smuggled back for him.”

“Wait, chapel—?” you blinked. “Tony has a—never mind, of course he does.”

“Dress is already picked,” Natasha smirked. “Now all we need is a ring.”

Bucky grinned, eyes never leaving yours. “Already got one.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He fished in his jacket pocket—because of course he had it on him—and pulled out a small velvet box, sheepish and smug all at once.

“I was gonna wait,” he muttered. “Till your birthday. Or Valentine’s Day. Or a meteor shower. Some dumb romantic crap. But clearly the universe decided today was the day.”

He opened it. Simple. Elegant. Yours. A platinum band, thin and glinting like starlight, set with a single dark sapphire—midnight blue, stormy and fierce, just like him.

Your hands trembled when he slid it onto your finger. It fit perfectly. You couldn’t stop staring at it. You couldn’t stop smiling. “Holy shit,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, resting his forehead against yours again. “You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“God help me,” you murmured, and kissed him.

----

You weren’t even sure how it all happened so fast. One minute you were being dragged into a makeup chair, the next you were in a penthouse rooftop chapel lit with candles, Tony officiating in a suit and sunglasses, Steve giving Bucky his tie because his was wrinkled, and Bruce holding up someone’s dog as a makeshift ring bearer.

You and Bucky barely heard the words. You were too busy smiling. Laughing. Crying. Gripping each other’s hands like lifelines.

And when he kissed you again—really kissed you, as husband and wife—the rest of the world fell away. Just you. Just him. The dress. The dare. The forever. All of it. Yours.

--

//PLEASE REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED!\\

Bucky's arms encircled you from behind, a protective barrier of strength and tenderness that made your heart swell even in this hazy state. His flesh arm draped across your waist, fingers splayed possessively over the soft curve of your hip, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. The metal arm, cool yet reassuring in its unyielding precision, rested higher, just beneath your breasts, the vibranium surface a stark contrast to the heated flesh pressing against your back. 

His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm against your spine, each breath a gentle puff of air that tickled the fine hairs at the nape of your neck, sending subtle shivers down your arms.

He was still deeply asleep, his body lax in a way that was rare for the super soldier - vulnerable, unguarded, the lines of tension that usually etched his face smoothed away in repose. You could feel the faint stubble on his jaw brushing against your shoulder as he shifted ever so slightly in his slumber, an unconscious nuzzle that drew a soft smile to your lips. 

The room was silent save for the distant hum of the city awakening outside and the rhythmic cadence of his breathing, a sound that grounded you, made the world feel smaller, safer, just the two of you in this shared sanctuary.

That warmth from his body seeped into yours gradually, starting as a comforting embrace that chased away the faint chill of the morning air seeping through the window cracks. It wrapped around you like a living blanket, radiating from his broad frame and enveloping every inch of your form where you pressed against him. 

Your back molded to the hard planes of his torso, the defined ridges of his abdomen and the subtle flex of muscles, even in sleep, making you acutely aware of his physicality. 

But as consciousness sharpened, that warmth began to shift, evolving from mere comfort into something more insistent, more primal. It spread lower, a slow, insidious heat that bloomed in your belly and trickled downward, pooling between your thighs like molten liquid igniting your nerves.

Your skin tingled where it met his, the thin barrier of his boxers and your panties doing little to dull the growing awareness. You became hyper-focused on the subtle press of his hips against the curve of your ass, the way his body instinctively sought closeness even in dreams. 

There, nestled against you, you felt the first stirrings of his arousal - a thickening firmness that nudged insistently through the fabric, warm and unyielding as it rubbed against the cleft of your cheeks with each shallow breath he took. 

It wasn't aggressive yet, just a natural response of his body to your proximity, but it sent a jolt straight to your core, awakening a hunger that had simmered through the night.

Your pulse quickened, a flush creeping up your neck as the heat intensified, your own body responding in kind. 

The warmth spread like wildfire now, licking at your inner thighs, making your folds ache with a sudden, needy throb. You bit your lip, suppressing a soft exhale, not wanting to wake him just yet - not when this moment felt so deliciously stolen, so intimately yours to savor. 

The air in the room seemed thicker, charged with unspoken promise, and you shifted experimentally, pressing back against him just a fraction, feeling that hardness twitch in response, growing firmer, longer, as if even in sleep, Bucky's body recognized your invitation.

The sensation was intoxicating - the velvety heat of him through the cotton, the way it pulsed faintly against your skin, hinting at the power coiled within. 

Your mind raced with memories of the previous night, flashes of his hands gripping your hips, his mouth claiming yours, but this was different: tentative, exploratory, born of pure instinct. 

The warmth continued its descent, settling deep in your pussy, where a slickness began to gather, your arousal seeping through your panties in a slow, teasing drip. Every nerve ending hummed, alive and demanding, urging you to bridge the gap between sleep and awakening with something raw, something unfiltered.

You lay there, heart pounding in your ears, the golden light now fully illuminating the room in soft gradients of amber and peach. 

Bucky's scent enveloped you - earthy, masculine, with a hint of the soap from his shower the night before - mixing with your own growing musk of desire. His arms tightened imperceptibly in his sleep, pulling you closer, and that hardening cock pressed more firmly now, sliding along the seam of your ass with a friction that made your breath hitch. 

The heat was undeniable, a living entity that demanded attention, spreading through your veins like liquid fire, making your nipples pebble against the fabric of your shirt, your clit swell with anticipation.

In that suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only this: the cocoon of his embrace, the escalating warmth that promised ecstasy, and the undeniable pull toward indulgence. 

Your body arched subtly, seeking more contact, more of that delicious pressure, as the first tendrils of true arousal coiled tight in your core, ready to unravel into something explosive.

The temptation proved too strong to resist, your body thrumming with an insistent need that demanded immediate attention. 

With deliberate slowness, you arched your back just a fraction more, pressing the soft globes of your ass firmly against the hardening length of Bucky's cock. The fabric of his boxers stretched taut over his growing erection, and you rolled your hips in a subtle, grinding motion, seeking that elusive friction to ease the ache building between your legs. 

Each gentle rub sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, the heat of him nestling deeper into the cleft of your cheeks, his shaft thickening further in response to the unconscious stimulation. 

But instead of quenching the fire, the contact only fanned the flames higher, your pussy clenching emptily as slick arousal coated your inner thighs, the wetness seeping through your panties in a warm, insistent trickle.

Your breath came in shallow, controlled puffs against the palm of your hand, which you clamped firmly over your mouth to stifle any sound that might betray your secret indulgence. 

The room remained hushed, the only disruptions the faint rustle of sheets as you shifted and the distant chirp of birds greeting the morning outside. 

Bucky's body responded instinctively to your movements, his hips twitching forward in his sleep, pushing his cock more insistently against you, the tip now nudging at the base of your spine with a rhythmic pulse that mirrored your own racing heartbeat. 

The sensation was maddening - his warmth enveloping you, the rigid heat of his arousal grinding back with lazy, dream-fueled thrusts that made your clit throb with neglected hunger.

Unable to hold back any longer, your free hand trailed downward, fingers trembling slightly as they slipped beneath the elastic waistband of your panties. The air felt cool against your heated skin for a brief moment before your fingertips encountered the slick, swollen folds of your pussy. 

You were drenched, your arousal coating your fingers immediately as you parted your labia with a feather-light touch, exposing the sensitive nub of your clit to the morning air. It pulsed under your attention, engorged and begging for relief, and you began to caress it with agonizing slowness - circling the hood in tiny, deliberate strokes that built pressure without granting release.

Each pass of your fingers sent waves of electric pleasure radiating outward, your thighs quivering as you fought to keep your movements minimal, not wanting to jolt Bucky awake too soon. 

The dual sensations overwhelmed you: the steady grind of his cock against your ass, now fully hard and straining, leaking a damp spot through his boxers that smeared against your skin; and the intimate self-touch that had your hips bucking subtly, chasing more of that delicious friction. 

Your muffled whimpers vibrated against your hand, the taste of your own skin salty on your tongue as you bit down lightly to maintain silence. Sweat beaded on your forehead, the room's temperature rising with your internal heat, the scent of your arousal mingling with Bucky's to create a heady, intoxicating atmosphere.

Deeper you delved, your fingers dipping lower to gather more of your wetness before returning to your clit, rubbing in firmer circles now, the slick sounds barely audible over the pounding of your heart. 

Bucky's metal arm shifted slightly in his sleep, the cool plates pressing into the underside of your breast, sending a contrasting chill that only heightened the blaze in your core. His flesh hand flexed against your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if sensing the disturbance, but his breathing remained even, deep and undisturbed. 

The friction from his cock grew more pronounced with every subtle roll of your ass, the head of it catching on the edge of your panties, threatening to slip beneath the fabric and press directly against your bare skin.

Your body tensed, teetering on the edge of climax, every nerve alight with the building tension. The slow caresses on your clit accelerated just a touch, your palm muffling a desperate gasp as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly, ready to snap. 

Yet you held back, savoring the torturous build, the way Bucky's unconscious body fed into your fantasy, his arousal a silent partner in your solitary act. 

The morning light brightened, casting golden hues over the tangled sheets, illuminating the flush on your cheeks and the way your free hand gripped the pillow for leverage, knuckles white with restraint.

The crescendo of pleasure had built to an unbearable peak, your fingers slick and trembling as they circled your clit one final time, but you forced yourself to pull away before the wave could crash over you. 

With a shaky breath muffled against your palm, you withdrew your hand from the damp confines of your panties, the cool air kissing the wetness on your fingertips and sending a shiver through your overheated body. 

Strings of your arousal clung briefly to your skin before breaking, leaving a glistening trail that you absentmindedly wiped on the sheet beside you. 

Your heart hammered in your chest, a wild drumbeat echoing the unresolved tension thrumming in your core, but the sight of Bucky's peaceful form compelled you to shift your focus, to turn toward him and drink in the man who ignited such fire within you.

Carefully, you rolled onto your side, the mattress dipping slightly under your movement as you faced him fully for the first time that morning. His arms loosened just enough to allow the pivot, the metal one sliding coolly along your waist before settling against the curve of your hip. 

Bucky's face lay inches from yours now, softened in sleep, the sharp lines of his jaw relaxed into something almost boyish, vulnerable. His dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, long and thick, casting faint shadows in the strengthening dawn light that filtered through the curtains. A faint scar traced the edge of his brow, a remnant of battles long past, but in this moment, it only added to his rugged allure, making him look every bit the warrior at rest.

You couldn't help but stare, your gaze tracing the full curve of his lips, slightly parted as if whispering secrets to his dreams, the stubble shadowing his chin and upper lip like a promise of rough kisses to come. 

His hair, tousled from the night's sleep, fell in disheveled waves across his forehead, one stubborn strand curling rebelliously over his eye. 

With infinite tenderness, you reached out, your fingers - still carrying the faint scent of your own desire - brushing lightly against his temple. The touch was feather-soft, reverent, as you tucked that errant lock behind his ear, exposing the shell of it and the pulse beating steadily beneath the skin. 

His breath hitched for the briefest second, warm and even against your wrist, but his eyes remained closed, his body lax and unyielding to wakefulness. 

He was magnificent like this, unguarded and serene, the super soldier stripped bare to the man you loved with a ferocity that bordered on ache.

A swell of emotion rose in your chest, warm and expansive, pressing against your ribs until it felt as though your heart might burst from the sheer volume of it. 

Love - for his quiet strength, for the way his hands, both flesh and vibranium, held you like you were the most precious thing in his fractured world; for the scars he bore, visible and hidden, that you kissed away in the dark; for the rare smiles he saved just for you, lighting up those stormy blue eyes. 

It overflowed, this affection, spilling into every fiber of your being, making your throat tighten and your eyes prickle with unshed tears of joy. 

You leaned in closer, your nose brushing the warmth of his cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of him - clean soap from last night's shower mingled with the earthy musk of sleep and the faint, lingering trace of your shared passion from hours before. He was yours, in this stolen moment, and the depth of that possession filled you with a profound, aching tenderness.

But the fire in your veins demanded more than admiration; it craved action, connection. 

With deliberate care, you began to extricate yourself from his embrace, your body moving in slow, fluid motions to avoid disturbing his slumber. 

First, you lifted his metal arm gently, the plates whirring almost imperceptibly as you guided it to rest on the pillow where your head had been, the cool surface leaving a ghost of chill on your skin. His flesh arm followed, your fingers prying his grip from your hip with whispered apologies in your mind, though he didn't stir. 

Inch by inch, you slid downward, the sheets whispering against your legs as you descended the length of his body. The warmth of him enveloped you even as you moved away - his chest rising and falling beneath your trailing hand, the ridges of his abdomen flexing subtly under your palm, the V of his hips leading your eyes lower.

You paused at his waist, your breath catching as you took in the sight of his arousal, still tenting the thin fabric of his boxers with insistent rigidity. 

The outline was unmistakable, the thick shaft straining upward, the head outlined in a darker patch where pre-cum had seeped through, darkening the cotton. His balls hung heavy below, shifting slightly with each breath, and the coarse hair at the base peeked from the waistband, dark and inviting. The scent of him grew stronger here, musky and male, mingling with your own arousal to create a potent cocktail that made your mouth water and your pussy clench anew. 

Kneeling between his spread thighs now, you leaned forward, your hair falling like a curtain around your face as you pressed your lips to the fabric-covered bulge.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle press of your mouth against the heat of his cock, feeling the pulse of it jump under the barrier. Your lips parted slightly, tasting the salt of his pre-cum through the damp spot, the flavor sharp and addictive on your tongue. 

You lingered there, nuzzling closer, your nose brushing the underside where the vein throbbed visibly, your breath fanning hotly over the material. Bucky's hips shifted in his sleep, a low, unconscious rumble vibrating in his chest, but his eyes stayed shut, his face turning slightly into the pillow as if chasing a dream. 

Emboldened by his continued slumber, you traced the length with your lips, kissing along the rigid outline from base to tip, your hands resting lightly on his thighs to steady yourself. The muscle there was firm, corded with power even in repose, and you savored the contrast - the softness of your mouth against his unyielding hardness, the way his body responded instinctively, the tip weeping more fluid that soaked through to meet your next kiss.

Your own desire reignited with fresh intensity, your clit pulsing in rhythm with his cock's subtle twitches, your panties now thoroughly soaked and clinging uncomfortably to your folds. 

But you held back, content for now to worship him in silence, to build this intimate ritual until the moment he stirred. 

The room filled with the soft sounds of your adoration - the wet smack of your lips, the rustle of fabric, the quickening of his breath that hinted at the edges of wakefulness. Outside, the birdsong grew louder, the light brighter, but here, in this cocoon of sheets and shared warmth, time stretched endlessly, wrapped around the two of you.

The temptation proved too strong to resist any longer, your lips hovering over the damp fabric of Bucky's boxers as your pulse thrummed in your ears, a siren call urging you onward. 

With painstaking care, you hooked your fingers under the elastic waistband, the cotton warm and slightly stretched from his arousal. You tugged it downward inch by inch, peeling the material away from his skin with the delicacy of unwrapping a fragile gift. 

The head of his cock sprang free first, flushed a deep pink and glistening with a fresh bead of pre-cum that caught the morning light like a pearl. 

You held your breath, watching for any sign of stirring - his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, his face still slack with sleep - but he remained lost in dreams, oblivious to your ministrations.

Slowly, you eased the boxers lower, exposing the full length of his shaft. It stood proud and rigid against his abdomen, the thick vein running along the underside pulsing faintly with his heartbeat. The skin was velvety smooth over the unyielding hardness, a contrast that made your mouth water anew. Coarse dark hair framed the base, leading down to his heavy balls nestled in the sac below, tightening slightly as the cooler air kissed them. 

You maneuvered the fabric past his hips, bunching it around his thighs without letting it snag or pull, your movements fluid and silent like a shadow in the dawn. The scent of him intensified, raw and intoxicating - musk laced with salt, filling your senses until your head swam with need. 

Finally, with the obstacle cleared, his erection bobbed free, settling at a slight angle toward his stomach, the tip weeping another drop that trailed down the crown.

Kneeling there between his legs, your thighs pressed together to ease the ache building in your core, you leaned in closer. Your breath ghosted over his exposed skin, warm and teasing, causing the shaft to twitch in response. 

Emboldened by his continued slumber, you extended your tongue, flat and broad, and dragged it along the underside from base to tip in one long, deliberate stroke. 

The taste exploded on your palate - salty pre-cum mingled with the clean, masculine essence of his skin, slightly bitter at the edges but utterly addictive. You savored the texture, the way the vein ridged against your tongue, the subtle give of the flesh yielding to your pressure. 

His cock jerked at the contact, a low groan rumbling deep in his throat, but his eyes stayed closed, his body arching instinctively into the sensation without full awareness.

You traced him again, this time swirling your tongue around the base where it met his body, lapping at the sensitive skin there before gliding upward in lazy circles. Each pass grew bolder, your saliva coating him in a shiny sheen that made the length glisten. 

Reaching the head, you paused, your lips brushing the flared ridge as you lapped gently at the slit, collecting the fresh pre-cum that oozed out. The flavor was sharper here, more concentrated, and you hummed softly against him, the vibration sending a ripple through his length. 

His hips shifted minutely, thighs tensing under your hands, but sleep held him fast, his breaths deepening into something more ragged.

Unable to hold back, you parted your lips and took the head into your mouth, sucking with the tentative eagerness of a kitten nursing. Your tongue flicked over the underside, pressing into the sensitive skin as you hollowed your cheeks, drawing him in with gentle suction. The crown filled your mouth, hot and smooth, pulsing against your palate as you nursed at it - soft pulls alternating with light laps, your teeth grazing ever so lightly to add a spark of edge. 

Saliva pooled around him, dribbling down the shaft in thin rivulets that you chased with your tongue on the next upward stroke. 

Bucky's metal hand flexed on the pillow, fingers curling into the fabric, and a soft, unconscious moan escaped his lips, his brow furrowing in that hazy space between dream and reality. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, thrilled by the power of your touch to elicit such responses without rousing him fully.

The act of pleasuring him reignited the fire in your own body, your pussy clenching emptily as slickness gathered between your thighs. 

Your free hand, which had been gripping his thigh for balance, slipped downward, diving beneath the waistband of your panties without hesitation. The fabric was sodden, clinging to your swollen folds, and you pushed it aside roughly, your fingers finding the wet heat of your entrance immediately. 

No teasing this time - you plunged two fingers inside your pussy in one smooth thrust, the stretch burning sweetly as your walls gripped them tight. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming: the slick glide, the way your inner muscles fluttered around the intrusion, the obscene squelch that echoed faintly in the quiet room.

You pumped your fingers slowly at first, matching the rhythm of your mouth on his cock - suck, thrust, lap, curl. Each drive sent jolts of pleasure radiating outward, your clit throbbing untouched but swollen with need, brushing against your palm on every inward push. 

Your pussy wept around your digits, arousal coating your hand up to the knuckles, dripping down to wet the sheets below. The dual sensations built a feedback loop: the taste of him on your tongue sharpening the ache inside you, the fullness of your fingers mimicking the cock you craved, pushing you toward that precipice once more. 

Your breaths came in shallow pants through your nose, muffled around Bucky's length as you took him deeper, your lips stretching to accommodate more of him.

His responses grew more pronounced now - the twitch of his cock against the roof of your mouth, the subtle rock of his hips seeking more friction, the quickening pace of his chest. A bead of sweat formed at his temple, his stubble-darkened jaw clenching as if fighting the pull of wakefulness. 

You curled your fingers inside yourself, seeking that spongy spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, rubbing it relentlessly while your thumb circled your clit in frantic swirls. The pressure coiled tighter, your body trembling on the edge, every nerve alight with the intimacy of this secret worship. 

The room seemed to narrow to just the two of you: the wet sounds of your mouth and fingers, the shared heat of your bodies, the unspoken promise of what would come when his eyes finally fluttered open to claim you fully.

The coil of pleasure wound tighter within you, your fingers buried deep in the slick heat of your pussy, curling against that sensitive ridge that sent sparks racing up your spine. Your mouth worked Bucky's cock with increasing fervor, the head bumping the back of your throat as you sucked harder, saliva mixing with his pre-cum to create a messy glide. 

You teetered on the brink, your clit pulsing under the press of your thumb, every muscle in your body drawing taut like a bowstring ready to snap. Orgasm hovered just out of reach, a tantalizing promise that would shatter you in waves if you let it - but then a wicked thought pierced the haze of your arousal. 

Why settle for the solitary rush when you could shatter around him, feel his thick length stretching you from the inside as you came undone? The idea ignited a fresh surge of need, hotter and more insistent, making your walls clench greedily around your invading fingers.

With a reluctant whimper muffled against his skin, you withdrew your mouth from his erection, the wet pop echoing softly in the sun-dappled room. His cock glistened with your spit, standing rigid and flushed, the tip swollen and leaking steadily now, a testament to how close your attentions had brought him even in sleep. 

Strands of saliva connected your lips to the crown for a lingering moment before breaking, and you licked them away, savoring the lingering taste of him - salty, earthy, uniquely Bucky. 

Your hand emerged from your panties next, fingers slick and shining with your own arousal, the cool air kissing the wetness and making you shiver. You brought them to your lips briefly, sucking them clean with a quiet moan, the mingled flavors of your essences blending on your tongue in a heady cocktail that only fueled your impatience.

No time for undressing, no desire to break the spell of this hazy morning intimacy. Your t-shirt hung loose over your breasts, the thin cotton rasping against your hardened nipples with every breath, sending fresh tingles southward. Your panties, soaked through and clinging to your thighs, would stay on - just shifted aside like an afterthought. 

Heart pounding, you rose on unsteady knees, the mattress dipping under your weight as you positioned yourself above him. 

Bucky lay there still, his chest rising and falling in deeper, uneven rhythms, his metal arm draped loosely across the sheets, fingers twitching faintly as if chasing echoes of pleasure in his dreams. His face remained serene, lips parted slightly, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw catching the light. 

But his body betrayed him: hips shifting restlessly, cock bobbing with need, balls drawn tight against his body.

You swung one leg over his hips, straddling him with careful precision, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs. 

The heat radiating from his skin seeped through the thin barrier of fabric between you, making your core throb in anticipation. Leaning forward, you braced one hand on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm - faster now, syncing with your own frantic pulse. 

With your free hand, you reached down, gathering the drenched crotch of your panties and shoving it roughly to the side. The elastic bit into your skin, the exposure immediate and electric: cool air on your dripping folds contrasting with the inferno building inside you. Your pussy lips parted slickly, arousal trickling down to coat his waiting shaft as you aligned yourself above him.

The first contact was exquisite torture - the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance, parting the swollen folds with ease thanks to how thoroughly you'd prepared yourself. 

You sank down slowly, inch by torturous inch, impaling your body on his length. The stretch was immediate and profound, his girth filling you completely, the veined underside dragging along your inner walls in a way that made your vision blur. 

A gasp tore from your throat as you bottomed out, your ass settling against his hips, his cock buried to the hilt inside your clenching heat. The sensation overwhelmed you: the way he pulsed within you, hot and unyielding, pressing against every sensitive nerve; the fullness that bordered on too much, yet exactly what you craved; the obscene squelch of your combined wetness as you adjusted to him. 

Your clit ground against his pubic bone, the friction sending jolts straight to your core, and you rocked your hips experimentally, a shallow grind that had stars bursting behind your closed eyelids.

You shut your eyes then, surrendering to the precipice, your body trembling as the orgasm you'd denied yourself crested higher. Every breath came ragged, your breasts heaving under the t-shirt, nipples scraping the fabric like live wires. The world narrowed to the point of connection: his cock throbbing deep inside, your walls fluttering around him, the building pressure in your belly coiling like a spring about to unleash. 

You could feel it coming, the inevitable crash that would milk him dry, waves of ecstasy radiating from where you were joined. Just a few more seconds, a little more grind, and you'd tip over…

But curiosity - or perhaps the need to see his reaction - drew you back. Your eyelids fluttered open, heavy with lust, and your gaze locked immediately onto his face. 

Bucky's eyes stared back at you, wide and stormy blue, no longer veiled by sleep. The shock mingled with raw hunger in his expression, his pupils blown dark with desire, lips curving into a slow, predatory smile as realization dawned. His hands moved then, one flesh palm gripping your hip with bruising force, the other - metal, cool and unyielding - sliding up your thigh to hold you in place. 

He hadn't stirred fully until that moment, but now he was awake, utterly, his cock twitching inside you as if to emphasize the point. The air between you crackled with unspoken promises, the morning light casting shadows that danced across his features, turning the tender intimacy into something fiercer, more demanding.

Bucky's eyes darkened further as they held yours, that predatory glint sharpening into something almost feral, his breath coming in short, heated bursts that ghosted across your skin. 

Without warning, he flexed his hips upward in the barest hint of a thrust - a subtle roll that drove his cock just a fraction deeper into your welcoming heat. The movement was deliberate, controlled, but it was enough to send a ripple of sensation through your core, his thick shaft nudging against that bundle of nerves inside you that made your vision swim. 

Your pussy responded instinctively, the walls fluttering and contracting around him in tight, involuntary spasms, gripping his length like a velvet vice as the first tremors of your denied orgasm threatened to resurface. Slick arousal coated where you were joined, easing the friction even as your body clung to him, every inch of him buried deep and pulsing with his own restrained need.

A low, rumbling chuckle escaped his lips, vibrating through his chest and into your palm where it still rested against him. 

“Couldn't wait for me to wake up, doll?” His voice was rough, gravelly from sleep and laced with amusement, but undercut by a husky edge of desire that made your stomach twist. The endearment rolled off his tongue like a caress, intimate and teasing, his Brooklyn accent thickening the words into something that wrapped around you as surely as his arms had earlier.

You nodded slowly, the motion tentative, your cheeks flushing with a sudden wave of shyness that felt at odds with the bold hunger that had driven you moments before. When he'd been lost in slumber, you'd been all audacity - fingers delving into your own wetness, mouth devouring his cock with unrestrained greed - but now, under the weight of his gaze, you felt exposed, vulnerable in the best way, your boldness melting into a soft acquiescence. 

Your lips parted on a quiet exhale, but no words came; instead, you dipped your head slightly, lashes lowering as you bit your lower lip, the contrast between your earlier daring and this newfound timidity only heightening the electric tension humming between you.

His free hand - the flesh one - tightened on your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh just enough to anchor you, while the metal one remained firm on your hip, cool plates shifting minutely against your skin. 

He watched you for a beat, that smile tugging wider, before his voice dropped lower, coaxing. “Tell me, what did you do when I was asleep? Did you touch yourself?” 

The question hung in the air, explicit and probing, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your pulse thunder in your ears.

Another nod from you, quicker this time, your breath hitching as the admission sent a fresh gush of warmth between your legs, your pussy clenching around his cock in response. 

The fullness of him inside you amplified everything - the way your inner muscles rippled, the slick slide of him against your sensitive walls, the way your clit throbbed against the base of his shaft with every subtle shift. 

Bucky's expression shifted, hunger etching deeper lines into his features, his jaw clenching as if he could feel every quiver of your body echoing through his own.

Satisfied with your silent confession, he eased his grip just enough to grant you movement, his hands guiding rather than restraining. 

You began to rock your hips in a languid rhythm, a slow back-and-forth that dragged his cock along your channel with exquisite deliberation. The motion was unhurried, each withdrawal pulling him nearly free before you sank down again, the head of his erection catching on your entrance before plunging back in with a wet, audible schlick. 

Your panties, still shoved aside, chafed lightly against your inner thigh, the fabric damp and twisted, adding a layer of raw, improvised intimacy to the act. 

Pleasure built in languorous waves, your breasts bouncing gently under the t-shirt with each rise and fall, nipples pebbling harder against the cotton as friction sparked through you.

“Which hand?” Bucky murmured, his voice a low growl now, laced with that insatiable hunger that made his pupils dilate even more. 

He leaned up slightly, propping himself on one elbow, his gaze flicking down to where your bodies connected before snapping back to your face, devouring the sight of you astride him.

Hesitant at first, then with a shy lift of your arm, you raised your right hand - the one that had delved into your panties, fingers still faintly sticky with the remnants of your arousal despite your earlier tasting. The air felt cool against the drying slickness on your skin, a subtle reminder of your secret indulgence. 

Bucky's eyes locked onto it immediately, his breath quickening as he released your hip without a second thought. His flesh hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist in a firm but gentle hold, his callused palm rough against your softer skin. He drew your hand toward his face slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the anticipation, his metal fingers flexing on your thigh in rhythm with the motion.

When your fingers hovered near his lips, he paused, inhaling deeply, his nose brushing the tips as he sniffed. The scent of you - musky, sweet, utterly intoxicating - filled his senses, and a visible shudder ran through him, his cock twitching hard inside your pussy, making you gasp at the sudden jolt. 

His eyes fluttered half-closed for a moment, lost in it, before his tongue darted out, flat and warm, lapping at the lingering traces of your wetness. He licked with thorough intent, starting at the base of your fingers and working upward, sucking each digit into his mouth one by one. 

The heat of his tongue swirled around them, cleaning away every drop with a hungry suction that mirrored how you'd worshipped him earlier. Saliva glistened on your skin anew, mixing with the faint remnants of your essence, and he hummed in approval, the vibration traveling up your arm and straight to your core, where your walls squeezed him tighter in response.

The act was possessive, reverent, his gaze never leaving yours as he savored you like a man starved, the raw intimacy of it pushing you closer to that edge you'd danced along since waking. 

Your slow rocks faltered for a second, hips grinding down harder as pleasure coiled anew, the morning light spilling across his features and highlighting the fierce devotion in his eyes.

“Wanted to... Wanted to come around you,” you admitted, your voice a husky whisper laced with need, the admission hanging in the air like a plea. The words tumbled from your lips in a breathless rush, fragmented and honest, as if the confession had been building alongside the pressure in your core.

Bucky's eyes darkened further at your words, his pupils dilating with a hunger that mirrored your own, his chest rising and falling in sync with the quickening pace of your body. He didn't interrupt, didn't demand more; instead, he absorbed it, letting the vulnerability fuel the intensity between you.

“Feels so good,” you moaned next, the sound spilling out unbidden as your hips accelerated, the movements turning frantic and uneven, chasing that shattering release with single-minded desperation. 

Your thighs burned from the effort, muscles flexing and releasing in rapid succession, but the ache only heightened the sensations rippling through you. Each downward plunge took him deeper, your pussy swallowing his cock whole before you lifted almost off him, only to slam back down with a wet slap that echoed in the room. 

The friction built relentlessly, his thick shaft gliding through your soaked folds, the head bumping insistently against that sweet spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Bucky's hands on your hips guided you now, not controlling but encouraging, his fingers splaying wide to feel the tremble in your flesh. The metal one hummed softly with the subtle vibrations of its mechanisms, a cool counterpoint to the feverish heat of your skin, while his flesh hand kneaded the soft give of your ass, pulling you down harder onto him. 

He thrust up to meet you, his hips snapping with controlled power, driving his cock into your clenching heat with precision that sent shockwaves through your body. Your clit dragged against his pubic bone on every grind, the pressure coiling tighter, your inner walls spasming around him in warning flutters that had you gasping.

Sweat beaded on your forehead, trickling down to mix with the flush staining your chest, your t-shirt clinging damply to your curves. 

Your breasts bounced with the rhythm, nipples pebbled and aching for touch, but you couldn't spare a hand to soothe them - both palms pressed flat against his chest for leverage, fingers curling into the sparse hair there, nails scraping lightly over his skin. 

Bucky groaned low in his throat, the sound rumbling up from his chest and vibrating through you where your bodies connected, his cock twitching inside your pussy as your erratic pace milked him relentlessly. He could feel your impending climax in every detail: the way your breaths came in sharp, staccato bursts, the quiver in your legs as they clamped around his waist, the flood of arousal that eased his every thrust, making obscene, squelching noises fill the space.

“Yeah, that's my girl,” Bucky rasped, his voice roughened by restraint, blue eyes locked on yours with an intensity that pinned you in place. 

“Take what you need - cum all over my cock, just like you wanted. I can feel you squeezin' me, doll, so fuckin' close.” His words washed over you like a caress, pushing you higher, your moans escalating into cries as the tension snapped. 

Your hips stuttered, grinding down one final time as the orgasm crashed through you, your pussy convulsing in powerful waves around his length, pulling him deeper with each pulse. Cum gushed from you, soaking his balls and the sheets beneath, your body arching back as ecstasy ripped through every nerve, leaving you shaking and spent in his unyielding hold.

Bucky's grip on your hips tightened with a sudden, possessive urgency, his body shifting beneath you in a fluid motion that caught you off guard. 

Before you could fully process the aftershocks rippling through your limbs, he rolled you onto your back with effortless strength, the mattress dipping under the combined weight as he settled between your spread thighs. The cool sheets pressed against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the fire still smoldering in your core, your pussy slick and sensitive from the orgasm that had just torn through you. 

He loomed over you now, his broad frame caging yours, muscles flexing in the dim morning light that filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the defined lines of his chest and abdomen.

His cock, still buried deep inside you, throbbed with unreleased tension, and without a word, he began to piston his hips forward in short, brutal thrusts. 

Each drive was forceful, his length slamming into your oversensitive walls with a rhythm that bordered on frantic, the head of his shaft grinding against your cervix in a way that made your breath hitch and your fingers claw at his shoulders. 

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scraping roughly against your tender skin, hot breaths puffing erratically against your pulse point as he chased his own peak. The scent of your shared arousal hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint musk of sweat and the lingering trace of sleep-warmed linens.

You felt every inch of him stretching you anew, your inner muscles fluttering weakly around his girth, still spasming from your climax as they milked him instinctively. His pace quickened, hips snapping with a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed off the walls, his balls drawing tight against your ass with each plunge. 

A low, guttural groan vibrated from his chest into yours, muffled against your neck, as his body tensed like a coiled spring. It didn't take long - your confession, the way you'd ridden him to your release, had pushed him to the edge. 

With a final, deep thrust that pinned you to the bed, he came undone, his cock pulsing hotly as ropes of cum flooded your pussy, spilling deep inside you in thick spurts that overflowed and trickled down to soak the sheets beneath. His breath came in ragged bursts, warm and uneven against your skin, his weight pressing you down as tremors shook his frame.

For several long minutes, neither of you moved, locked in that intimate tangle of limbs and labored breaths. 

Bucky's body draped over yours like a protective blanket, his forehead resting against your collarbone, the steady thrum of his heartbeat syncing with yours in the quiet aftermath. 

Your hands roamed lazily up his back, tracing the ridges of his spine and the faint scars that mapped his history, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his ribs as his breathing gradually evened out. 

The room filled with the soft sounds of recovery - the distant chirp of birds outside, the faint hum of the city awakening beyond the window - but here, time stretched languidly, your bodies cooling in the shared glow of satisfaction. 

Your pussy clenched sporadically around his softening cock, still nestled inside you, a reminder of the connection that lingered even as the intensity faded.

Eventually, as your breaths normalized into a calm, synchronized rhythm, you tilted your head to press a soft kiss to his temple. 

“Good morning, Bucky,” you murmured, your voice husky from the cries you'd let loose earlier, laced with a warmth that bloomed in your chest.

He lifted his head slowly, propping himself on one elbow to gaze down at you, his blue eyes soft and sated, crinkles forming at the corners as a lazy smile curved his lips. The morning light caught the flecks of silver in his stubble, making him look almost ethereal in his post-orgasmic haze. 

Without a word at first, he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a tender kiss that spoke volumes - slow and lingering, his tongue brushing yours gently, tasting the remnants of your shared passion. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was a gravelly whisper, full of affection. 

“Good morning, love.”

Your fingers continued their lazy exploration along the taut muscles of Bucky's back, tracing the subtle dips and rises of his spine with a feather-light touch that sent faint shivers through his frame. 

The warmth of his skin lingered under your palms, slick with a thin sheen of sweat from their earlier exertions, and you savored the way his body relaxed into your caress, the tension from his release melting away like morning mist. 

He shifted slightly above you, his weight still a comforting press against your body, but now it felt less urgent, more like an anchor in the soft afterglow. His metal arm, cool and unyielding, contrasted with the heated flesh of his other hand as it cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly over your jawline, following the curve of your lips with a gentleness that made your heart stutter.

Bucky's gaze locked onto yours, those piercing blue eyes softened by a depth of emotion that wrapped around you like a second embrace - pure, unfiltered love shining through the haze of satisfaction. 

The faint lines around his eyes crinkled as he studied your face, committing every flush and curve to memory, his expression a silent vow of devotion that needed no words. 

The room seemed to shrink around you both, the outside world fading into irrelevance as this intimate bubble held you captive.

“Not complaining, doll,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into yours, laced with a husky amusement that hinted at the fire still banked within him, “but what did I do to deserve such a nice awakening?”

A smile tugged at your lips, warm and playful, as you tilted your head into his touch, feeling the rough pad of his thumb graze your lower lip. 

The memory of his unconscious movements replayed in your mind, igniting a fresh spark of heat low in your belly. 

“You were grinding on my ass,” you replied, your tone light and teasing, the words carrying the weight of your shared secret.

His smile widened, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his breath mingling with yours in the scant space between your faces. The stubble on his jaw shadowed his grin, making him look boyish yet dangerously alluring. 

“Oh, got you all horny even asleep, did I?” he teased, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sent a delightful shiver down your spine, his fingers now threading gently through your hair, tugging just enough to elicit a soft sigh from you.

You nodded, the motion simple but affirming, your eyes never leaving his as a flush crept back into your cheeks - not from embarrassment, but from the raw honesty of the moment. His teasing held no mockery, only a shared delight in the spontaneity of your desire.

Without another word, Bucky closed the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that started slow and deepened with effortless intimacy. His mouth moved against yours with a reverence that belied the passion they'd unleashed moments before, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside to tangle with yours in a dance of warmth and taste. 

The flavor of him - salty from exertion, sweet from the tenderness - filled your senses, and you melted into it, your hands sliding up to cradle the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. 

Time stretched once more, the kiss lingering until you both parted with reluctant breaths, foreheads resting together in the quiet sanctuary of your bed.

Definitely, it was a very good wake-up - one that promised endless mornings like this, wrapped in his arms, lost in the rhythm of your bodies and hearts beating as one.

@metal-armed-muse , @greatenthusiasttidalwave

"Mind your own business." The drunkard hisses, and you hear his footsteps etch closer and you grip your stranger's jacket tighter.

"Back off." You hear a clatter, and a loud 'thump' as items from the shelves clatter onto the ground at the impact. One tomato can lands near your feet, bumping into your shoe. You lean slightly to the side, peeking to see what happened, and you spot the drunkard keeling on the floor, groaning as he tries to get back up.

"If you ever come near her again, I'll make sure you'll regret it. For as long as I can." Your stranger's threat is immediate, combined with his easy show of strength, even you feel intimidated by this man's presence. Once the drunkard managed to scramble up on his two feet, he scurries like a slippery rat, tripping over fallen cans as he runs off.

Your stranger watches, body tense as he makes sure the drunkard was truly gone before eventually turning back to you.

"You alright?" He asks, hands going up to your shoulders, rubbing up and down in a soothing motion.

You nod your head, still in a daze, not over the adrenaline high as you keep glancing back behind his shoulder to see if the drunkard will come back. His shoulder blocks your gaze again, his body shifting so he's your main focus.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure he won't look your way ever again." He reassures you.

You want to ask how he can guarantee that, but something about his firm grip, his steady voice- tells you that he can. Now that he's all up in your face and your mind isn't in complete survival mode, you can get a closer look at him. He's got recent bruises on his jaw, bandages around his knuckles and a crooked nose from a fight gone wrong. You also note the most beautiful green eyes you've ever seen.

He's a fighter, it's confirmed within one glance. Yet, you find yourself not wanting him to let go, your mind convinced he can protect you in your anxious state.

"You trust me?" He asks.

It's a silly question. Nobody should be trusted right now, your mind chastises. You don't even know him. Yet, looking into his concerned gaze, you can't help but answer with a yes.

"Good." He affirms, relaxing more now that he's sure you're not going to bolt. "I'm going to get you home, it's not safe for you to walk alone right now." It's not a suggestion, he's your chaperone for the night whether you like it or not.

He grabs hold of your hand, leading you out of the store. "What's the direction?"

"4th Avenue." You answer, but you're quick to ask your own question. "What's your name?"

You can't keep calling him 'stranger' in your head when he just helped you deescalate such a dangerous situation. If this was the last time you'll ever see him, you hoped to at least have the memory of his name.

He looks back at you, thinking. Eventually, he gives it to you. "Jason."

It suits him, as you eye his broad back facing you when he turns and pulls you along with a soft grasp to let you know you could break free whenever you wanted to. His walk is brisk, as if he has somewhere he's supposed to get to but you're a detour. Right, he looked like he was in a rush earlier when you first bumped into him.

"You can just drop me off at the subway." You tried to offer, suddenly feeling guilty. "I'll be fine after when there's people on-"

"No." He rejects outright. "Don't place your trust in Gotham's citizens. If something were to happen to you on the train, no one's coming to save you. They'll just pretend to save their own asses."

You can't deny his harsh words, growing quiet again. You both cross streets, and he swiftly shifts you to the right of the sidewalk, away from the road. His voice eventually cuts through the awkwardness. "What's yours?"

Yours? He's asking for your name? You answer, and he hums in response, repeating your name in a mutter. You can't stop the way your heart picks up at the sound of your name in his voice, soft and considering, completely unlike how he was earlier in the store when he had confronted the drunkard.

You think it's just the saviour admiration you've heard about from those silly videos about hot firemen, but you can't stop staring at him like he's a figment of your imagination conjured to protect you. It certainly doesn't help that he's exactly your type.

"You live alone?" He asks.

"Yeah, but it's usually fine down my neighbourhood. Nothing much happens."

"Nothing yet." He pushes back. He's off muttering to himself again before he looks at you. "What's the security measures at your place?"

"My lock?" You know it sounds horrible, but you've just recently gotten this place and the upfront deposit has taken out more from your bank than you can chew. You doubt you could even install a grill for the door right now considering your wallet.

He stares at you to cement the fact that he did not find your words funny. For some reason, his expression makes you giggle.

When he reaches your apartment, his expression grows more pained at your miserable small lock, as if it offends him that your words weren't really a joke. "Alright." He huffs. "This won't do."

"Yeah, my bank account disagrees." You rebutt.

"Your bank account won't have anything to do with this." He mutters, analysing your door with a disapproving look. "I'll come back tomorrow with a better.. everything."

Your brow furrows as you try to understand his words before realisation dawns you. "You're not going to buy me a new lock, or door! You've already helped me tonight, I can't possibly accept-"

"Good thing I'm not asking." He says with a smirk. You get the feeling he's not used to taking no for an answer.

"You're stubborn." You're trying hard not to smile as you say it, but your teasing tilt in your voice doesn't really carry any bite.

"Heard that one before." He scoffs. "Just to prove my case." He bends down near eye level with your lock, and takes out a pin. He sticks the pin in, twists it around with a focused expression. After a few clicks, your door pops open.

You can't hide the shock in your eyes. You knew that lockpicking existed, but seeing it with your own eyes, on your own door? It dawns on you how easy it is for you to get robbed.

He's waiting for you to say something, a satisfied smirk on his face to have been proven right. He looks like such a jerk in this light, but you can't deny it's ridiculously hot how his smirk slants to the side.

You roll your eyes. "Alright, fine. It's your loss."

He stands on his feet, and you're struck by his height. He leans on the doorframe, looking down at you with a serious expression. "Not a loss for me."

You can't help but feel hot under his eyes, and you avert from his intense gaze. "What time are you coming tomorrow?"

"Is it alright if I come earlier in the morning? Around 5?" He asks. "I have a... night shift."

You nodded in understanding, before your eyes widened. "Wait, isn't it like midnight now? Are you late for your shift?"

He chuckles at your words. "Don't worry about it. Why don't you head on in? I just wanna make sure you're safe first before I head off."

You don't know what's overcome you. The fact that you really made it home safe thanks to him, that he's willing to help fix your door, or the pure exhaustion that's now settling in. You wrap your arms around him for a moment, giving him a squeeze. Really, your arms can barely fit around him, but you're just so thankful.

"Thank you." You murmur, voice cracking with emotion. "You've no idea how much you've saved me tonight. Thank you."

He's silent, but then, you feel warm arms hug you back, patting you in a soothing manner.

"You don't have to thank me for saving you." He responds. "I would've done it no matter what."

When you part, there's no awkwardness in the air, only a soft knowing that you'll always be grateful to your stranger.

"Goodnight, Jason." You whisper, looking up at him with a smile.

He smiles back, and true to his word, he waits till you close the door. Only when you locked it with the soft 'click', do you hear his footsteps fade away.

It's five in the morning like he said, when you hear your doorbell. With a groan, you push yourself up from your bed with a slight confusion to who it could possibly be at this hour. It didn't take long for last night's memories to hit you and you forced yourself to the front door. Opening it, you don't know what you expected but being greeted with a boxes in your face wasn't one of them.

"Huh?" You muttered aloud, shifting your head to the left, and spotting Jason being the boxes.

"You mind?" He asks, and you realise you're blocking the way. You quickly step aside and he moves in, putting the boxes on the floor. You register a new lock, new bolt, new chain, new security camera..

"Are you building me a new door or something?" You joke.

He looks at you with a grimace, and only then do you notice how exhausted he looks. There's a new bruise at the side of his cheek too.

"Oh my god. Are you alright?" You ask, assessing his face before looking him up and down. Is that blood on his pants?

"Peachy." He grumbles. "I'll just get this fixed up for you before I leave, alright?"

"No way." You object. "Get your ass to the couch. I'm getting a first-aid kit."

Before he can argue, you've already moved to the kitchen, looking through your cabinets before finding the case. You hear a sigh audible enough from the distance and when you turn around, he's slumped on the couch, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling and leg placed on the coffee table to reduce the pulling of his wound.

You sat beside him, opening the first-aid kit on your lap. "So what type of night shift do you work to cause this? And you should've gone to the hospital."

For some reason, he laughs at your suggestion. "Haven't gone to the hospital since I was 15." There's some dark tone in his words, an inside joke you don't get. You shrug it off.

"Okay, I get that Gotham's hospital bills are insane, but so is thinking you can walk off a bleeding leg." You huff, assessing his wound to see how to clean it. "And you haven't answered my question on your work."

He thinks a little, before answering. "I'm a chef." Even he doesn't sound so sure about that.

You raise a brow. "A chef?"

"Yeah." He huffs, seemingly amused. "I don't look the cooking type?"

"No, I can get the rebellious chef image." You play along with it, even if you don't fully believe his words. "You seem like the type to yell in the kitchen for an order gone wrong."

"Yeah, some junior was completely off with his aim." He mutters dryly. "Knife went for my thigh instead of the meat on the counter."

"Must have been a shock." You murmur. "This is going to hurt a little."

You press the cloth dapped in alcohol to his wound, and he hisses. Maybe it's to distract him from the sting, but he continues to talk. "You'll find that in my line of work, injuries are pretty common."

"Yeah, that bruise on your cheek common too?" You pointed out.

He shakes his head, smiling again, his chest breathing easier once you took the cloth away. "Nah, that's just some asshole who thought he was better than me. Proved him wrong."

"Remind me not to be a chef." You mused, taking a look at his wound now that the blood isn't blocking your sight. "Well, you'll live to see another day. It's not the worst I've seen, only needs to be bandaged."

"You see wounds often?" He asks.

"My mother was a nurse." You answered with a soft smile. "She thought her children needed to have some survival skills in a city like this."

"Yeah, but apparently, she didn't teach you about home security." He laments.

You can't help but laugh as your hands wrapped the bandage around his thigh. "You're never letting that one go, are you?"

"Never." He says, and it feels like some forbidden promise. Like this will be a running inside joke years from now, when you're not even sure if you'll see him tomorrow.

The thought dampens the moment for you, and you realise you shouldn't get attached. Done with wrapping the bandage, you take the blood-stained cloth and first-aid kit into your hands. You want to move them to the sink, but something keeps you planted to your spot beside him. "You don't have to fix the door today, you must be exhausted."

In a way, you wonder if it's selfish for you to want him to come back. When he's already done so much for you, coming to you when he's injured? You shouldn't keep demanding his time. By the looks of him, it seems to be something he doesn't like to waste.

"No, I'll get it all installed in an hour." He promises, and your heart deflates. You shouldn't feel disappointed, not when it was expected. You barely knew him, and so far, you've been causing him more trouble than you're worth.

"Yeah." You answer weakly. "Sure."

You move to get up from the couch to bring the items in your hand to the sink, but he beats you to it with his hand coming to grip your wrist. You stared at the contact, of his large hand completely wrapped around your wrist before looking at him. He seems to be thinking of something to say, the same way you're trying to avoid asking him to stay. "I may-" He struggles with his words for a moment. "-have some additional stuff to bring back another time."

Your heart skips a beat at his words. Was he.. making an excuse to come back?

"Your windows." He gestures awkwardly. "Worse than your doors, really."

You stare at him, and a small laugh breaks out into a bigger one. You try to control your happiness, seeing his sheepish expression. "You going to revamp my entire apartment, Jason?"

He smiles at that. "Maybe? Do you want me to?"

You don't have to think twice about that. "Yes. I'd like you to."

"It's settled then." He murmurs, his fingers letting go of your wrist to hold your fingers like a loosened way of a handshake. "Nice to meet you officially. I'm Jason. Guess you're going to have to deal with me for awhile, miss."

You still remember your first glance of his forest green eyes, when he had pinned you down with a blade to the throat, believing you were an outsider to his territory. If the apprehending voice of Damian's grandfather had been a second later, he wouldn't have had a fiancée and you wouldn't have lived to see your seventh birthday.

His gaze when he had looked down at you all those years ago clings like an aching, never healing wound. Disappointment. He must've expected someone greater, who rivalled him in his physical prowess and intelligence. Instead, he had you pinned to the ground, shame colouring your features that silently screamed burden.

The worst part was that it was the complete opposite for you— because you admired him greatly. It didn't matter which version of him. Damian Al Ghul, who sharpened himself into a living weapon—a cold-blooded ruler, before he became the Bat's new protege. Damian Wayne, who somehow eased his way into less begrudging smiles, who fails to notice his pets' fur still clinging to the cuffs of his sleeves, who makes ill-timed jokes from his catalogue stolen from his older siblings.

That rare warmth he found here in Gotham hasn't and never will be extended to you. Still, you refuse to remain a burden, not to him.

You play your part as a useful shield in the one arena Damian still struggles to conquer—the social world. Despite his striking looks and quick wit, Damian's always held a shared disinterest in the politics of social snakes who mingled solely for their own selfish gains.

Maybe it was a guilty pleasure. For one single night, Damian was your betrothed, and you were his. Even if his fake smiles were plastered on too tight, or the brush of his fingers over yours set the scene of young lovers much too convincingly, you could let your mind rest and rely on his presence just this once.

His hand extends, placed at the small of your back as he leads you through the room to somewhere less crowded. Unconsciously, he occasionally rubs his thumb in comforting circles, sending goosebumps down your skin. It's easy to smile and exchange repetitive niceties while Damian's gaze remains locked ahead of his path. The polite act engraved into your bones, functions as your greatest defence for the both of you, slithering your way through.

You had already memorised the layout of the room before even entering it, and you know he knows that. So, Damian's decision to keep his skin in contact with yours, guiding you, must be purely performative. Skin-ship to lure the wolves into falling for the bait, as you eye many envious onlookers distancing themselves from Damian at the unseemly sight of his arm wrapped around your frame.

"Have you chosen a city for your further education?" Damian murmurs into your ear.

You have. Though you could never predict his line of thinking that could’ve possessed him to show vague interest in your decision. This wasn’t the first time his impulsive questions took you off guard from the routine you’re used to.

Your gaze narrows on him, trying to find his reasoning. "How I take my coffee in the morning wasn't enthralling enough for you?"

"Is Gotham one of your options?" He asks briskly.

Ah. Your gaze drops to the swallow in his throat, the tension in his question. He must be hoping you'd say no. Lesser the chances to be stuck in a suffocating room with you, performing duties for a faceless audience.

"If I say it is?" You test.

His gaze flickers, surprise adorning his features. It wipes itself away as quickly as it comes, and he gives a brief, imperceptible nod. "There are adequate institutions in the city. I can provide recommendations."

You raise a brow. "Of course, a future doctor already providing unneeded advice."

His expression thickens. “You think my chosen field does not suit me."

It blurts out before you can stop it. "No, I think it does."

He pauses. You wince.

"You do?" He asks, almost disbelieving.

"Is it that hard to believe?" You mutter, eyes fleeting around for a much-needed drink.

"I only wish to understand your sudden agreement." He pushes, unsatisfied with your vague answer.

"Damian." You sigh. "Of course you'll be an amazing doctor."

He watches you, trying to detect any deceit. His immediate suspicion triggers your nerves. You may not be able to stand him, but that didn't mean you were blind to his abilities or the empathy he tries to hide behind his permanent frown.

If he hadn't held a semblance of a heart, he wouldn't be here plastering on a fake mask much to his displeasure so you wouldn't bear the night alone.

He wouldn't be out at ungodly hours, working himself to the bone to ensure that there was always a protector in the night, to save someone's life so they could make it home.

He wouldn't have signed up for the most brutal course at Gotham's top medical university despite already having an inhuman schedule.

"If I thought you lacked the heart to save others, I would've laughed at your decision to remain with your father in Gotham." You don't know why you feel this need to explain yourself. It hardly mattered if you understood his decision. He wasn't someone who needed the approval of others before making his own.

"Gotham has changed you." You answer. "For the better. If I had to put my bets on anyone to be the best doctor in this entire city, it'd be you."

If it had been anyone else other than you, maybe they wouldn't have caught the parting of his lips, the rare astonishment in his eyes. It's brief, but enough to tell you that you have spouted enough nonsense for it to feel as if you ripped open a gaping wound for him to spit at.

"I need a drink." You mutter. "I'll be right back."

Your quick escape seems to have finally sent the message for a much-needed break from his presence. Compared to other occasions, he was—you wouldn't use the word 'clingy', but he was certainly acting as a guard dog around you tonight. Then again, there were newcomers at this ball who seem to be unaware that you're Damian's betrothed, opting to try for your hand whenever he was separated from you for too long. It should be a relief that he bothered to protect you—but it distracted your senses, being around him for too long.

It still stings that even after all these years, your complete belief in him hasn't faded at all. Or maybe it was the fact that he didn't even try to consider the possibility of you having faith in him.

Your glued frown finally serves a purpose, contrary to your mother's nagging, as it scatters the fidgety chickens around you to distance themselves, along with their prodding questions. Downing a glass of wine, it doesn't do its mandatory job of easing the vulnerability still pattering around in your chest.

"If it isn't the future Mrs. Wayne!"

It seems one wolf in particular has blinded senses of walking into the wrong territory.

Joaquin Reanes. A filthy, money-laundering jerk who pawns off his father's money from an instable empire that takes advantage of its many debtors to use as animals for unpaid labour.

"Reanes." You greet shortly, not even bothering to turn your body fully to grace him with your attention.

"I'm not surprised Damian's left you all alone, miserable at the bar." He sneers. "He's never been good company."

Your brow lifts slightly. "And what gave you the impression that you could talk down on my fiancé in front of me?"

"Admit it." He mocks coldly. "He's never going to go through with the engagement. Your finger will remain bare for as long as he desires, and from the looks of it, he doesn't seem so keen on having you as his."

Your grip on your glass tightens. A flash of his corroded hair, dead from extensive bleach, drowned in wine, appears in your mind. You swirl your glass once, considering.

"I, on the other hand—" His teeth gleams with predatory intent. "—wouldn't mind taking second-hand scrapes. How would you like to be a Mrs. Reanes?"

Your laughter, cold and piercing, echoes through the air. His smug expression falters.

"Over my dead body." You hiss, slamming down your glass to push your palm roughly into his chest, sending him stumbling back. "Even if Damian hadn't been my betrothed, I would rather die alone than end up with the miserable likes of you."

His mask drops, revealing an ugly wrath that matched his true colours. His hand swipes a free glass from the bar on instinct, as if he's done it many times before.

In a blink, a cold sensation drenches your shoulders. Your gaze drops down, unable to hide your disgusted shock. The bastard purposely spilled wine on you.

Your expression darkens, meeting his narrowed eyes that were filled with wicked intent.

"Oh, my apologies." His act doesn't even come close to the twisted excitement in his gaze. "My hand slipped."

To cause this display in a Wayne charity ball is declaring war. You didn't wait for any passersby to notice—no, you're fully prepared to start this alone. You can already imagine his rotten, bleached head smashed with glass and wine to match the stain on your shoulder, ruining his gleeful expression—only for a firm hand to wrap around your waist, brushing your drenched shoulder against a broad chest.

"Reanes." Damian's greeting barely registers past the goosebumps that spread along your exposed skin when you dare a glimpse of his expression. His eyes, swallowed by his darkened pupils and narrowed into sharpened blades, is filled with such loathing that even you're rendered speechless.

"Wayne." The slimy git greets, carefully manoeuvring his glass to hide his mocking smirk. "I was just having a lovely talk with your wife."

"Oh, wait." His pretence is an awful act. "My mistake. She is merely your fiancée. Has been for awhile according to the papers."

Damian's grip unconsciously tightens around you, puling you back discretely, his shoulder shielding you from the creep's intentional gaze.

"Having doubts, Wayne?" He taunts. "I've made my own concerns clear, though she seems to have mistaken my empathy. I was only conveying that if you take any longer to put a ring on her, it might suggest to others that she's easy to snatch away."

The atmosphere freezes. To say you're astounded at his audacity, his utter foolishness to not be terrified of Damian's wrath isn't enough. You're sure this moron has a death wish.

"Your confidence in your lacklustre charm is worth applause, Reanes." Damian's tone is so unbearably cold that it even makes you flinch. "Let's see if your will to survive is stronger than your pride."

"Is that a threat?" Reanes muses, but you detect his hesitation. "As the next Wayne heir, I doubt your decision to threaten me, a useful business partner, is particularly clever."

"You mean your tycoon built off your father's buried scandals and contributions to corruption with the previous Minister?" Damian announces casually.

Several figures within hearing distance have shifted their heads towards Reanes at the sound of Damian's accusation. Finally, sweat has begun to pool at the rat's brows.

"How did—" Reanes's attempt at recovery is poor, his face seizing into an awful mess in realisation of his mistake of trying to find Damian's weakness. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, of course." Damian's glare has narrowed into what could only be his hunting eyes. "Hypothetically, let's say you were to ever come near my betrothed again. I will have every piece of evidence—invoices, letters, emails, phone calls—all prepared into a file sent to the GCPD by tomorrow morning. How long do you think your family has before they come knocking down the doors?"

Reanes's face has lost all its colour.

"You're bluffing." He stammers.

It was satisfying to see all of his obnoxious confidence shrink into oblivion.

"You made an advance on my wife. You made a pathetic attempt of a threat against me." Damian hisses. "I haven't thought of all the possible ways to make you suffer just yet, Reanes. Stripping you of your stolen power is only the start."

"Unlike your father and his poor disguise of power as his empire collapses on itself." Damian taunts. "I protect what is mine."

Dread fills Reanes's expression. "Wayne, I misspoke. I won't so much as look at her."

Damian doesn't look close to satisfied. There's a want in his gaze, to torment him further. "Apologise to her."

Reanes grits his teeth, shame flooding his vile features. Forcing himself to look at your feet—not daring to meet your eyes, he spits it out. "I'm sorry."

"You are to never show yourself in front of us again." Damian declares. "Consider your offered partnership declined."

Reanes's entire expression sours, but one flick of Damian's brow has him scurrying off into the crowd, not even bothering with apologies when dirty looks are casted on him for pushing his way out to escape.

Damian's glare is still pinned into the crowd, and you sense his restrained bloodlust, something you haven't felt to this degree in years. The boy you once knew, who harnessed the blade better than anyone in its ability to end a beating pulse, has sprung out with his fangs and claws.

You unconsciously place one hand onto his chest in an attempt to soothe him, guide his attention back to his own body. He flinches, as if he had forgotten he was in the very room.

His nearly feral expression finds its way to the state of your ruined dress, the stain on your shoulder. He lets out a short breath, rationality kicking the gears in his mind. "We need to get you cleaned up."

You nod discreetly, at a loss for words as his hand comes up to grab yours, intertwining your fingers together and leading you away to a desolate hallway.

His fingers, covered in rough scars from countless battles, are caressing yours more gently than you could ever imagine. He's still refusing to look at you, gaze pinned straight ahead to the nearest bathroom.

Pushing open a door with a sudden force, you're dragged in with such a swift movement, that you barely have time to scout the room before your vision is blocked by his gaze pinning you down.

The barely visible green in his eyes are swarmed by his dilated pupils, filled with bitter rage and conflict. You've never seen him this—unguarded. The events that unfolded earlier seems to have affected him more than you expected.

His lips part to say something, but his eyes flicker down to your drenched shoulder, covered in red. His eyes narrow into a vicious glare, and he lifts himself off the door, pulling something out of his pocket.

A napkin. He must've snatched it on the way without you noticing.

There's not enough shock generated in your veins to truly comprehend what just happened. Damian just called you his wife. It still rings in your ears like some prank that's been orchestrated to throw you off your beliefs on everything you were convinced he's thought about you.

"Damian."

He's turned towards the sink, running the napkin over running water, but his entire posture is off. Tense. Coiled into restraint that's bound to burst.

"I am fine." Even as the uncomfortable feeling of dried wine lingers on your skin, there's something about Damian's change in demeanour that pushes you to reassure him. You're not used to being unable to read him. "There’s no point of putting on an act here. I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself."

"Is that what you think this is?" He spits out, still refusing to look at you.

You freeze. His tone, which has always carried the Al Ghul's familiar patronisation, has descended into a cold rage that's never been directed on you before.

He exhales slowly, his mask slipping back into place as he turns around, cloth in hand as he approaches you slowly. Stopping in front of you, his eyes are narrowed—and the light in them has nearly extinguished. Leaving behind a darker shade of green that consumes you whole.

"He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat to consume." His voice has dropped several octaves, and his gaze is unfocused—still trapped in his wrath. "As if you weren't mine."

Your eyes widen, steps instinctively moving backward but his arm wraps around your waist before you can retreat any further.

He doesn't make a single sound as his fingers wrapped around the napkin comes to touch your shoulder, stained with dried wine. His touch is frighteningly gentle as he wipes your stained skin, his lip curled in displeasure.

It's horrifyingly intimate, and the sound of your own quickened breathing is mortifying on your senses—knowing he could hear the effects of his strange, impulsive behaviour on you so clearly.

"I can do it myself." It sounds weak coming out from your mouth, even to your ears.

"Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you?" He mutters, sounding desolate. "Never letting yourself depend on me."

You scowl. "Why would I depend on you?"

"As much as you would like to pretend it doesn't matter." He grits. "I will be your husband. I will be the one who will lay down my promises and swear my life to yours. Now and even in death."

Leaning in, you feel his breath tingle against your skin as he whispers into your ear. "Do you think I am someone who takes my promises lightly?"

You resist a shudder, your lashes fluttering involuntarily. "No."

He scoffs. "Yet, you question my choice to defend you."

His breath lingers over your skin, right over the spot he's just cleansed free of wine, still cool to the touch from the dampness of the cloth. The tension is thick, making it difficult to think clearly when he's all but crowded the remaining space between the two of you.

He's only irritated that he's been indirectly insulted when Reanes pulled that ploy on you. You know how this will go. He'll wake from his delirious temper, fold back into the cold statue you know to be your betrothed, and remember the line that has been established.

He won't cross it. The boundary that's been drawn by you from the very beginning, in respect for whatever remaining autonomy the two of you had left in this arrangement. You're sure of your predictions... till you spot his expression. It seems that only now—the lack of distance has kicked in for him. The sudden stillness of his frame reveals something you never thought you'd see in your betrothed. Hesitation.

Nothing could've prepared you for what comes next. Damian's entire body leans in, caging you against the door. Tentatively, he places a soft, almost imperceptible kiss on your shoulder.

The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Speechless, you can do nothing but stare at him with widened eyes, unable to comprehend what he just did. What it means.

"If you still have doubts about my loyalty." He mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, an unfamiliar intensity sealed in his. "Consider that my mark of a promise, which I intend to fulfil for the rest of my life. It was my mistake to make it seem as if you were easy to steal—because that will be impossible starting today."

This up close, you can count the freckles dotted under his eyes. He's always been dangerously tempting, but now, after he's defended your honour and stands before you looking the most wrecked you've ever seen him—you want to do something foolish.

Something you might regret but have been wanting to do from the moment he marked you as his.

It's instinctive, almost natural when your lips press against his. It's brief, slotted at the wrong angle from his height that automatically has you wincing. You're quick to pull away, unprepared and desperately trying to come up with some excuse to forget the ordeal ever happened, when you see it.

The crack in his mask, over the single action of your lips pressed against his, unravels a devotion you've never seen before. Laying right in front of you, bared in the open. That is not the look of a man who despises you. If anything, he looks as if his restraints have finally snapped.

That brief glimpse is all you see before he pulls you in. His arms cage your body, drawing you towards him until your bodies press together. With no sense of hesitation from earlier when he had marked your shoulder, he presses you back against the door, and kisses you.

No, how could you have hallucinated his hesitation? The way he kissed you now, mapping your lips with devout intention, it's as if he's been wanting—waiting to do it for ages.

You didn't realise it either—how starved you've been for him till this very moment. You had been so focused on how trapped you felt under the expectations of your family, the firm belief that he felt the same way, that you buried the attraction that ran deep in your veins.

You hated it, that this kiss was the admission of how he was your weakness in the first place. That he knew exactly how to unravel you, turn your world upside down with his decisive behaviour that commanded the entire room. That the match between the two of you pleased you more than it should, driving you to push him away because... only he could invoke such insanity from your shattered composure.

"A few minutes ago, you couldn't even stand me." You manage out against a brief pause for breath, pushing your palm against his chest.

He pulls away just enough to cast you a look of frustration.

"What I couldn't stand was my betrothed always attempting to push me away." He reveals. "Do you understand the frustration you've caused me?"

His gaze flickers between your bitten lips and your half-lidded gaze, hunger bleeding through his eyes. "You see all of me. Without even trying to, it was as if you were placed in my life to be my one, singular weakness. You already had me wrapped around your finger, drawing all of my attention—making it impossible to forget you even for a moment."

"My wife." He says it slowly, as if savouring it. "It is only because of you, that it feels as if I've been waiting my whole life to say those words. So, forgive me, for finding it difficult to restrain my displeasure when the woman of my devotion acts as if she would rather be paired with any other man than me."

Your brows furrow together at his words. "Why would I want to be paired with anyone else?"

His gaze locked onto you, narrows. "You claimed our match was a disaster waiting to happen."

"Yes." Averting your gaze, your admission comes out frail. "...Because I was compromised from the beginning. Even before our families put us together, I admired you. When my personal feelings got involved, the arrangement felt like a punishment."

"To be paired with someone for life that wasn't of my choosing was one thing, but for that person to be someone that actually mattered?" You swallow. "I pushed you away, because it hurt less if I made the decision to do so, rather than having to see your disappointment. Instead of being left to wonder that if you ever had the choice, would you even glance twice in my direction?"

He stares at you incredulously. "You believed that I did not want you?"

You pause at his tone. You didn't know what to believe, not with his actions just mere minutes ago contradicting everything in your system. You had been so focused on keeping your walls high, that you never thought to truly look into his gaze and search for what he saw in you instead.

"There isn't anyone else in the world that I would've sworn my life to." He declares abruptly. "If I had been given the choice in the first place, I would still be here before you. Yours."

"If you want my decision, I'll state it outright." He says, fingers coming up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I choose you. I had long erased myself of the expectations of what others want from me. My life is led by what I envision for myself, and you are in it. You always have been."

“I don’t believe that the choices of others define us.” He answers. “Even if this marriage hadn’t been arranged, I would have chosen you. I would’ve come back for you over and over—and asked for your hand. If you had other suitors, I would’ve rid your mind of all possibilities but me, because there is no one for me but you.”

"So, tell me." He says, and there's a vulnerability you never thought possible in him, echoed in the softening of his tone. "If you will choose me too."

Had he always looked at you this way, in such a soft, yet unyielding manner, as if his gaze had already been attuned to you in habit?

“If you feel unsure, I won’t force you to decide.” He offers, but his crestfallen expression pleads otherwise. “I won’t let you be bound by the obligations of our families. I want you to choose me—willingly—just as I have chosen you."

Has that ever been a question for you? Even in your denial, your fear of being rejected by the one person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with, you never doubted that the side of your heart had already engraved his name in secrecy.

You had always been his, even when you weren't sure if he was yours.

"I choose you, Damian." Your answer feels akin to offering your beating heart, only to reveal that it had always known the very same truth uttered through your lips. "That's never been a question. It's always been you, from the start."

His expression, tightened in exact preparation of being wounded, finally softens. He lets out an unsteady breath, his forehead dropping to rest on yours. In the quiet of this moment, you realise Damian looks devastatingly beautiful like this. Soft, vulnerable, and completely yours.

"I would very much like to kiss you again." He admits. "May I?"

You finally break out your own smile, and you sense the tension in his shoulders drop at the sight. "Only because you asked nicely."

His fingers still caressing your chin gently lifts your lips to his. This kiss is different from the first. It wasn't an explosion, a burst of restrained emotions over years of pining. No, it was softer. Gentle, in a true attempt to memorise your lips against his, shaping into a quiet whisper of a promise that this won't be the last.

When he parts, there's a soft quirk in his lips, as if he can't help himself from feeling that warmth in his chest.

"I still can't believe you called me your wife." You mutter, still unable to wrap your mind around it. Lifting your empty hand, you can't help but tease. "You're going to start a rumour on how a Wayne can't afford to gift his own wife a ring."

"You are right." He mutters in displeasure, and you suspect his mind has already wracked on another situation steps ahead just from your words alone.

"I suppose we'll have to arrange a marriage ceremony soon." Damian decides casually. "The last thing we need is more wolves thinking they have even a chance of your hand."

You think he's joking. You certainly were.

Yet, looking at his gaze which has now flickered to your ring finger, already analysing the measurement, you think there's a miscalculated understatement about your soon-to-be husband's proactiveness.

"What's going to happen to Reanes?"

Damian's merciful act earlier did nothing to fool you. He wasn't the type to leave loose ends.

His gaze darkens immediately, but his expression doesn't so much as shift when he says. "He'll be dealt with."

"The Al Ghul way?" You lift a brow. "Or the Wayne way?"

His lips quirk up imperceptibly. "I'm sure my siblings have creative interrogation methods they've been meaning to find an outlet for."

Pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, he mutters. "...I'll just have a leading hand for tonight's patrol when we infiltrate Reanes's warehouse."

"So, the worst of both worlds."

A dark smirk crosses his lips. "Only what he deserves, Beloved."

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.

When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.

When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.

When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.

Was it all a ruse?

The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.

If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.

You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.

“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."

I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.

“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”

His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.

His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”

“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.

His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.

“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”

It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.

His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.

You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.

Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.

His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.

He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.

He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.

"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."

He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.

Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.

You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.

All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.

This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.

You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.

Only for you to walk right past him.

He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.

You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.

“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”

Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”

“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."

“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.

Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.

“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."

Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?

“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.

Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.

“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”

“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”

You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”

Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?

"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.

You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.

There was something, very obviously wrong.

You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.

It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.

He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.

He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.

To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?

That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.

Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.

When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.

Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.

His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.

Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.

What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.

It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.

But—what does she mean to you, Dames?

What would your life look like without her?

In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.

It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.

He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.

He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.

He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.

He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.

Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.

He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.

He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.

He misses you... terribly.

It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.

Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.

"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.

"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.

His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.

A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.

He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.

You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."

His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.

“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”

Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.

It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.

Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.

That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.

“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”

“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”

You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”

He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?

He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.

Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.

At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.

Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."

A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.

Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.

You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.

“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”

He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”

It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.

“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”

“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.

His brow creases. “When have I ever—”

His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”

The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.

He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.

You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.

“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.

It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.

"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."

The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.

No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.

“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”

Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.

He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.

Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.

“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"

“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”

Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.

“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."

"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."

“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”

“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."

“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”

“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."

"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"

"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."

Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.

"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."

His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.

"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."

You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.

"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."

"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."

"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."

He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.

"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."

He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.

"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.

From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.

"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."

He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.

"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.

"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."

"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.

"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."

Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.

"I'd like to see that."

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

dean’s brain short-circuits the first time he sees the thin strip of lace peeking over the waistband of your low-rise jeans. doesn’t matter that you’re literally just grabbing a beer from the motel mini-fridge. he freezes mid-sentence. beer forgotten. jaw slack. “jesus fuckin’ christ sweetheart” is all he manages before he’s already crossing the room

he develops a very specific “thong check” ritual. you bend over to tie your boots? his hand ghosts down your spine and hooks the waistband just to feel the flossy string. you stretch in the morning? same thing. reaching for something on a high shelf? he’s right behind you “helping”, fingers dipping under denim to trace the string like he’s reading braille

he keeps the ones he likes best shoved in the inside pocket of his leather jacket like some kind of perverted talisman. black lace, red satin, that dark green one with the little rhinestone heart at the back—he calls it “lucky” and refuses to explain further

once he finds out you bought a new pair just because the sales girl said “these make your ass look insane”, he makes you model them. immediately. doesn’t even let you get fully out of the shopping bag. sits on the edge of the bed like it’s a goddamn throne, knees spread, beer in hand, eyes black with lust while you turn slowly and he growls “c’mere. wanna see how they sit when you’re on your knees”

he’s obsessed with the way the string disappears between your cheeks. will spread you open with both hands just to stare. mutters filthy little observations like “look at that… fuckin’ obscene how it just vanishes” while his thumbs pull the lace aside inch by inch

shower sex becomes 80% him refusing to let you take them off first. he just yanks the soaked fabric to the side, presses you against the tiles and fucks you with the thin strip still cutting across your hip. water makes the lace cling even more obscenely. he likes the way it leaves faint red lines on your skin after

he’s ruined more than one pair by coming on them instead of inside you. likes watching his come soak through the front while you’re still wearing them. makes you keep them on while he fingers you through the wet fabric afterward, whispering “gonna make you ruin every pair I buy ya, baby”

has a near-religious reaction every time you wear the really tiny ones—the kind that are basically just a scrap and two strings. he’ll drop to his knees without warning, nose pressed right against the lace, inhaling like he’s trying to memorize the scent. “smell so goddamn good right here” he mumbles into your cunt through the fabric before he starts licking stripes over it

after rougher nights he gets soft about it. will trace the indent marks the strings left on your hips with his tongue. kisses every inch of skin the thong touched like he’s apologizing to it. murmurs “you’re so fuckin’ perfect in these” against your lower stomach while he’s already half-hard again

keeps Polaroids of you in them tucked inside Baby’s glove compartment, he looks at them when you’re not around and gets instantly hard. every. single. time.

Out today. Not a hunt, but something Sam wants to check out just in case. I’ll be back before dinner. See you when I’m back. – Dean

Your chest tightens on instinct, head hammering at your ribs like it’s trying to escape. You’d hoped that maybe he was just in the library or the kitchen, having woken up after a bad memory, not wanting to wake you no matter how many times you tell him it’s okay. You sink back into the bed, sheets bunched around your hips, not enough energy left to care about fixing them. You bury your face further into the pillow, hoping that maybe with enough pressure, the aching feeling in your heart will flood out through your body and leave you alone; the aching reminder that you’ve been forgotten.

It’s not unlike Dean to take off on hunts or research excursions with Sam, because he can’t stay cooped up in a building for long before he goes crazy. He’d stopped asking you to go on these missions ages ago, because he knows you’d rather stay in unless it’s a real hunt; you’ve gotten better at picking and choosing your battles recently, only putting yourself on the line when it really matters. Being left behind in the bunker isn’t what’s causing that thorny pulse of pain behind your eyes every time your heart beats to the tune of Dean’s voice. What is, is the fact that he’s chosen today of all days to head out.

Today, last year, Dean was sitting beside you on the hood of the Impala, back resting against the windscreen and long legs stretched out over the hood. You were beside him, one hand hovering a half inch away from his like it wanted to be held but didn’t have the voice to ask for the touch. Dean had known anyway, because he knows everything about you without even trying. He’d taken your hand, pressed a faint kiss to your knuckles, and asked if you were doing this for real. The stolen dates, the motel room kisses, long drives with your head on his shoulder; daring to live the fantasy hunters never got. You’d agreed, weight lifting from your shoulders, and you’ve never seen Dean look more hopelessly in love than he had in that very moment.

You weren’t expecting anything fancy today, on an anniversary between two hunters who’ve only been dating a year and have been preoccupied with saving the world. Maybe waking up in his arms would have been nice; it would have given you the chance to press sweet kisses to all his freckles while he pretended to complain about it. Maybe you’d have made breakfast together, spent whatever time during the day you could afford to waste watching movies that weren’t good but that reminded you of a simpler time. Maybe you’d have convinced him to go out for dinner with you, taken a walk afterward, come back to the bunker in time to give him his gift.

The gift that’s been sitting in your dresser drawer for three months, the one you’d had to go out of your way to track down. Something he’d mentioned off-handedly a while ago and that had never quite left your mind, like a bug bite that never went away. It certainly feels like one now, a mosquito bite to your heart that drinks the blood from your veins in hopes you’ll be drained empty before the disappointment kills you. The lingering feeling in your chest that’s been a backdrop to your entire life starts up again, screaming louder and louder until all you can hear in your head is a devilish chorus of your failure, of how little you’re worth to Dean.

Somewhere deep in your heart, you’re convinced he could never forget. Dean remembers your birthday every year, remembered it even before you could really call yourself friends. He remembers Sam’s birthday, and Bobby’s, even a couple other ones of people he’s met along the way and had to pass by. An anniversary is enough like a birthday, you think. Unlikely he’d forget, especially considering how important this is. A year of your love proving to be stronger than whatever it is you hunt, a year where you can love someone and not have that put a bright target on your back for a werewolf’s claws or a wraith’s spike.

Last year on your birthday, he’d pulled a similar trick. Dean and Sam had appeared in your doorway that morning with breakfast and quick birthday wishes before heading off on a hunt courtesy of Jody. You’d called her yourself with the intent of asking her to let Dean come back to you, but before you could even say a thing, you’d immediately clocked the distress in her voice. Turns out Jody’s just as good an actor as the women on TV; Dean had taken Sam with him to get your birthday gift from Jody’s house and brought her to your birthday dinner, all three of them conspiring together with the intent of keeping you in the dark.

Maybe that’s just what he’s done this time, you pray to yourself, rolling over in bed and grabbing your phone from the table. The bunker hums around you; perhaps agreeing with your conclusion, perhaps warning you not to get your hopes up. A pipe creaks somewhere when your mind drifts to the heavy prospect of Dean forgetting, and you hope it’s just coincidence. You’re already having a rough week, what with the end of the world and all, and you really don’t need Dean’s forgetfulness making it worse. You know he’d never forget on purpose, but you’d expect him to put a little more weight into remembering.

Unlocking your phone, there’s a voicemail from Dean and an unread text from Sam. You read the text first, finding it’s only a notice to let you know they safely got to where they needed to be. You send a reply back, noting Sam reads the message. You listen to the voicemail next, the low rumble of Dean’s voice made sharper by the phone.

Hey, uh, leavin’ you this to let you know ‘m sorry for leavin’ without tellin’ you. Didn’t wanna wake you up, ‘s all. You’ve had a, uh, a rough week so…anyway. I’ll be back before dinner like I said. Not doin’ anythin’ dangerous. I, uh. Yeah. See you soon, sweetheart.

Your heart sinks a little. Even in the voicemail, Dean leaves no inkling of your anniversary. You’re tempted to call him back and even ask him if he remembers, but the weight in your heart is just too heavy, and pushing in the buttons for Dean’s number feels like it’ll take more energy than you can afford to spend. Eventually, when your body feels too weighed down by the mattress to feel useful, you haul yourself upright with the intent of seeking out a shower and something to eat.

Dean’s voicemail rings in your head as you shower, filling up the bathroom until the words bounce around the shower walls enough times to sound like a new language. Maybe he’s just being evasive, maybe he’s just trying to keep you distracted and thinking he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s really ended up on a hunt, and if that’s the case, there’s not much you can do; monsters don’t care much for sentimental romantic occasions, although you find yourself wishing they did. Down the drain goes Dean’s shampoo, and with it goes most of your worries. Keeping yourself distracted is your best bet for today.

When you enter the kitchen, your eyes drift to the still-wrapped flowers sitting on the counter. The ones you’d bought yesterday evening for Dean, because you remember him telling you that “guys don’t get flowers, sweetheart”. They do if they’re Dean Winchester, you’ve decided. Fingers peeling back the paper, you take them out of the bag and lay them out, separating the stalks from each other and untangling the leaves with a strange sort of care. You don’t have a proper vase to put them in, so you make do by splitting them into two smaller bundles; one for the bedroom, and one for the kitchen table.

You spend the next hour arranging them, removing the wilted leaves from the stalks and tossing them into a bin, then trimming the stalks so they can get adequate water. The petals still look good, still bright and vivid, the light scent of the lilies flooding your senses until all you can think of is the way Dean’s freckles look like the pollen dusted on the inside of the flowers. You place one bundle in a tall cup nobody uses, setting it on the kitchen table and wiping the bottom to prevent condensation from piling up under the glass.

The second bundle goes to the bedroom, finding its way to Dean’s bedside table and resting patiently, awaiting his return. This group of flowers is the smaller group, and you’ve squeezed two into each of the four cleaned and dried beer bottles you’re using for a vase. It’s makeshift and not at all as gorgeous as you were planning, but there’s something so intrinsically Dean that it makes you grin in spite of yourself. You have half a mind to tie some ribbon on the bottlenecks, but you don’t have any and you’re all out of creative alternatives now.

After scrounging around the cupboards for lunch, you settle on making the boys dinner. The least you can do is prove to them you’re grateful for them, and it’s the least you can do for Dean; make him something home cooked, a reminder that you haven’t forgotten the day, that it still carries a weight to you. A weight that buries itself deep in your stomach and makes you wish you’d never learned to put a word to your emotions, but a weight nonetheless. A tidal wave that’s been out to sea and slowly starting to creep back in, the closer the clock ticks to Dean’s homecoming. One that pulls at you with awful, tangled hands and gnarled fingers and threatens to drown you in doubt.

You work in silence, not even bothering to click a cassette tape into the radio for accompaniment. You listen to the sounds of the bunker as you work, a choir to go along with the noises of your cooking; hums of the water heater when you fill a pot on the stove and wash the vegetables, ticks of the gas stove turning on to boil the broth and cook the meat, floorboards creaking under your feet as you reach for the dishes you need. It’s a dance you’ve done a hundred times before alone, and a hundred times more with Dean as your dance partner, but you’ve never danced it with the lingering anxiety of love weighing heavy on your heart. It slows your steps until everything comes a second late, it makes your movements stiff and choppy that shows when the vegetables are cut too big. It’s creeping into every corner of your life today, and all you can hope is for Dean to come home soon and quell the storm.

By the time the meat’s cooked and thrown into the pot with everything else, you can hear heavy footsteps and light chatter on the stairs. The door slams behind them and Dean curses the wind, although you both know it was really just his carelessness. He does this every time; it’s how you can tell them apart, because Sam closes the door like something holy in comparison. You set some of the meat aside of the soup for Dean, something extra as a gift, a treat to him for being yours.

You look up when their footsteps near the door, ladling the soup into bowls and setting them out. Dean walks in, still in his coat and boots, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and kissing the side of your head. His stubble scrapes your cheek, making you smile slightly and you kiss him back.

“You survived,” you comment.

“Damn right. Told you nothin’ bad was gonna happen.”

You make a noise in agreement, turning back to the soup. You push Sam’s bowl in his direction, and he takes it gratefully, murmuring his thanks. He hesitates, only entering when you raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to disturb your and Dean’s space as he gets himself a glass of water, taking a beer from the fridge for later.

“Looks good, sweetheart,” Dean says, peering over your shoulder.

“I should hope so.”

Dean smiles. “What’s the big occasion?”

Sam stops in the doorway, eyes wide as he turns back to Dean. Sam gives you a sympathetic look as he takes off down the hall, clearly not wanting to be in the middle of this. Your heart sinks at the words; Dean really doesn’t remember what day it is today. He’s really forgotten your anniversary. You swallow heavy around the emotion in your throat, words caught somewhere between your brain and tongue. Dean’s brows furrow, eyes drifting around the kitchen until they come to rest on the flowers.

“Oh-. Shit. I’m-. I’m so-. It’s-,” he stutters.

“Yeah…” you whisper, cracked.

Dean tries to say something else, mouth working and Adam’s apple bobbing, but nothing comes out. His hand tightens once on your shoulder before it drifts off, like he needs you close but doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. His hand reaches for yours and you pull back slightly, rubbing at your eyes that have stayed strangely dry.

“I-,” Dean starts.

“Save it, Dean. You forgot.”

You don’t intend for it to come out mean, but it does anyway. You feel the way Dean shrinks back like you’ve hit him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” you say, turning the stove off and turning toward him.

“’S okay. I deserve it,” he mumbles, face red from embarrassment.

“You don’t deserve me snapping,” you say.

“I forgot our anniversary. ‘Course I deserve that.”

You look at him, really look at him. There’s something that looks like shame in his eyes, swimming amongst the green. It is shame, you realize, but it’s so raw and deep that you almost don’t recognize it as a human emotion. You can already see the way he’s blaming himself, thinking of a hundred things he should’ve done differently, praying you’ll still love him after this.

“Dean?” you ask, resting a palm on his shoulder.

He doesn’t reply, but he looks at you with those pitiful eyes that say a million apologies without saying any words.

“C’mon, I have something for you.”

You take his hand in yours, leading him off to your bedroom. Dean hesitates, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to be in your shared space after this, but when you tug on his hand, he trails after you like a puppy on your heels. His footsteps follow yours like an echo, your own sadness amplified and shared to the world through him. You push him in before you, closing the door quietly behind your back and striding to the dresser while Dean sits himself heavily on the bed.

Gift in hand, you sit yourself down beside him, shoulder brushing, one of your thighs resting alongside his denim-covered one. His hand twitches toward your leg before pulling back again, settling desolately in his lap. You press the small cardboard box into his hand, folding his fingers around it with a care you’re certain Dean’s not expecting you to use.

“What’s this about?” Dean asks quietly, turning the box over.

“Anniversary gift.”

“Don’t-.”

“Dean, please don’t fight me on this. Whether you remembered or not, it’s still our anniversary, right?”

He nods, shame crawling up his neck.

“Then let me give you your gift. I still love you, Dean, so open your damn gift.”

Dean allows himself a small smile, breaking the box’s seal with his nail and opening the end. Inside, he finds a bracelet with a protective charm on it; because of course, some part of it has to be practical. Both you and Dean will be damned if you don’t give each other some sort of weapon or protective charm every year, because even when you’re apart, it means more than anything to know you’re being kept safe by each other’s love. He picks up the bracelet, examining it before carefully sliding it over his wrist. You do up the clasp, and he tests the tightness, nodding when he’s satisfied it won’t cause him pain.

It’s what’s under the bracelet that makes him inhale a sharp breath. A couple of tickets to a music festival trailing across the country, that just so happens to be making a stop a few hours away from you. Dean doesn’t care for most of the acts; just some recent artists he’s never bothered to listen to, nor will he ever. A few of the headliners catch his eye, some bands he remembers from when he was a kid playing on the Impala’s radio. But what matters more is the fact that for one, there’s two tickets, which means you’re coming with him whether you want to or not. And two, it means he’s finally going out and doing something normal, something he’s always wished he could do. It’s just a shame he has to find this out after forgetting what he’d been begging himself not to forget for the last year.

“You-,” he starts.

“Yeah. Thought you should get to have something fun for once.”

His hands shake as he places the tickets back in the box. “How’d you even get these?”

You shrug. “I have my ways. Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m-. I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you,” he whispers, low and broken.

“It’s okay, Dean. Really. It’s fine.”

He catches your head in his hands, the box going tumbling to the floor. “It’s not fine, and you know it. Don’t go saying things like that.”

You swallow. Dean stares. Something low in your heart stabs your chest and cracks it open, threatening to flood you with shame. Both of you want to make a move, and neither of you feels like moving.

“I just-. I promise I remembered yesterday. I really did. I was thinkin’ about what I was gonna do with you today and then it just-.”

“Slipped away?” you fill in.

“Y- yeah. Somethin’ like that. Had a whole damn plan too. Kept thinkin’, ‘don’t mess this one up’.” He gives a hollow laugh. “Guess I really screwed this up, huh.”

You lean together so your foreheads are touching. “You did. I won’t pretend you didn’t. I mean, Sam remembered.” You emphasize your point by showing him the note that’s been slipped under your door since the evening went sideways; something in Sam’s handwriting, short and sweet, just a simple happy anniversary you two. Dean’s inhale cracks around a sob.

“Can-. Do-. Are we…are we done?” he says, frightened.

“Are we-. What?”

“Are we done? Did-. Have I screwed it up too bad?”

Your heart stops. Your Dean, sweet and kind and soft under all the hard edges, recognizes this pattern. He’s seen it before; he lets people down, people die, they come back, he lets them down again. A vicious cycle over and over that dunks his head in cold water. Usually, you’re there to towel it off and hug the life back into his body. He doesn’t know what to do now that it’s you he’s broken.

“Oh, Dean,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Dean, we’re not over.”

He swallows thickly. “But I forgot.”

You nod. “You did.”

“And I hurt you.”

“You did.”

“But you’re not-. We’re not breakin’ up?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Dean’s shoulders shake. “Why not? Isn’t that what people do?”

You heart cracks in two. Of course he’d assume that, you think. Anyone he’s ever accidentally hurt has always left him.

“Because I still love you, Dean. And because I know you didn’t mean it. And because I think you can fix this.”

“I can?”

You nod. “You’re good at fixing things.”

Dean buries his head in your shoulder, rocking side to side with his arms locked around you.

“Promise I’ll fix it. God, I’ll do anything you want. I’m gonna fix this, sweetheart,” he murmurs into the side of your neck, repeating it over and over again like a prayer.

You card a hand through his hair, the gesture as soothing for him as it is for repairing your bruised heart.  You gently kiss the top of his head, hoping that the love you hold for him is enough to will away the pain and anger and frustration that you know is killing him inside. The poison in his heart that comes from how he never lets himself be forgiven is still pooling in there, and you know you’re going to be doing your best to make sure it washes away under your touch.

“I know you will, Dean.”

Dean is stretched out beside you on the bed, comfortable and safe, caught in a rare moment of leaving his guard down. He can do that around you, because his desire to keep you in the dark about the monsters he hunts outweighs the stress of spilling his secrets to you. Last time he was here, you’d given him permission to carefully carve protective sigils into the baseboards with the promise of repaying your landlord for the damage when you move out. Nothing will get past that rainy window or the soft shadows or the edges of grey bedsheets. Nothing will get past the jacket on the door and the cocoon of warmth that surrounds the room in a bubble. He can let himself be human here, in your space, where your touch reminds him he’s more than the ghosts of his past, more than the failings of his father and the parent of his brother.

You, the most angelic part of Dean’s life of sin, are the only reason he hasn’t bolted already. He couldn’t possibly leave you for hunting, not when you look up at him with those pretty eyes that want him to see the good in life. Every time he spooks and fears for your safety, your voice brings him back again into your open arms, holding him close to your chest and whispering praise over his heart. You’re pure, sweet and gentle, good to him in ways he thinks he doesn’t deserve but will always accept from you. You don’t make it demeaning or weak to crave your affection; you make it feel like there’s nothing more important to life than kissing your cheek and holding your hand on walks in the park.

Right now, there’s nowhere he’d rather be than cradled in the calmness of your bedroom. The walls are close enough to bring safety, yet far enough and light enough to keep the suffocation away. The floor is cold, but not enough to make Dean wonder about ghosts; just the temperature all floors get when the furnace is temperamental and flighty. The lamplight is just bright enough he can make out all the features of your face, from the curve of your nose down to the dimple of your chin, and he finds himself repeatedly tracing his fingers over them like it’s a ritual. There’s a movie on the TV, something soft and heartwarming you’d chosen earlier, but Dean’s more focused on you than the storyline.

You’re tucked to his chest, head resting in the crook between his shoulder and neck, one hand curled faintly over his heart. Your hair tickles his chin, getting caught in the tiny scab on the underside from where he’d cut himself shaving. Legs tangled together, your warmth covering him like the softest of blankets, your weight pushing him down into the plush of your comforter under his back. Dean has one hand behind his head propping him up, and the other is wrapped around your shoulders, stroking aimlessly up and down your arm through the fabric of your shirt. Thunder cracks somewhere distant, as far away as his worries, and you snuggle closer to his chest at the sound.

Faint voices ring from the TV, familiar conversation that’s typical of any chick-flick sort of show; confessions, unspoken promises, a tentative dedication to a life without fear. On screen, the main couple share a tender kiss, and Dean’s compelled to press one of his own to the top of your head, chapped lips brushing your hair. You huff a quiet laugh at Dean’s actions, and where he’d typically flush dark and cover it up with a joke, he kisses your head a second time, nuzzling his nose into your hair and inhaling your shampoo. It’s a faint scent, one that doesn’t draw attention to what doesn’t need a spotlight, but it’s something so quintessentially you that Dean can’t think of anything else. It’s his turn to chuckle quietly when your feather-light touch reaches his jaw, tilting his head down and kissing the curve of his lips. It’s quick, fleeting, and yet Dean feels like it’s lasted an eternity and more; maybe it will by the time he’s done replaying the moment in his head.

“Dean?” you ask quietly when you part.

“Hm?” he hums in return.

“You look good,” you say, stating it like simple fact.

Dean grins, eyes lighting up. “Don’t I always?”

You lightly smack his arm. “Well, yeah, but that’s not what I meant.”

Dean’s brows furrow in confusion. “What’d you mean, sweetheart?”

“You look…comfortable. Relaxed. You kinda look like you’re home, Dean.”

You say the words so simply, like that very notion doesn’t make Dean feel like he’s finally landed somewhere after decades of travelling. Your words go straight to his heart, nestling somewhere in the chambers and spreading warmly through his body.

“Yeah…guess I am. You do that, sweetheart,” he whispers, cracked.

Your arms tighten around him, holding him together through the sheer force of your love, the light of it seeping through the cracks in his soul and sealing them up. Dean’s a patchwork quilt of all the people he’s ever met, and right now, all the stitching comes from you. There’s a square in a soft purple from when he started kissing the bracelet you gave him as a good luck charm before hunts. Another one in bright orange that fell into place when he started calling you every night before he fell asleep so that the last thing you heard at night was his voice saying he loved you. It’s the very essence of you that holds him together when he’s broken and bent.

The couple onscreen shares an intimate moment, and instinctively, you tuck your face into Dean’s shoulder with a grimace that makes him laugh. He knows you’re not a virgin, knows you’re not afraid of the intimacy itself, but you’d explained once it feels like privacy invasion, Dean, I’m being polite. The scenes cut between tangled sheets and wide shots of the room, slow trailing camera movements up the curve of one body and down the lines of another, catching every slow kiss and tastefully avoiding every tender thrust.

“Hey, Dean?” you pipe up when the scene ends.

“Yeah?”

A soft pause while you collect your words, and Dean watches how your eyes dart back and forth as you think, irises catching the lamplight.

“Would…I-. D’you-. Would you want that?”

“What, the cheesy movie romance? I got that already.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m glad, but not what I meant. I meant-. D’you want more? With me?”

It clicks then what you’re asking. Somewhere, lost amongst the pouring rain and faraway thunder is the fear that he might not want you like that. That he might see you bare before him and panic, realizing you’re not good enough for him. Dean would be lying if he said he hasn’t had the same thoughts about himself; that maybe, when he’s stripped with your hands on his bare skin, you’d feel the rot in his chest and the poison in his bones. That maybe you’d realize he’s a broken, damaged man.

He realizes he’s been in his head for longer than he thought when you mumble an apology and start to roll off him. Something in his heart aches as your touch leaves him, and his hands rest gently on your forearms, halfway to pulling you back in.

“Hey, hey, where’re you goin’?” he murmurs.

“I just-. You didn’t answer, so I thought…”

He does pull you back this time, and you let yourself go into his arms. Dean brushes a thumb along your cheekbone, the tip of his finger grazing your eyelashes where they rest closed on your skin. A soft kiss to your temple, and he speaks again.

“Was just thinkin’, sweetheart, that’s all. ‘Course I want that. Wanted it for so long I forgot I could ask for it.”

Your mouth curves into a smile against his shirt. “I feel like there’s something you’re not saying.”

Dean goes quiet, unsure how much to say before he spills all his secrets to you. “’S just-. If we do it, I just don’t wanna scare you, ‘s all.”

You tip your head. “Why would you scare me, Dean?”

“’Cause I’m-. I got a lotta issues, sweetheart. Lotta scars and-.”

You cut him off with a kiss to his cheek that makes him sigh softly. “I don’t care about that, Dean. You’re still pretty.”

“Dunno,” he says, so quietly he hopes you might not hear.

You do, because of course you do. Just like he’s tuned to everything you do, you’re tuned to him. There’s a surge of happiness that floods him every time you notice when he’s hurting without him saying anything, when you bring him water without him mentioning his thirst. That rush is still there, now, only hidden, buried underneath a sort of shame and anxiety that twists at him and bites into him with sharp teeth designed to hurt.

“Can I?” you ask, fingers hesitantly trailing up his sides.

Dean hesitates, that anxiety humming below his skin at the same pace the raindrops hit your bedroom window. Something in your expression makes him break, though, and he sits up enough to give you access to what you want. You turn him so you’re straddling his lap, his back pressed against the wood of your headboard, soft pillow memorizing the curves of his spine in the process. Slowly, like you’re afraid to catch it on thorns, you reach your hands under the fabric of his shirt and work the material over his head, folding it and placing it at the bedside.

The room is chilly, and it makes goosebumps rise on Dean’s freckled skin. Instinctively, part from the cold and part from the shyness of it all, his arms cover his chest, hugging himself in the process. Your fingers wrap around his wrists, gently tugging his hands away from his body and cupping them in your own, softly kissing his knuckles. Your eyes sweep over his bare chest, taking in every curve and ridge, every mole and freckle and bump, every scar and still-fading bruise. You don’t hide away in fear or turn your back on him in shame. Instead, you whisper, in a careful voice.

“Dean, you’re beautiful.”

He realizes then, for the first time in his entire life, what the word ‘beautiful’ really means. It doesn’t mean pretty, or appealing to look at, gentle on the eyes and special to the soul. It doesn’t mean perfect, or lovely, or gorgeous, or anything else that could possibly hold the same weight. It’s heavier, smothered in the kind of love that comes from a word that encompasses flaws and makes them strengths. It’s taking in the torn state of his soul and patching it up, kissing each one of his scars and bruises and vowing to never let another one mark his skin.

And kiss them you do, starting at the purple spot on his collarbone and working your way down. Dean closes his eyes, head tipping back against the headboard as your journey of devotion trails across the planes of his chest. Lips brushing a bruise from a cupboard door, the half-moon scar of a witch’s nails, the impact left behind from a knife hilt. Old scars from hunts before he knew your name, new scars from missions in your honour, invisible scars that come with carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. You kiss each and every one of them, fingers soothing them over after with the kind of delicate care Dean’s only seen in movies.

“You don’t need t’do all that, sweetheart,” Dean says, low.

“I know.”

He frowns. “So why are you?”

You pause, picking your head up and staring at him with those bright eyes that remind him why he makes it out of hunts alive.

“Because I love you.”

Dean doesn’t realize a tear’s even fallen until you’re stretching up to kiss it away, the saltiness of his sorrows on your lips. His arms wrap tighter around you like he can press you into his chest and merge with you, keeping you close so he’d never worry about you when you’re apart. You keep your lips on his, pressing further into him until all he can taste is you and the world is narrowed down to the rain on your window mixing with the TV dialogue and your quiet sighs of pleasure.

His fingers drift under your sweater too, pulling it over your head and throwing it to the floor a couple of feet from the bedside, landing piled amongst the shadows that have crept longer with the late hour. Eyes returning to your bare chest, Dean’s breath catches. Because he’s always known you’re pretty, but now, he knows how pretty you are. The dips of your waist where they meet your hips, the divot between your collarbones that Dean stretches up to press an open-mouthed kiss to. Hands trailing down your back, he follows the line of your spine as far as he can, memorizing the shape of it like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are light sighs of content and heavy breathing, the barely audible press of lips to skin the melody to which you and Dean move. Your thighs bracketing his is what he grounds himself in, the knowledge that you’re surrounding him entirely and leaving no room for him to fade away. His lips trail over your pulse points, down your neck and across your chest, and every touch of yours sends heat to the pit of his stomach, pooling butterflies ever lower. The movie ends, but neither of you bother to notice the credits rolling lazily across the screen; all that matters is bodies pressed together, deep wounds healed with each kiss.

Rolling your hips experimentally makes Dean whine softly against your mouth, a sound he’s almost embarrassed to make if it weren’t for it being you who dragged it out of him. His own hips buck slightly into yours, chasing the friction against his growing hardness in his sweatpants. Where normally he’d be ashamed of how quickly you’re working him up, he’s spurred on by the soft smile that graces your lips when you grind down on him. Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and Dean sucks in a harsh breath when you wrap your hand around his length.

“You alright?” you say at the sound.

“Yeah, ‘m good. Keep goin’.”

And keep going you do, timing each stroke of your hand to the beat of his heart. Each pass down, you swipe your thumb over his tip, and each pass up, your fingertips brush the coarse hair at his base. Dean can’t help the way his hips buck up into your hand, matching your pace as best he can, craving more, more, so much more. Your lips never stray far from his, swallowing the little moans he makes with each of your movements, the heat from your palm sinking deep into his skin and infiltrating the deepest parts of him.

“Wait, wait, sweetheart. Stop for a sec,” he pants.

Your hand leaves him immediately, coming up to his shoulder instead. “What’s wrong?”

Dean takes a moment to catch his breath before he locks his arms around you, palms out, and rolls you over, bracing you with his hands so he’s hovering over you.

“Want this to last. ‘M not gonna if you keep that up.”

You laugh softly, eyes crinkling at the edges in that way that’s written with affection. “What can I do?”

“Just lay back, baby, that’s all you gotta do.”

You let Dean’s walm palms lay you back, tucking into your pants and wiggling them down your legs and off. They fall somewhere else, separate from your shirt, no doubt retrieved in the morning by caring hands to be thrown in the wash. His fingers trail lower, down the plush of your stomach to your core, where he slowly works you open, careful not to push too hard. His eyes watch your face for discomfort, relishing the soft sounds that escape you at his ministrations.

Finally, you grab his wrist, slowing the movement of his hands. He takes it as the sign it is; shucking his sweatpants properly where they join yours in a tangled heap on the floor. Dean pumps himself once, twice, before lining himself up and pushing in. He’s slow, methodical in a way he usually wouldn’t be, but this is you under him. He has no choice but to be careful, because he would never damage someone he loves so much. You moan a broken sound when he bottoms out, and Dean drinks it up in a kiss that tastes like rainfall on windows and the edge between soft shadow and lamplight.

Each rock of his hips locks your legs tighter around his waist, heels digging into the dimples of his back. You lift up, changing the angle, letting him hit that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars in the shape of raindrops, and Dean can almost see them too with how good you make him feel. Your arms loop around his neck to pull him down, and he’s so close to you his chest nearly brushes yours with each thrust of his hips, bare skin on bare skin, warmth and heat and love.

A deep kiss that steals all the air from his lungs, and you’re coming, stomach muscles tensing under Dean’s hand and a breathy moan leaving you. Dean can feel the moment you go boneless in his grip, and he quickens his pace for just long enough to get himself over the edge with you, filling you with a rough groan against your shoulder. He slows his motions, bringing you away from oversensitivity, letting you fall back down into your body and relax, heart rate calming and breathing deep.

“Okay?” Dean whispers, afraid to break the comfortable silence that’s formed.

“Okay,” you whisper back.

“Gonna get you clean, m’kay?”

You nod, one last kiss to his lips before he pulls out slow, careful not to make it sting. His hand trails down your thigh before he disappears out your bedroom and into the bathroom down the hall, flicking on the light and searching for a cloth. He finds one on the top shelf of your towel rack, yanking it down and turning on the sink tap to let the water warm up. While he waits, he sorts himself out with tissue, cleaning himself off and throwing the tissues away.

When the water’s just warm enough to soothe your soreness and not enough to hurt, Dean sticks the cloth under the spray, soaking the white fabric. He wrings it out so it doesn’t drip on your floors, shaking it again for good measure, and pads carefully back to the bedroom. He knocks once on your doorframe in case you’re not ready for him yet, only opening the door when your sweet voice says his name like it matters.

“Hi, pretty,” Dean says when he walks back in.

“Hi, Dean,” you say sweetly.

He tests the warmth of the cloth against your thigh, and when you sigh comfortably at the touch and wiggle deeper into the mattress, Dean starts working away at you. He takes his time, almost as reverent in the aftercare as he is with sex, each motion designed specifically to make you feel important and special; because to him, you are. Once you’re cleaned up, Dean hands you his shirt from earlier, still faintly warm from his body heat. You slide it on gratefully, squeezing his hand once before he throws the cloth in your laundry basket.

“Comfy?” he asks, sliding into bed behind you and sorting out the blankets.

“Mhm. Hold me?” you reply.

Dean grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The blankets get pulled up to your shoulders, pillows adjusted so your head is resting on the softness of the down. Your mattress is the nicest Dean’s slept on in years, he realizes; probably not since he was living at the boys home, and this certainly beats that old ragged one. Your blankets are soft in a way that doesn’t overwhelm, puffy comforter laying across him with a weight that makes him sink into the heat, feeling cradled by the bed. Once he turns out the lamp, you slowly start to drop off into sleep, head migrating to Dean’s pillow as you try to get as close to him as you can.

Dean waits until you’re fully asleep before he lets himself drift off, because it’s so engrained in his soul that he can’t imagine doing it any other way. Your sleepy weight settling over him, his arms protecting you from things he can’t see, the rain still steadily tapping against the glass; it’s calm, soothing him into a restful sleep he hasn’t had in ages.

He wakes slow and gentle the next morning, blankets having fallen around his waist during the night. Morning sunlight streams through your window and through the veil of your curtains, a film over the pleasant day that is being built in the room. Shadows from last night gone, lamps still turned off and only natural, sunny warmth in the room, Dean feels right where he belongs. He feels the residual sleep living in his bones, and for once, he doesn’t feel like he needs to be somewhere right away; he can soak in the knowledge that he’s comfortable and safe, and he’s just had the best sleep of his life in your bed.

He startles for a moment when he realizes you’re not still in his arms like you were last night, bolting up and looking frantically around the room for you. The toilet flushes down the hall somewhere, your footsteps padding back after the sink runs, and Dean lets himself melt back into his earlier position with the knowledge you’re still alive, still safe, still his to love.

“Morning,” you say brightly when you notice he’s awake. “You usually sleep in this late?”

Dean groans something soft when he turns to look at the clock, seeing a striking 10:04 blinking back at him. “No, not usually. Sorry.”

You smile tenderly, climbing back into the space Dean leaves open for you, at his side with his arms holding your form until you fill it again. Once you’re tucked in and settled, you speak again.

“It’s not a bad thing, you know. Means you’re safe.”

Dean nods, not sure if he knows the right words to explain how right you are, and how much that means to him.

“Did you at least sleep well?” you ask.

Dean stretches his legs out, yawning in the process. “Haven’t slept that well in years, sweetheart. ‘S cause you’re here.”

You snuggle closer, and Dean feels your heartbeat through your chest.

“Guess I’ll have to stick around then,” you tease.

Dean hums, kissing your temple tenderly. “Guess you will.”

Dean doesn’t do those things. Space moulds around Dean, like there’s a shape already ready for him, waiting for his appearance and conforming to him wherever he goes. There’s a spot beside him too, for his arm to loop around your shoulders, or his hand to rest on the small of your back, like the world already knew you fit perfectly beside him. His touch is always warm, always just heavy enough to keep you from fading into the background but never pushing you into the light. It’s intuitive the way he knows all your tells, and it makes something grow in your heart every time he remembers your coffee order or which of the pillows you like best in a motel.

You’ve never gone that extra step with Dean, never escalated it any further than a bit of frisky making out in stolen moments alone. You’re sure Dean would be just as kind to you in bed as he is everywhere else, but there’s still something stopping you, a lingering fear that kickstarts in your brain every time his hips unconsciously jerk against yours. Thousands of questions start their deadly spiral in your brain, a million ways you could let him down, a million ways he could scare you or hurt you or remind you how expendable you are. You have no doubt he could make you feel special, but you’re so damn scared that once he gets you spread out under him, he’ll turn into the man you’d dated in the past, only focused on your worth to get him off.

Dean loves you loud too, but Dean loves you loud in the way that says he’s proud to be your boyfriend. He doesn’t view you as a partner along for the ride, or just a social pleasantry that he has to fulfill, like some unspoken quota. He brings you up every chance he gets in bars, your own name passing from his lips to other hunters before he even introduces himself. It’s always you and him, not the other way around. You’re first, the most important thing in his life, the person he’d protect even if it kills him. He’d been worried originally, that he’d get too soft and careless, always worried about you instead of himself. If anything, loving you has made him more dangerous, more lethal and ruthless, yet infinitely more precise and cunning.

Dean’s reputation changed, since knowing you. Gone is the son of John Winchester, who followed his dad into all the hunting circles and made his pay by not being afraid to get his hands dirty. Gone is the man who grew up on the road, chasing demons before he graduated school. In his place is the rugged shape of a Dean that’s been loved by you, that thinks of you like the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s learned to be better, to hunt better and cleaner, to take a page out of the books of the cautious and careful. Once he’d learned you could hold your own without his help, it became less of a need to protect you, and more of a need to come home to you alive. He picks and chooses his hunts when he can, never venturing farther from you than he has to, always making sure he checks in, keeps his weapons maintained, keeps his mind sharp, because he needs to make it home to your kisses and hugs and the comforting way you love him.

It’s obvious how he loves you when you step back and look at him from afar, but it’s even clearer the closer you get. Laying beside him, limbs tangled in sheets and sleepy kisses pressed to foreheads, you can see the way he cares in the lines on his face. Walking with your hand in his, you can hear the affection in his gravelly voice and the vibrations of it are in the shape of your love. Checking him over after a rough hunt, it’s written into every detail of his eyes, every freckle on his skin, soothing over every cut and scar that litters his body. Dean was built to love you. It was written into his very existence.

Right now, you can feel it in the form of Dean’s body heat as you sit together on the motel bed. Sam’s in the next room, having grabbed a second one upon discovering his cold was getting significantly worse, probably already asleep after taking his pills. The world’s narrowed down to your head on Dean’s shoulder and his heartbeat in your ear, breathing deep and comfortable at your side. He’s got a hand resting lightly on the plush of your thigh, thumb rubbing circles to the rhythm of whatever sitcom intro is playing on the TV. Half the sound comes through staticky, and the show keeps cutting to snowy fuzz every so often, but neither of you are really watching it enough to care. You’re whispering low between yourself, half-formed stories and drifting thoughts, untangling worries and fears with reassuring words. His low voice carries through the room, burrowing into your chest and setting up residence in your heart like it was always meant to be there.

At some point, the energy drifts like it always does, falling into something deeper, charged. Dean’s lips slot against yours like he’s coming home, sighing softly as he falls deeper into your touch, nose brushing your cheek. He tastes warm, like soft blankets and hot tea, bringing your bones alive with buzzing anticipation you’ve quelled for months out of fear. Part of you wants to pull back, to slink away until you’re nothing but a faint memory, but Dean’s too intoxicating for that. He’ll always drag you back no matter how far you hide, because you can’t stay away from him, and he can’t keep himself away from you.

He shifts, hands to your waist, tugging you closer. Your arms sling around his neck, fingers curling at the base of his neck, nails working through the strands and making him grin against your mouth. The amulet around his neck pressed against your collarbone, the cool metal shocking even through your shirt, like a brand. The kisses get impossibly deeper until all the separates you is your clothes, barely even enough space to breathe; only enough for the scent of Dean to overwhelm you, and for his touch to remind you where you really are.

It’s only when he rolls over you, legs on either side of your thighs, that you shut down in a panic, palms pressing hard against his chest. He’s off you in a second, sitting back on his heels, one hand still lightly extended in an offering, unsure what to do.

“Too fast?” he asks, watching you carefully.

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “Not fast, just-. Unexpected.”

Dean nods, eyes darting away and back to your worried face again. “C’mon, talk to me. What’s happenin’ in that pretty head of yours?”

“It’s…it’s kind of silly, I guess. I know you wouldn’t do it but I just-. I can’t help but think you might, even though you won’t, and it’s-.”

“Slow down,” Dean says, calm. “Take a breath, alright? You’re ramblin’, sweetheart.”

You follow him, inhaling shaky and exhaling even shakier. There’s tremor in your hands and a slight ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before. Everything feels close, too close, like it could wrap around you and suffocate you in the air you breathe. How ironic an end that would be, to die by the means of what keeps you alive.

“This about somethin’ I did?” Dean asks.

“Not you. Never you.”

He frowns. “This about that ex-boyfriend you pretend doesn’t exist?”

You nod, shameful. Dean’s jaw ticks.

“He do somethin’ to you? He touch you when he wasn’t supposed to?”

Dean takes your silence for the answer that it is, and something dangerous flashes across his expression. He must notice the way you shrink back at it, because immediately it’s gone, replaced by that trademark devout love that makes him look alive.

“It was a while ago, Dean, it doesn’t really matter,” you say quietly.

He huffs an exasperated laugh. “’Course it matters. That kinda stuff doesn’t just go away.”

You reach your arms out for him, and he brings you to his chest, big hands rubbing steady circles on your back, fingers tapping rhythms to songs only he can hear. He murmurs in your ear, rocking you gently back and forth. You don’t cry, not now, but there’s no mistaking the lump of emotion in your throat.

“You wanna stop?” Dean whispers against your ear. “We don’t gotta do anythin’ you don’t want. Not now, not ever. Okay?”

You nod, whispering something into his neck he can’t quite make out. He taps you once on the shoulder, a silent ask for you to repeat yourself. Dean kisses the top of your head as you sit upright, rubbing a thumb over the redness of your cheeks.

“I think I want to. I trust you, I just-.”

You clear your throat, and Dean looks at you patiently, like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world.

“I just need you to go slow. I need you to talk to me, I need you to listen. That’s all.”

“Promise,” Dean says, leaning in. “We’ll go as slow as you want, okay?”

His hands come up to cup your face again. “You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He tips closer, lips ghosting across yours. “Can I kiss you?”

You smile softly, already pressing your lips on his. “Yeah.”

He takes it, hand on the back of your head and tangled in your hair, bringing you as close as he can, because he thinks if he doesn’t let his soul irreversibly merge with yours, he’ll never be the same again. It’s important to him that you know how much you mean, and it’s important to you that he knows you feel the same. You kiss him back the same way he kisses you; deep, impossible to tell where you end and he begins, hopelessly intwined in each other.

“Gonna lay you back now,” he murmurs, lips kissing down your face, to your pulse point, down your neck.

You let him maneuver you into the mattress, head resting on the pillows, blankets forming ripples like a pond under your weight. His fingers tease at the hem of your shirt, and you help pull it over your head, tossing it lightly to rest at the bedside for tomorrow morning’s wear. His shirt follows, your fingers trailing along the anti-possession symbol on his chest, tangling in the cord of the amulet, thumb resting over the charm like you can memorize its shape by touch alone. Dean keeps kissing you, never letting his lips stray far from your skin, always having some part of him touching some part of you because if he doesn’t, you might disappear.

“Off?” Dean asks, nudging at the waistband of your jeans.

You hesitate for a moment, and when Dean’s pretty eyes blink softly at you from above, you lift your hips so he can slide your jeans off, taking your underwear in the process. For a flash of a second you try to cover up, until Dean’s pants and boxers join yours on the floor and his big hands catch your wrists.

“Why’re you hidin’, sweetheart?” he murmurs.

“’M not hiding,” you reply quietly.

Dean smiles. “Good. Wanna see you, wanna see how pretty you are.”

His gaze rakes over you, flitting from your face to your chest, to the curve of your hips and down your thighs. Every mark, every scar, every stretch line and mole, all of it is worshipped by him. Dean makes the parts you don’t like feel beautiful, because for the first time ever, someone isn’t looking at your flaws like a burden; he’s looking at them like they’re the best part of you, like they too are deserving of kindness and love.

You can’t help but have your eyes drift over him in return, taking him in. He’s pretty, you think, pretty in way you’ve never really noticed before. Face dusted pink, lips a little swollen from kissing you, freckles smattered across his shoulders and down his chest. You can make out the outline of his muscles, proof that he really is that big bad hunter everyone says he is, but it’s never the focus. He never draws attention to that part of him, not anymore, not when he can talk about you instead. His hands leave their tracing of your body to fumble for something in a drawer, and you watch as he carefully unwraps a condom and slides it over himself.

“Okay?” he asks when he’s situated. “We still doin’ good?”

You nod, lashes fluttering. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Good,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at the hinge of your jaw. “Ready for me, or d’you want a bit yet?”

You consider your options. On one hand, you’re nervous, anxiety humming under the surface like dozens of bees, their stingers prickling your skin from the inside out. On the other hand, Dean’s so patient, loving in a way no one’s ever been with you before, like he’s set on erasing every bad thing that’s ever happened to you and replacing it with memories of him.

“I-. ‘M ready, Dean. Just-.”

“Go slow,” he answers for you. “I will, promise.”

He lines himself up with you, taking your hand in his and stretching it up to rest near your head, squeezing gently and thumb brushing over your knuckles. He tips his head in that endearing way that makes butterflies pool in your stomach, dipping down to capture your lips in a searing kiss as he slowly pushes himself inside you. True to his word, he takes his time, letting you adjust around him, only moving further when you kiss his cheek and tell him he can.

When he’s fully seated in you, he watches your eyes for discomfort, tracking the way your lashes flutter with each heartbeat. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, bringing him down for another kiss and telling him he can move again. Dean’s careful, soft, making sure not to accidentally break you or let you fade into something he can never get back. Each thrust of his hips into yours comes with another rub of his thumb on your knuckles and a gentle kiss to your lips, comforting you and grounding you in the intimacy rather than the action itself.

You come first, gentle and slow, low wave of heat rolling in your core and washing over you comfortably. It’s not loud or dramatic, and Dean doesn’t make a show of it; just smiles, kissing lightly against your temple and helping you through it. He follows seconds later, spilling into the condom with a soft huff of a sigh against the skin of your neck, hand resting tangled in yours and the other lying over your heart, feeling the beating. Your fingers drift to his hair as he carefully pulls out, the sensation as grounding to you as it is to him. He peels off the condom, stepping into the bathroom to throw it out and returning with a cloth to clean you off.

“Doin’ alright?” he murmurs, thumb resting on your jaw when you’re clean and dry.

“Yeah,” you reply. “You?”

“I’m golden.”

You laugh softly, the sound echoing in the space in a way that doesn’t crowd, but feels loved, lived in, required. Surprising both yourself and Dean, a stray tear slips into your hairline.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Dean says, kissing away the tracks.

“Nothing, I just-. No one’s ever done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Made me feel like that.”

Dean grins. “’S cause nobody’s ever loved you properly, sweetheart.”

You reach for him again and he goes willingly into your arms.

“You gonna keep doing that?” you whisper.

“’S long as you want me to, yeah.”

“I want you to.”

Dean kisses your cheek. “Then I will.”

“Thought you were gonna crash on the couch again,” you say quietly.

Dean freezes mid-step, shoulders rigid. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. Sweat beads at his temples even though the bunker is cool. His pupils are blown wide, green almost swallowed by black.

“I’m fine,” he grits out. Voice like gravel dragged over broken glass.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” You step forward. He takes an automatic step back. Like he’s scared of what he’ll do if you get too close. “Talk to me.”

He drags a hand down his face. “The witch. Threw some kinda… vial at me. Shattered. Pink smoke. Smelled like goddamn cotton candy and sin.” A harsh laugh. “Been like this ever since.”

“Like what?”

He meets your eyes for the first time since he walked in. Pure, feral hunger stares back at you.

“Horny,” he rasps. “All the fuckin’ time. Can’t think. Can’t sleep. Can’t—Jesus, I’ve jerked off four times today and it still feels like my dick’s gonna explode. I don’t wanna… overwhelm you.”

You step closer anyway.

He doesn’t retreat this time.

“You think I can’t handle you?” you ask softly.

“I think I’d fuck you for hours. Literally hours. Won’t stop. Can’t stop. I’ll hurt you.”

You reach up, cup his jaw. His stubble is rough against your palm; he leans into the touch like a starving man.

“I want you to hurt me a little,” you whisper. “I want all of it.”

A broken groan rips out of him.

Then he’s on you.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing—hands under your thighs, slamming your back against the nearest wall. Mouth crashes into yours, teeth clacking, tongue demanding. He’s shaking so hard you feel it in your bones.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants against your lips. “Tell me right now.”

“Never.”

That’s all he needs.

Clothes come off in frantic pieces—your shirt rips at the seam, his belt clatters to the floor. He doesn’t bother with the bedroom. Just yanks your jeans and panties down your legs, drops to his knees, and buries his face between your thighs like a man possessed.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you gasp. He groans—deep, animal, vibrating against your clit. No teasing. No finesse. Just ravenous, sloppy licks and sucking until your knees buckle.

“Dean—oh god—”

He growls. Actually growls. Hands clamp on your hips, holding you still while he devours you. You come fast—shaking, crying out, fingers twisted in his hair. He doesn’t stop. Keeps licking through it, then pushes two thick fingers inside you and curls them hard.

“Again,” he snarls. “Need you to come again. Need you soaked. Need to be inside you.”

You do. Again. And again. Until your legs are jelly and you’re sobbing from overstimulation.

Only then does he stand—cock so hard it’s purple, leaking steadily. He lifts you again, pins you to the wall, and thrusts in with one brutal stroke.

You both cry out.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t let you adjust. Just starts fucking you—deep, punishing, relentless. Grunts and whines tear from his throat with every snap of his hips. “Fuck—fuck—so tight—can’t—can’t stop—sorry—sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “Give it to me. All of it.”

He does.

Hours blur.

He takes you against the wall until your thighs burn.

On the floor when your legs give out—carpet scraping your back while he pounds into you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other rubbing frantic circles on your clit.

On the bed—finally—where he lays you out and fucks you missionary so he can watch your face every time you come. He’s whining now—high, desperate sounds every time you clench around him. “Gonna come again—fuck—can’t stop comin’—need you to come with me—please—”

You do. So many times you lose count. Each orgasm bleeds into the next until you’re both trembling wrecks—sweat-slick, shaking, covered in each other.

When he finally collapses beside you—still half-hard, still twitching—he pulls you against his chest like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.

“Still… still want you,” he mumbles into your hair, voice hoarse. “Still hurts.”

You kiss his collarbone. “Then take me again.”

He groans—half tortured, half grateful—and rolls you underneath him once more.

The sun is coming up when he finally passes out—mid-thrust, buried deep, face buried in your neck, a low, satisfied rumble still vibrating in his chest.

You stroke his hair, smiling through your own exhaustion.

Whatever the witch did… you’ll deal with the cure later.

Much, much later.

You laugh. “Dean, I’ve already told you twice-”

“And I wanna hear it again. S’that a crime?”

He winks at you and tilts his chin up, taking a swig from the dark brown bottle in front of him. He switched to beer two rounds ago. 

You narrow your eyes at him but he meets you head-on, brazen grin plastered across his face. You sigh with no real exasperation.

“So I’m eleven years old and I’m on a hunt. I’m at the hospital and I’m told to walk in by myself and ask to see my mother-” You make air quotes around the word ‘mother’. Dean’s eyes droop down to your fingers before sliding lazily back to your mouth. “- in hospital. She’s in a coma. At this point we’re pretty sure this lady had been possessed by a demon and later exorcised so I’m being sent in just to look for signs, search through her belongings, check her injuries - that kinda thing.”

He is glowing with amusement. “So you’re brought into the room-” 

“So I’m brought into the room and I’m trying to do what I can while all the doctors and nurses are there giving me those sad eyes you give a kid whose mom might not make it. And y’know - I’m only eleven but I know what to look for and how to be subtle. Except five minutes in, the lady wakes up.”

He’s already smiling, teetering on the edge of a laugh. “And you-”

“And I panic. I have no idea what to do because this lady is looking at me like I’ve got four heads and all the doctors and nurses are waiting for a heartfelt moment. So I burst into tears, screaming ‘Mommy you’re awake’, hugging her, the works. Poor lady is horrified, thinking she has amnesia and forgot her own daughter.”

He laughs now - hearty and full breasted. His eyes are glistening, crinkled at the corners. He takes another swing of his beer when he catches his breath. “Can’t believe I’m hearing that one for the first time tonight. Fuckin’ gold. I can picture it too, y’know.”

“Yeah?” You smile, leaning in across the table.

“Yeah. Bet you had the same nervous, twitchy face you get when you’re panicked. Just on a little thing with pigtails.”

You laugh. “Nope. Didn’t exactly have my hair braided for me every morning. Wasn’t that kinda family dynamic.” You pause. “I’m not twitchy.”

“Yeah y’are. Sometimes.”

“You’re so full of shit. I’m more cool and collected than you and Sam put together.”

“The coolest,” he says, a hint sardonic.

You’re in rocky territory. Both of you leaned forward, elbows pressed to the sticky table in the booth. The way he’s grinning at you - heated and shameless, eyes tilted up through his long lashes - is warming your stomach. You’re trying to convince yourself it’s just the two drinks.

Sam dipped almost an hour ago to sit at the bar. Dropped some teasing line about not wanting to third-wheel anymore. You’ve stopped telling him off for it because it only makes him worse. You see him glance at the two of you over his shoulder every now and again.

Dean reaches an arm down to take up your drink - some red girly concoction with cranberry juice and vodka in it. His eyes don’t leave yours while he takes a sip, fingers clutching the glass by the rim. You wonder if his lips are touching the same spot that yours did.

“Shit, that’s good,” he says, sucking his teeth at the tartness. “Why the hell didn’t I order that?”

You laugh. “You just don’t wanna be seen with it. Not manly enough for a big, bad hunter.”

He smiles. “You’re drinkin’ it. You not a big, bad hunter?”

“C’mon, Dean,” you say, scoffing, but you can’t force the corners of your lips down. “Not trying to get on my soapbox here but it’s pretty hard to get people to respect you when you’re a woman hunter as it is. I’m not worried about people seeing me with a cocktail.”

He shrugs in a ‘fair enough’ fashion. He’s about to say something else.

“Hi, um.” You look up to see a pretty, tall girl around your own age or maybe a few years older. Dark curls frame her face. She brushes a strand behind her right ear in an almost theatrical show of shyness. “I’m sorry - this is so weird of me but, um.” She brushes her hair behind her left ear now. “Are you guys on a date?”

You pause briefly, feeling as though you’re coming out of some sort of daze, and then give her a smile. “No, we’re just friends.”

Her face lights up. She’s not looking at you - she’s looking at Dean. “Oh! Okay. That’s good, because, um, I just wanted to see if I could maybe give you my number or something?”

You don’t wait for Dean to respond. You slip out of the booth and wink, mouthing ‘have fun’ to him. You’re not too bothered about whether or not she sees you. She takes your place without so much as a word or even a glance in your direction, eyes only for Dean. You can’t find it in you to blame her.

He is gaping at you as you turn away - eyebrows scrunched together and mouth in a firm pout. Possibly - probably - because he thought tonight would be the night he would finally be able to bring you to bed. He might have been right until this girl came by and screwed everything up by reminding you of yourself.

Sam jolts a bit when you climb up next to him onto the red stool with its fabric torn and its guts spilling out. His head un-cranes itself from a book you recognise about Celtic fairies. He frowns, confused, and then looks behind him towards the booth where Dean is now engaged in conversation. The confused frown turns into a displeased one. He dog-ears a page and closes the book.

“He get ambushed again?” he says.

You huff a laugh. “The word ‘ambushed’ implies he’s not in his element.”

Sam frowns again and looks like he wants to say something - maybe object - but he doesn’t. You’re glad. There’s nothing he could say on this subject that you would want to hear. Instead, he tucks his books into his bag and fishes out a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. He deals them out silently but Dean has approached you before you can pick up your hand.

“Hit the road?” he asks, voice the slightest bit gruff.

You’re mildly surprised to see him again so soon. You had expected him to slip out the back with his company, but you’re just glad that the night is ending before he has enough drinks to start waxing poetic about how pretty you are and how he would kill any man for ‘just one chance with you’.

“Sure,” you say, standing up. Sam sighs and begins to scrape the cards back up from the grimy counter. 

You don’t want the answer, but - “You get her number?” 

You’re not sure if your voice comes across as teasing as you intend.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Dean gives you a sideways glance, almost perplexed. “Not my type.”

You’re not sure he has a type. The only prerequisite has always just been ‘pretty’, and he plays fast and loose with that rule too sometimes. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything.

The motel is far from the worst you’ve stayed in, but that doesn’t take the sting out of the broken shower. You get into a wrestle with it for a good thirty minutes, pulling the front cover off and fiddling around, before finally submitting.

You’re not sure that it’s an option to get front desk to call an electrician in. Not with salt scattered on the ground and pages of information about fairies and demons strewn across the room. So you end up outside Room 14 in your flip flops. 

Sam gets the door. He glances down at the towel in your hand and smiles with amusement, opening the door wider for you to step inside. Their room is like yours - small and hot, with bland aspen furniture and an overhead fan that does very little to stave off the sticky closeness. The only difference is the cluster of empty beer bottles and the two single-beds rather than one.

“This place is a dump, huh.”

“It sure ain’t the Ritz.” you say. “Where’s Dumber?”

Sam sits down into a small wooden chair. It’s always funny to see him do that. He’s so tall, it looks almost like he’s folding himself in half. “He’s getting that address we’re after. He should be back in a few. I’m gonna go check it out at the town recorder’s office.”

“Want a hand?”

“I got it,” he says. “You go take your shower.”

You could argue and he would probably fold and accept your help. But the truth is, you’re sweaty and tired and would really rather save your energy for something more important than poring over housing records. You nod and head into the bathroom, towel in-hand.

The shower you take is hot. You use whatever products are already out on the tray. They’re probably Sam’s, because Dean is most likely the sort of person to have a 4-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash-shaving gel combo. Your hair feels a little dry afterwards - you’re not sure whether to attribute that to the hot water or Sam’s all-natural shampoo - but you’re clean. Your muscles are loose and you feel good.

You spend a bit of time in front of the mirror once you’re out of the shower, scraping your fingers through your hair, scrubbing your fingernails with a brush, and thinking. Thinking about the job you’re on and then - reluctantly - thinking about Dean. Thinking about how he looked in the bar last night. Thinking about how he left without working up some action with that girl. He has been doing that a lot lately.

More than just lately, if you really wanted to think about it. You couldn’t say you remember the last time he had picked someone up - that you had seen, anyway. He’s been keeping it all out of sight. Either he’s become a born-again Christian, or he’s got some angle here. You don’t like thinking about it. It makes some twisted, hurt thing curl in your stomach.

Even so, you feel good. You really do. Your hair is wet and soaking through your white t-shirt, but at least it’s clean. And you got a decent sleep last night too so it’s shaping up to be a good day.

The good feelings evaporate once you open up the bathroom door.

“Goddamnit, Jesus f-”

Sam is gone. It’s just Dean in the room now, naked as the day he was born. You avert your eyes, but not fast enough. He dives for the towel on the bed and holds it over his crotch while your face swims with heat.

“Christ, Dean,” you choke.

“You’re in my room, angel. Can’t a man get naked within the safety of his own four walls?”

“Yeah- um. That’s fair. Sorry.” You’re still looking away, uneasy.

He cocks a humorous eye at you. “What you doin’ in here? You miss me?”

“I- Shower. Mine’s broken.”

“That so?”

You look at him then - you don’t really have a choice, his slow drawl doesn’t give you one - and have to stop yourself from hissing in a breath. You have seen glimpses of his bare torso here and there, but never in a setting where there was enough time to admire. Always with something bleeding out or infected or cursed. You have enough time to admire it now - the muscle built from dirty work and necessity rather than vanity, the scars and scratches painted across his chest. There are a few there for which you could name the source.

His muscles shift the slightest bit under your gaze and you realise you’ve forgotten what he’s asked you. “What?”

He laughs and the low sound sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Your thighs clench together tight. He’s watching you fight yourself, eyes dark. Your own eyes are currently fixed on his face but they’re a flight risk. “Y’know, I didn’t even know you were in there. A matter of five minutes and I could’ve been walkin’ in on you.”

Heat claws up your neck at the image. “I’m sorry. I figured Sam would have said something.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You’re welcome to take a shower here any time. In fact, f’you fancy another, I was just about to-”

“Shut up,” you groan. You try to look annoyed, but you’re truthfully relieved at the return to his usual cheeky forwardness. That’s easier to brush off.

But you do need to get the hell out of the room before you’re tempted into looking at anything but his face again. You bundle up your towel in your arms and tell him you’ll see him later. You don’t miss the disappointment that flashes there when you do.

“So ah…” Sam sucks in a breath, tucking the flashlight under his arm to slot little silver slugs into his gun. “What’s going on with you and Dean, huh?”

You’re tempted to act like you don’t know what he’s talking about, but it would just prolong the conversation.

“Sam,” you sigh. “Can we not?”

“What?” he laughs. “You don’t wanna talk about it?” He flicks his flashlight around the bedroom haphazardly - too fast to see very much of anything. You reach a hand out and clasp it over his to steady it.

“Not a good time.” 

“When is a good time? When we get back to the motel? You wanna do this in front of Dean?”

You give him a thin stare that you’re not sure he can see in the dark - irritation pricking at you.

Sam has known how to grave-dig in a time crunch since he was twelve years old, but somehow has really never known when to leave well enough alone. This is the third time he’s tested this subject in the last week - albeit never this straightforward. You’re still working out whether this is something you can worm your way out of.

“Why don’t you check this room out and I’ll go downst-”

“Hey,” he says, voice still amused. “You’re not getting out of this. I will bring it up in front of Dean if I need to.”

You study him for a second longer. 

He smiles. “Call my bluff, if you want. Your choice.”

You make an ugly noise that seems to start in your stomach, considering your words carefully for what feels like a long time. Little specks of dust float around in the beam of light leading from the flashlight to a little girl’s jewellery box. “There’s nothing going on with me and Dean.”

Sam barks a laugh - loud and seemingly involuntary. “Y’know, I really thought we weren’t gonna have to do the whole ‘playing dumb’ thing-”

“I’m not playing dumb.” You throw him a flat look, opening the jewellery box. You wind it up and some dainty, tinkling tune you don’t recognise begins to play. The ballerina in the box spins around jerkily and mechanically. “There’s nothing going on between the two of us.”

“He admitted it. Multiple times-”

“He was drunk.”

He scoffs, a harsh noise from the back of his throat. “I mean I’m sorry but that’s just bullshit. Even if he was drunk, I’ve got eyes.”

“And what do your eyes tell you, Sam?” you ask him shortly.

“That you guys are into each other. Very into each other.”

“He’s been trying to get me to sleep with him since I first met you guys in Louisiana. This isn’t breaking news.”

“But it’s different now than it ever was before. He’s been diff-”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious! He’s different. And so are you. You never used to give him the time of day before and now you look at him all starry-eyed. It’s been months of this.”

“And?”

He looks over at you from the child-sized vanity table where he has found a small oil lamp, the glass cracked. He takes a lighter out of his pocket and jerks his thumb over it three times until a weak flame bursts out. When a dim brightness swims into the room, you can clearly make out the childlike befuddlement on Sam’s features.

“And,” he stresses, “you’re clearly lying when you say there’s nothing there.”

“I didn’t say there’s nothing there.”

He frowns. “Yes you did-”

“I said there’s nothing going on.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, if you wanna be a stickler. There could be something going on.”

“No, there couldn’t.”

Sam turns to face you - the search paused for now. A twitch of uncharacteristic impatience flashes across his face, glowing with the illumination of the lamp. “Why are you talking in riddles-”

“Sam - I don’t know if there’s ‘something there’ between myself and Dean. I don’t know. You say we’re into each other. Okay. Say we are. I don’t know. What can you see happening between us? You think he’s gonna suddenly decide to settle down? That he’ll just- go the distance with one girl for the rest of his life? Be serious.”

He wasn’t expecting you to say that. His eyes dart around your face for a moment, then quickly away. You continue.

“What’s far more likely is that something happens one night and everything gets awkward and I have to find new hunting partners which would really suck. Or worse, we try to make it work and it fails after two weeks, because we both know he’s not exactly a one-woman kinda guy. And I might not exactly be a traditionalist in most senses, but I-” You surprise yourself by choking on your words slightly, throat closing up. “But I still can’t share him. I’d rather not have him at all.”

You probably didn’t need to say that much. Sam is looking around the room like a guilty puppy, face flushed. You can still read a sliver of doubt there, like he is tempted to argue. He decides against it.

“Can we drop it now?” you ask. Your own voice echoes in your skull - weak and defeated. He nods, finally looking back at you with an apologetic smile.

You return it but you know it’s wavering. “I’ll check downstairs.”

You reckon you can spot the signs before anyone else does. It’s always somewhere with a relatively young population - doesn’t have to be a city, but it’s never an ageing, rural town where the only bar regulars are older men with beer bellies and shotguns.

It starts with a group of girls that look a bit too young to be there. They never approach, but their eyes flicker over far too often to be considered the standard ‘checking out a hottie’ once-over. Then it’s the barmen who give your table cold, assessing glances. And then it’s the attention of any and all single women in the bar - the way they size you up, the way they monitor every single arm movement, every twitch of your face to see whether you’re the lucky girl who has managed to take someone like Dean - handsome, mysterious, new - off the market.

Those are the signs that there is about to be a gold rush. And you’d really rather not be there to see it, but there aren’t many exit options when Sam is across the booth from yourself and Dean with a map open, dragging his pointer finger along it while he expounds on the folklore of the area in excruciating detail.

“-but obviously these fairies are different. And it didn’t make sense until I saw this. Look - the tree was in the exact location of the Stewart family home. My best guess is that the Stewarts cut it down to build their home. That’s what they’re avenging.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Dean interjects. “What about the other families? if it’s just about the tree, why wouldn’t they just quit after the Stewarts?”

“That’s the thing - I think the cutting down of the tree unlocked something. I think the tree was their home. And now their only motive now is chaos.”

“Well shit,” you sigh. “That makes it a lot more difficult.”

“How?” Dean says.

You frown at the apathy in his voice. “Well we can’t exactly exterminate them for that, right? I mean, they lost their home. They might not have anywhere else to go.” 

“They’re destroying people’s homes.”

“But they haven’t killed anyone-”

“Yet.”

You sigh. “And who’s to say they will? You can’t punish them for stuff they haven’t done.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “What- you wanna buy a condo for them? Put them up in a fairy hotel?”

You try to look vexed. “Don’t piss me off.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”

Your smile breaks but you change course quickly because Sam is starting to look like he is proving a point. “I just think- Maybe if we figured out whether we could get them to inhabit another tree, it would be better for everyone.”

Sam shrugs. “Worth a try. I’ll look into it.”

You give him a grateful smile. 

Dean nudges you with an elbow. “Soft touch.”

You scoff. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t see where they’re coming from. I’d be pretty pissed off if someone flattened my home with no warning.”

“Good thing you’ve been on the road since you were ten then-”

“Low blow.”

He’s giving you that fucking lopsided smile again, wrinkles appearing beside his lips and eyes. He’s gone all hazy and lovelorn again, and this time he hasn’t even had half of his drink. And you’ve been trying really fucking hard not to picture him naked like you had seen him in the motel just yesterday but you’re failing. He leans in, opening his mouth to speak, but-

“Excuse me.”

This girl is more confident than the last and even prettier too. She’s in all-black with brunette hair that falls to her waist. She purses her lips into a shrewd smile, eyes laser focused on Dean. “I just wanted to see if you’re single?”

You know your cue when you see it. You’re halfway out the booth when Dean’s strong arm over your shoulder pulls you back. He tucks you in close under his arm, body pressed against his, your thigh finding its way over his own inadvertently. You look up at him, questioning, but he doesn’t look back.

Instead, he shoots a tight smile to the girl standing at the booth. “No. Sorry.”

Sam’s head snaps up from his book. A beat passes.

To give her credit, she takes it in her stride. She nods, smiles a bit uncomfortably at the two of you and makes her way back to her own table where her friends are pretending not to be looking over. You’ve gone stiff under Dean’s arm and there’s a sticky sort of dryness sitting in your throat, but he doesn’t release you. You wonder if it’s the kind of night where he gets too drunk and tells you how bad he wants you to be his while yourself and Sam jostle him back to the motel. 

You want to hate him. You really want to hate him for doing this to you. And if you can’t hate him, you would settle for just feeling indifferent or just feeling friendly things towards him. But you don’t know how when he has you tucked under his arm like this, smile on his pretty face like he won some goddamn prize. You don’t know how to not want this all the time. 

You don’t want to look at Sam, but you do. He’s got a surprised amusement playing on his face, coupled with a very distinct ‘I’m-trying-not-to-look-too-satisfied’ smile. You speak only because it seems like nobody else is about to. 

“Never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester opts out of a hook-up,” you laugh. It falls flat. Sam stays silent. Dean only frowns down at you for a split-second before his eyes dart away again. His expression is hard to read, but he doesn’t seem pleased.

You can’t help but feel you made a misstep - like that was the wrong thing to say. Thirty seconds go by and then a full minute. Sam is back to poring over the journal. Dean doesn’t say anything. You clear your throat, as if planning to speak, but you can’t think of much to say. You feel a helpless sort of trepidation. It’s all very pointless and stupid.

“I’m, um, I’m gonna get a drink,” you say, unweaving yourself from Dean. Your glass is far from being empty and you see Dean glance at it for just a second. “Anyone want anything?”

Dean still says nothing, but Sam taps his empty bottle twice with a smile. You’re relieved to find that you’re not deliberately being given the silent treatment. You nod at him and make your way up to the bar.

There aren’t many people waiting to be served, but you don’t immediately try to make eye contact with the barman. You’d rather have a moment away from whatever the hell that atmosphere was anyway.

Word must have gotten around, or maybe everyone had been watching Dean’s arm curling itself over your shoulder in response to the pretty girl who had approached, because nobody else goes up to the table. The gold rush is over.

Dean and Sam are deep in conversation, leaned forward and speaking intensely. It’s hard to get a read on either of them - they’re doing that push-and-pull thing they always do - but you have the distinct impression that they’re talking about you. You’re glad that you can’t hear what they’re saying.

You build the image of Dean in your mind again, when you joked about him uncharacteristically rejecting a hook up. His brows pulled low, a slight pout on his lips. Had you offended him? Or is he starting to get frustrated at your unwavering commitment to not sleeping with him? 

You can admit that you have been giving him mixed signals. It’s not an intentional thing. But he looks at you with his bright green eyes and it's alluring and tender and it feels like it’s just for you. And you can’t help yourself. Your stomach goes warm and your lips get loose and all you can focus on is keeping that look on his face for as long as possible. So maybe you are to blame for all of this.

“Can I get you a drink?”

You almost sigh in response, turning around to look at the man who has lodged himself against the bar to your right. He has his elbow perched on the bar, leaned against it in a way that could look casual and cool if he were a little bit shorter. But he’s stretching himself awkwardly to reach it. He’s got black hair, slicked back but is otherwise fairly nondescript. Just another face. Just like anyone else.

“I’m ok, thanks. I’m buying two.”

He smiles, shrugging. “Let me buy you two.”

You look at him closer now, suspiciously. You raise an eyebrow and he smiles wider. “What you wanna do that for?”

“Call it an act of kindness.”

You huff a laugh. “I’m not in the habit of accepting those. Doesn’t tend to work out well in my line of work.”

“What’s your line of work?”

You don’t answer, finally catching the eye of the barman instead. You give him your order and the guy to your right makes a gesture for him to put it on his tab.

“You here with anyone?”

You point to the booth behind you where Sam and Dean are seated without looking away from the barman fixing your drink. He looks behind him and then back.

“Either of them your boyfriend?”

You hesitate, an uncomfortable feeling clawing its way around your gut. “Yes.”

You’re not always averse to flirting. Any other day you might even give this guy the time of day. He’s no Dean but he’s not bad looking. He’s dressed pretty well, in a crisp white shirt and a well-fitting pair of vintage Levis. You just don’t see any point in it right now. Not when Dean is unoccupied and you can take up some more of his attention. Not when you can feed that ugly, cruel thing in your brain and stomach. You’re doing a terrible job of shaking off this sickness.

“Which one?”

“Blonde.”

“Damn,” he smiles. “Well if you get tired of him…”

“I’m good,” you say with a tight smile, grabbing the glass and bottle the barman had placed in front of you. “Thanks for the drinks.”

It’s only when you turn to walk back to the table that you notice that Sam and Dean have seemingly finished their conversation. All of their focus is now on you.

Sam thanks you when you put the bottle down in front of him. You slide in beside Dean once again, but keep a safe foot or so of space between you.

“I swear all these honky tonk bars have the same damn playlist or jukebox or whatever,” Sam says. “If I have to hear Sweet Caroline one more time I’m gonna-”

“Have fun up there?” Dean interrupts with a cutting look at you. Sam licks his lips and heaves a tired sigh, like he knew this was coming.

“Not particularly…” you start slowly.

“No? Sure looked like it.”

You should probably feel a bit defensive at his tone, but you’re mostly just fascinated. Dean’s eyes are bulging - the way they bulge when he’s feeling really frantic while on a job. His face has gone fire-engine red. You look him over, then at Sam, questioningly.

Sam looks between the two of you. “I think maybe it’s time we turn in-”

“Not ready yet,” Dean says punchily. “Knock yourself out.”

Sam gives you a look - an offer to go with him - and you hesitate. It’s probably the better idea to go back to the motel with Sam. Let Dean blow off some steam with whatever girl is morally ok with banging some guy that, as far as she’s concerned, has a girlfriend. But the idea of it doesn’t sit right with you. 

You shake your head and Sam nods. You can’t help but feel that it’s the kind of nod that indicates you made the right decision. Whatever the hell that might mean. He picks up his jacket and mutters something about getting one of the cabs nearby.

Dean takes up Sam’s untouched drink. He still isn’t looking at you. 

You’re not stupid. You know that Dean’s sudden bad mood likely has something to do with the guy chatting you up unsuccessfully at the bar. His chances of getting laid were under threat. He probably wouldn't have reacted half as bad if he hadn’t turned down a pretty girl a few minutes prior.

And you don’t really have anyone that you can blame for this except yourself. Because you’re the one who set those expectations, even if you didn’t mean to. You’re the one who is dragging this on longer than it has any business being, because you’re selfish and you know that the minute you make those clarifications, he will accept defeat. He will change his behaviour out of respect for your decision, which should be a good thing.

But those little bits of him that you can clasp onto - the flirty back-and-forth, the not-so-accidental touches, the longing stares - are things that would hurt to lose. They’re things that your day would be much greyer without. You’ve prioritised them over your friendship with Dean, your job, your sanity. But it’s coming to a head now and you’re not sure how much longer you can wait before things start to collapse around you.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly, eyes still straight ahead. “Sorry.”

You blink. “That’s okay. Do you wanna…”

“Talk about it?” he asks sardonically. “I’m good.”

You nod, a short pause settling between the two of you. You tap on the glass of your drink just to fill the silence with something, but your mind is still on Dean.

He huffs a breathy laugh. “What’d I say? Twitchy. S’how I can tell you’re thinking.”

“Not twitchy. And of course I’m thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Thought you said you didn’t wanna talk.”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna talk. Never said I didn’t want you to.”

You giggle and his mouth breaks into a smile. “Well, that’s just too bad. I’m not in the monologuing kinda mood.”

“C’mon, sweetheart. Help me out here.”

You frown. Dean just keeps on looking ahead. It had seemed like a good idea to talk about everything a few moments ago but somehow the idea of vocalising your thoughts is a little repulsive now. “You first.”

He sighs and it’s more than exasperation or any leftover frustration from the man at the bar. He sounds tired. “I was thinkin’ about you.”

You hesitate. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

You’re ready for a bite of sarcasm or teasing or some ridiculously, outlandishly flirty remark but it doesn’t come. Just a long, thoughtful pause. You’re terrified and fascinated but you don’t bother wondering what he’s going to say. You need to give up wondering about things. There’s no point in it anymore. It just makes your head spin.

“I’d like to give you what you want,” he says finally. “I just don’t know what that is.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, even though you’re pretty sure you know exactly what he means.

“I can’t tell if you’d like me to leave you alone or if you want…” he trails off.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” you say, nervously. “I’d never want that.”

He looks at you now, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. He is wearing some beaten down expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t… want me.”

It’s not quite put as a question, but it’s more uncertain than a statement - somewhere in between. You look at him with your mouth just slightly open for one very still, silent moment, before a loud click from the pool table makes you jump.

“I…”

You’re hoping that he’ll make this easier for you by brushing it off, but he is not letting you escape this. His eyes are soft and open, almost pained, but his mouth is set in a resolute line.

You could lie. You could tell him you don’t want him. You could keep it all to yourself - how you want him in every way possible, how you wake up every morning with his voice in your ears and his face in your eye-line, even when he’s not there. It doesn’t seem fair, but you entertain the possibility for just a moment. It would be awkward, but Dean’s a big boy and he has gotten over rejection before. You’ve seen it.

But you’d have to be stronger to do that. You’d have to be able to stop looking at him like he has sunshine pouring out of the pores on his skin. You’d have to stop taking his side in every debate with Sam and you’d have to stop sniffing around like a dog for scraps of his attention. It’s not something you could do. It’s selfish, but you’d rather put the responsibility on Dean of severing whatever the hell you have going on. He would know how to do it much better than you ever would.

“That’s not true,” you choke, just as you see the light beginning to die in Dean’s hopeful gaze. Something flashes there now, brighter than ever. “It’s not that I don’t- That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just that I wouldn’t only want that. I would want more.”

His face shifts, mouth downturned. “You- uh, you not into the whole monogamy thing?”

You hiss in a breath. “No! That’s not what I mean-”

“It’s- uh. I mean, I-”

“Dean.” You give him a flat look before turning away. “That’s not what I meant.”

He sighs after a brief, silent suspension. “Sweetheart, I’m no good at riddles. That’s more Sammy’s thing.”

You look back at him with a sort of forced gravity when all you feel is desperation. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for. Because I don’t just want-” you sigh. “I am into the whole monogamy thing. That’s the problem.”

“Why’s that gotta be a problem?” The way he’s speaking is almost indecently gentle.

“Because I love you.” You force yourself not to look at him when you say it, staring directly ahead at the old jukebox in the corner. “Which is a problem in itself. But you don’t need to- I mean, I’m not expecting-”

Why is this so fucking hard? You’re bumbling around with your words and you might be on the verge of tears. 

“You’re not expecting what?”

“For it to mean anything.”

“Why wouldn’t it mean anything?” He sounds urgent now, almost desperate.

“Because it’s not realistic. C’mon Dean, you’re you.”

The silence stretches between you. When it hits a certain point, you hazard a look at his face. He’s like a hurt animal. Like you had just torn open a wound.

“And what the hell does me being me have anything to do with it? I could do it. The whole thing, I could do it with you.” He’s giving you a controlled look but his jaw is clenching and his voice is trembling.

“Dean-”

“I love you too, angel.”

It hits you like a bullet, but you try not to let it show. It would be so easy to forego all your reasonable doubts, let yourself fall into the childish fantasy that Dean could love you and it might actually end well. He’s still looking at you with wide, hurt eyes. It would be so easy, when you know that one word from you could wipe the look from his face

You shake your head, ignoring the way he grabs your hand. Ignoring how it feels in your own, rough fingers brushing over your knuckles. “It’s not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“The women, Dean-”

“No women. There’s no women.”

You smile but there’s nothing behind it. “There’s always women.”

“Not for a damn long time.” 

You look at him steadily. “That’s not true,” you say, but you don’t say it well. You sound weak and uncertain. It only occurs to you after saying it that you might also feel that way.

His eyes are blazing now and you feel a bit like an insect, trapped under a glass. He’s watching you try to wiggle your way out.

“You really haven’t noticed? Sweetheart, I haven’t touched a woman in months. My balls look like a Smurf’s.”

Your mouth goes dry. “How many months?”

“I dunno. Since before Tulsa.”

It has been many months since then. Many, many months. “Wh-what happened in Tulsa?”

“You started lookin’ at me different. Like, all smiley and cute. Made me think I had a chance so I got my ass on the straight and narrow.”

You look at him. You’re trying to figure out if he’s fucking with you. You can’t tell, but you also don’t think Dean would lie to you about this. Maybe a lie to protect you, or maybe a white lie about why you can’t use his laptop right now because he has to ‘um, send an email first’… but not a lie about this. And his eyes are so soft on yours. He can’t be lying. 

And if you want to think about it - you really hadn’t seen him take anyone home in a very long time. You had just assumed he was. You think back to the girl who approached the table earlier. And then about the one from two days ago. And then the one from the last town over. And the one that looked like a damn supermodel a month or two ago. All were turned away by Dean and you had thought that was strange at the time - you just didn’t know it was because of you.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did.”

You roll your eyes. “Sober.”

He breathes in. “You look at me sometimes like you want me but whenever I try to do somethin’ about it, you get all twitchy and clear off before I can blink.”

You pout, but a smile is threatening to break. “I’m not-”

“Yeah y’are,” he say, looking at you with so much affection that it warms your skin. He smiles as if he just gave you a compliment. “I didn’t know what you wanted. I still don’t.”

You look back at him, nervous, hesitant. “I want you. But only if I never have to share you with anyone.”

Sun spills out of his smile. He puts a gentle hand over your jaw and brings your face to his. You spend a few short seconds waiting, breathing each other’s air. “Angel. That won’t be a problem.”

Dean kisses you.

“What were you thinkin’, huh?”

You don’t have enough breath in your lungs to reply. You make a strained noise at the back of your throat instead. Dean shifts above you, pressing in harder, and you gasp. Your fingers grip his bare shoulders, trying to get some sort of leverage. The skin is damp with sweat under your touch.

“You’re crazy for thinkin’ I want any other pussy but this one for the rest of my damn life. Fuck- sweetheart, knew you’d feel this good.”

“You thought about this?” It comes out a bit too breathy to be teasing, but you are smiling up at him and he huffs a soft laugh back. He thrusts in hard, tip of his cock hitting a soft, pleasurable spot inside you, and you gasp at the overwhelming fullness of him. 

“Shit, angel,” he grunts. “Haven’t thought about anything else since I met you. Can’t get your pretty face outta my damn head. Drives me up the fuckin’ wall every single day when you go to another room, knowing I’m not gonna be able to fuck you like I want to. Or when you stretch out all cute in the backseat and I’m just- shit, I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock, waiting to get back to the motel or to some service station toilet so I can rub one out.”

Your voice catches in your throat. Tears prickle behind your eyes. “Thought about you too.”

“Yeah?” You see his eyes shining above you. His movements are hard and slow - you’re sure it’s at least in some part down to the fact that he’s trying to stave off his own orgasm after months of no action - but it makes it much more intense. Your heart is aching pleasantly in your chest.

“Yeah.” You nod. “All the time. Wanted you so bad, Dean, but I didn’t-“

“Y’didn’t think I was serious,” he finishes. You nod.

He leans down to give you a filthy kiss, hips still rolling into your own. His mouth is hungry against your own - one hand perched beside your head to hold him up and the other clasping your jaw. “Sweetheart, I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” Your body arches into his when he hits particularly deep, tits pressing up against his chest. “Never gonna get enough of you. So fuckin’ gorgeous. Feel so good around my cock. Finally lettin’ me give you what you deserve.”

You sigh, bliss spilling into every inch of your body. Dean backs up, putting both hands under your knees and pulling your legs up, hitting an unfamiliar spot. The muscles in your legs quiver at the foreign sensation - the immense pleasure of it. Dean’s eyes droop down to them and he smiles lazily. “Twitchy.”

You’re about to say something sarcastic, but he starts driving his hips forward and any cohesive thought you might have previously had evaporates. He’s so much deeper like this. You moan, eyes rolling back into your head.

“Fuck. That’s right baby, lemme feel it,” he grunts. “Tight cunt pullin’ me in. S’like I belong in here, huh.”

You nod at him, face twisted up and body squirming around him.

He breathes a light laugh which you can only assume is aimed at your fucked-out expression. “Can’t believe you’ve been keepin’ this away from me, sweetheart. Should be fuckin’ illegal. S’okay though, I’ll make up for it. Gonna fuck you six ways to Sunday. Just keep lookin’ at me like that, sweet girl.”

You should have known that Dean would be like this in bed. It’s not enough that he’s the funniest, most charismatic person you know. Or that he’s the love of your life, whose face you had tried and failed to evict from its residence in your brain for almost a year - more, if you want to be completely honest with yourself. No - he has to have a stupidly big cock and a filthy mouth too. You’ve never in your life been this wet, but then you’ve never in your life been eaten out and fucked by Dean Winchester.

“Fuck me-” he chokes out. “You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. Y’look so beautiful like this. All pretty and ruined for me while I pound that tight, wet fucking pussy. Gonna bust early. You gonna let me come inside?”

You should probably should be ashamed of the fact that you don’t even think about it. One of Dean’s hands leaves your leg to rub against your clit - already swollen from his tongue earlier. The tight ball of need is growing in your lower stomach again. “Please, Dean-” you whine. “Need it. Need to feel you, please. I love you.”

He kisses you again - hot and deep. “Knew you’d let me fill you up, sweetheart. Such an angel, y’know that? My good girl lettin’ me fill her up and make her mine. I love you too, baby. Love you so much it makes me crazy.”

A whimper breaks out of your lips when you lock eyes. His gaze is locked on you intensely and you’re not sure how you never saw it before - all the soft love and awe and devotion written there. His breath has gone short, eyes boring into your own. It almost feels silly now. How could Dean ever want anyone else when he looks at you like that?

You flutter around him, the tight ball in your stomach beginning to loosen.

“Give it to me, baby - I got you,” Dean grunts, face pinched in a sort of pained bliss, eyes half-lidded.

You clench down on him as you become undone and he moans at the sensation, beginning to spill himself inside. The idea of him filling you up makes you crash harder.

“Got you, angel. Fuck, so good to me, lettin’ me give you all my cum. I love you. My best girl.” Dean talks you through it, body going tense around you, movements dogged and rough, eventually pattering out into shallow thrusts.

His eyes are bleary and confused when he finally stops spilling his load into you. He drops down beside you, pulling you onto your side with one hand so he does not immediately have to pull out of you. You end up with one leg over his hip - positioned in a way that is awkward but not uncomfortable. He presses kisses around your face lazily, holding your body close against his own. 

Your body begins to twitch tiredly from exertion, legs quivering. “Don’t,” you grunt. He laughs and your body vibrates with the force of it.

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs @mollyherondale

🏷 dean taglist: @soullessambs @leyra-giovanni @spaghettiwoes @suckitands33 @/buckmybarnes @lostdragonqueen13 @moralgraymatter @love-stucky @sourgummieworm @annoyingrebelsoul @roseblue373

“Um yeah,” you mutter, because you may have to fake your body language, leaning away from him in a way that’s supposed to express discomfort, but you don’t have to fake your shyness. 

“Lemme buy you a drink. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you say, twisting your beer bottle around. 

“C’mon, just one drink. I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he says smirking, and the way he says it is so unlike Dean, it sets your teeth on edge. If you were really a girl he was trying to pick up, he would have taken no for an answer, but left the door open for you to change your mind, which you inevitably would. He would have said something like; ‘If you’re sure. You know where to find me, baby’ and taken his seat back with a flirty wink. He wouldn’t have insisted or thrown that corny, overused innuendo at you.

“No, really, I’m okay. Thank you.” And you’re squashing your eyebrows together, squirming in your seat, trying to look intimidated but this is Dean and nothing about him is intimidating. Not to you.

“It’s just one fuckin’ drink, bitch. Don’t be such a stuck-up priss.” 

Dean’s a good actor but you know he feels remotely uncomfortable having to say any of this to you. It doesn’t matter. The man beside you, taller than Dean but not quite as broad, stands up off his stool. 

“Didn’t you hear the lady? She said she doesn’t want a drink, punk.”

Dean makes a big show of backing off, raising his hands in submission and muttering something about how he was ‘only trying to be nice’, before backing away to his table once again. You turn to your saviour with a smile that you hope is radiant.

“Thank you so much,” you simper. “That got a bit scary for a second.”

He looks nice. He is lightly tanned with wavy brown hair, soft green eyes and a handsome smile that verges on shy. You think that this must be what Sam would look like, if life had been a little kinder to him.

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a modest shrug. “God, I can’t stand guys like that. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Happens more often than you think. Not many people would step in like you just did.”

His chest puffs out like a pigeon at the praise. “Maybe it’s because I’m a cop, but I can’t stand when people sit around and do nothing when something like that is happening in front of them. Makes me sick.”

“You’re a cop?” you ask, smiling and trying to do that ‘doe-eyed shit’ that Dean always accuses you of. It’s harder to do on demand. “That’s so cool, I really admire you guys. Your job must be really hard.”

He shrugs again, cheeks going a dusty pink. “It’s worth it if I can get to help people. But yeah, it can get a bit hairy sometimes.”

“I bet,”  you sigh. “I heard about this weird killing spree in the next town over. Those guys sure aren’t living the dream right now. I can’t imagine all the things they have to see.”

He straightens up immediately, animation dropping from his face. “Actually, I- uh, I’m working on those cases right now. You’re right, it’s not pretty.”

You’re losing him. His eyes are drifting away from you, away from the conversation. He’s searching for an out. You’re dimly aware of Dean’s eyes on you from afar, boring holes into your head. In a blind panic, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, one hand reaching out to his arm in a consoling manner. His eyes drop just once to where your hand meets his wax, green jacket and you feel him coming back to you. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for bringing that up,” you say, teeth worrying your lip with anxiety that you don’t really have to falsify. “I had no idea. I’m a bit of a true crime junkie, but the last thing you want to do is talk about that right now on your time off. I’m just gonna go. It was nice meeting you and thanks for, uh-” You make a vague gesture towards Dean, who is still watching you with dark eyes.

“No,” he says, hand moving over your own one on his arm to stop you from moving. He smiles in such a genuine way, it almost makes you feel guilty. “I can let you in on a couple secrets if you promise to keep it between us.”

You brush your hair behind your ear and laugh, soft and shy.

“I’m Jeremy, by the way.”

You have to stop yourself from saying I know.

“Sold it a bit too hard back there,” Dean grumbles, leaning against Baby with his arms folded and watching you dart out of the bar. He’s wearing an irritated scowl.

“Don’t be an ass,” you say, rolling your eyes as you open the car door and slide into the passenger seat. It’s not often that you get to ride shotgun and it feels weird - like you’ve suddenly become more important. Dean follows. “You’re the one that told me to ‘charm the pants off him’ if I remember correctly, so-”

“Yeah, charm him,” he says. “I didn’t say to fuckin’ feel him up.”

“Feel him up?” you splutter with a half-laugh as Dean pulls out of the drive. “You’re ridiculous. I put a hand on his arm. I’ve seen you do worse.”

“Yeah, whatever. You get anything outta him?”

You launch into the story and try to share all the same bits that Sam usually does. You tell him how the victims were all men in their early 20s, recently discharged from a hospital not far away. How the cops are currently questioning the hospital staff but haven’t found anything suspicious just yet. You describe all the gnarly injuries, all the pieces of evidence left behind.

“Um- I think that’s it,” you say, eyebrows furrowing together as you try to figure out whether there is anything you left out.

“That’s it?” Dean says with surprise, eyes shifting from the road to you briefly. “You were in there for damn near an hour. Thought this was about to be some fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes shit.”

“Well I couldn’t just leave straight away once he gave me the information, Dean,” you say, frowning at him. “That’s suspicious. And rude.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head. “Never mind. What hospital is it?”

You bite your lip, face flushing. “Um- I don’t know. Should I have asked?”

“Goddamnit, sweetheart-”

“I can ask!”

“Ask who?” Dean frowns.

“Jeremy. The cop from the bar. I mean, I probably can’t just call him up and ask him outright but if I tell him I want to meet up then maybe I could-”

“You exchanged numbers?”

“Well yes,” you say, watching Dean carefully. He is looking more wound up by the second. “He asked and I couldn’t really say no after talking for so long. Besides, it’s useful now because I can ask him what hospital it was.”

“Jesus Christ. I asked you to charm information out of him, not to start a fuckin’ fling-”

“Well maybe you should have waited for Sam or done it yourself!” you say, voice raising in frustration. Your lip is wobbling a little bit and it feels like barbed wire is tightening around your throat. “I’m no good at this stuff, the flirting for information. I get nervous. You know that.”

Dean takes one look glance at you out of the corner of his eye and all his exasperation slips away. He lets out a puff of breath and his body deflates with it, eyes going soft and gooey like they always do when you get upset. It makes you feel like a kid in a horrid, humiliating way, but it’s better than being on the receiving end of his frustration. Dean being annoyed at you is your own personal hell. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything about that and you’d like to keep it that way for as long as you possibly can.

“Hey now, none of that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find out what hospital is it, don’t you worry about it.”

You nod once and turn to face out the window, still fighting the unsteady feeling in your throat and behind your eyes. Damn him - you’re so soft when it comes to Dean. No matter how much you rebel against it, no matter how many phases of denial or resistance you go through, you just can’t fight how you react to him.

He is still giving you cautious looks whenever he can pry his eyes away from the road. “C’mon, sweetheart. Y’mad at me?”

You shake your head because you don’t trust your voice to carry anything, but you still don’t look at him. He sighs and pulls in to a gas station at the side of the road. It’s one of those small, Americana-style ones you’d find on route 66. You can’t imagine he can get very much in there. He gets out without saying anything and you flinch as the car door slams shut.

You tap your fingers against the window as you wait for him and think resentfully about the fact that he, and he alone, seems to determine whether you’re going to have a good day or a bad one. One smile is enough to make you feel the sun on your skin even when the clouds are out, but his disapproval or disappointment shatters you in a way that not much else can.

It’s hard to remember a time when that wasn’t the case. You look back on your life before the Winchesters as boring - insignificant, even. It’s probably pathetic and un-feminist to admit, but it’s true. 

The before of your life seems grey. Before Sam convinced Dean to let you tag along with them because you had nowhere else to go. Before you managed to convince him that you were more than just a burden - that you could help with their jobs. Before you wormed your way into his heart, even if it’s not in the capacity that you might have wished for.

When Dean slides back into the car, he has a cherry cola and a pack of those sour green gummy worms that make your face scrunch up and your tonsils hurt. They’re your favourite.

He watches you as you take them from his hands and when you smile, so does he.

Dean finds out which hospital it is two days later. You’re not sure whether he called up Sam, who is out of commission in a motel a few towns back with the flu, or if he did some digging of his own while you were asleep. But he’s tugging on his jacket by the time you wake up in the motel bed, bleary eyed and sore from the awkward position you slept in.

“Dean?” Your voice is thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”

“I’m headin’ out to the hospital to poke around. It’s early. You go back to sleep, I’ll be quick.”

You would usually fight him on this, but your body is tired, having only recently shaken off the flu that you had so kindly passed on to Sam. You nod drowsily, a bit dizzy with sleep, and he gives you a fond, amused smile, as if you did something very funny. You watch him leave.

Your mind is too awake to drift immediately back into your stupor, and your body gradually wakes up with it. Within a few minutes, you’re too alert to even try. The red digits on the alarm clock read 7:09, and you suppose most coffee places would be open about now.

Dean has all your expensive hair products and shower gels out on the counter of the bathroom and you file that away to complain about later, even though you secretly kind of like when he uses your stuff. You like to think that he might have struck out a couple times because the woman could smell the sweet, girly scents on his skin and hair, and assumed he had a girlfriend.

The shower you take is short, only because there is a film of dirt on the shower floor that makes you feel like you might slip. Most of your clothes are in dire need of laundering so you pluck one of Dean’s plaid shirts up. You tell yourself that it’s ok because he has used something of yours too, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. This is very different. You’re wearing Dean’s shirt because some ugly, desperate part of you wants to feel close to him - wants to smell his scent on your skin. He’s explained to you why he uses your toiletries; “All that girly shit is fuckin’ luxe. Makes my skin feel like a baby’s goddamn ass”.

You check your phone for any updates from Dean before you leave the room, but you see only the same text that had been sitting there since yesterday.

JEREMY (COP FROM BAR - HOSPITAL MURDERS): I really loved meeting you last night. Let me know if you’re free any time soon. I would love to take you on a date.

You smile despite yourself as you descend the stairs of the motel, which leads directly onto the streets of the town. The guy really was sweet, but Dean’s reaction is enough to stave off any intentions to respond, even just for a ‘fling’, as he termed it. It’s hypocritical, really, that Dean has the freedom to chat up whoever he wants on a job but considers you to be ‘derailing the operation’ whenever there is the slightest hint of a connection on your end.

Ultimately, though, it’s fine. Your feeble old heart has a one-track mind and any attempts to satisfy it with some shoddy, off-brand replacement, whether for one night or more, leave you feeling sick and heartbroken. You’ve learned well enough by now that any time you try to move on, it just leaves you bereft.

It’s not even that you think that nobody can compare to Dean - not exactly. Dean is good and he’s kind and is smooth enough to make a nun blush. He’s smart, funny, loyal - the best kind of person there is. But you’ve met a lot of guys with those same qualities. It’s just Dean’s unique blend of those characteristics that you feel must have been concocted within him specifically for you.

And it’s fine that Dean flirts with other women. That he can pick up a girl as easy as others can tie their shoelaces and throw them away even easier. Because he has suffered enough and done enough good in this world to be allowed these kinds of indulgences, and you know that if he was aware of how you felt, he wouldn’t do it anymore. He would lock himself away to avoid hurting your feelings and eventually go insane with frustration and you know he would bear it for you if he thought the alternative was hurting you.

But you won’t let him. Because you love him and there aren’t many things you can do with your love. You can’t get rid of it, you can’t put it down anywhere, or give it to someone else. So you choose to love him in this strange, silent way instead. You suffer so that he doesn’t have to.

The diner you choose is straight out of one of those ‘small town America’ travel brochures. You’ve seen ones just like it in those autumnal TV comedies that you put on in the background. Sam watches them with you with mild interest, even if he pretends he dislikes them, but Dean complains about anything that isn’t chock-full with cars and guns and hot girls. It’s bright when you walk in and fairly clean, even if the red vinyl of the booths is cracking and there is a small stain on your table. A tall, pretty girl takes your order of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast and manages to bring them over to you almost immediately. The food is not great, but it’s not bad either.

“Hi there. Mind if I join you?”

Jeremy is standing in front of you, dressed in his blue uniform and hair askew. He’s smiling hesitantly, as if he’s not sure whether you’re about to tell him to get lost.

“Jeremy, hi,” you splutter, even as you do your level best to seem collected. “Of course. Please.”

He seems a lot more assured of himself as he slides into the booth in front of you, hesitant smile giving way to a charming grin. “You remember my name. That’s a good sign at least.”

You breathe an awkward laugh. “Sure I do. Wouldn’t forget. Are you on duty?”

“Nope, coming off. Just ordered some breakfast at the counter. Then I gotta head over to my niece’s seventh birthday party.”

“Ouch,” you say, wincing in an exaggerated way. “A seventh birthday party is a lot for the morning after a night shift.”

“Tell me about it. You kinda forget how loud kids are at that age.”

He uses the waitress’ name when he thanks her for bringing his order. It makes you smile.

“So you remembered my name and you’re good with me joining you, but you didn’t reply to my text,” he says with a small, teasing grin when the waitress - Justine, apparently - goes back behind the counter. “Trying to figure out what that means. Can you help me out here?”

Your face flushes with shame and mortification, your brain racing to come up with an excuse. He’s handsome and nice and not even trying to make you feel bad about the fact that you ignored him and he should be perfect for you. You should be jumping at the chance for someone like him to take you on a date.

“I’m so sorry,” you gush, real guilt pouring through. “Your text was so sweet, it was really shitty of me to not reply to you. It’s just- well, I’m only here for a couple of days and I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“Relax,” he laughs. “I wasn’t mad. Just don’t wanna be sitting here bothering you if you’re not…”

“You’re not bothering me,” you say, and it’s the truth. Jeremy smiles.

“Where do you live, if you’re not from near here?”

“I travel around a lot for work,” you say, and because you know that’s not really an answer that doesn’t raise suspicion - you add; “But technically Kansas.”

“Kansas isn’t that far from here. Just a matter of a few hours when the traffic’s light.” He’s not looking at you, cracking pepper onto his plate casually.

You’re not worth this kind of attention. Guilt, along with something much more complex and difficult to describe, gnaws low in your stomach. You know that you should be thankful that someone like him would even look twice at you, let alone suggest hours of travel to see you again after meeting you once. But your ungrateful heart can only scream that he is not Dean. Not even close.

“I’m in Kansas maybe thirty percent of the time,” you say with a regretful smile. “I really do move around a lot.”

Jeremy responds, but you don’t hear it. Because another sound has taken up your attention; something low and gravelly and something that sounds an awful lot like Dean.

Your eyes snap over to the counter where Dean has just ordered two coffees to-go. You watch in slow-motion while he looks around the diner - probably looking for a hot girl to chat up, your traitorous mind taunts you - before his gaze finds you. 

Sitting in the booth. 

With Jeremy. 

It looks so bad - it looks planned - and you can only gawp open-mouthed as Dean stomps over, looking completely murderous. Jeremy is giving you a strange look now, wondering why you have suddenly stopped responding, but there’s nothing you can say. You feel like a mouse in a trap.

“We’re going,” Dean snaps out when he makes it all the way over, placing his hand on your arm in a firm grasp. “C’mon.”

Jeremy’s eyes darken as he stands up. “Get away from her right now,” he spits. “Or we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Dean seems to remember the part he played in that little private investigation at the same time as you. The pushy creep who wouldn't take ‘no’ for an answer. His eyes flick between yourself and Jeremy for a second, before he decides it’s not worth it to blow your cover, or to get arrested on charges of sexual harassment. He scoffs for just a second and shoots you a very unimpressed glare before walking out of the diner without his coffees.

“I told you to stay here!” Dean snaps as soon as you walk in the door to your motel room again. It has been over an hour since that moment in the diner and you had been dreading this every moment since. The rest of your breakfast was pleasant, if a little awkward after that interaction. Jeremy had insisted, insisted and insisted again on dropping you back to the motel in his cruiser in a show of gentlemanliness that did more to annoy than impress you. And sure, maybe a part of you understood that you would consider the same gesture charming if it had come from Dean, but Jeremy isn’t Dean so that doesn’t matter.

“No you didn’t,” you sigh, throwing the key onto the table.

“Well, it was fuckin’ implied.”

You give him a bewildered look before collapsing down to sit on your bed and peel off your shoes. “In exactly what way was it implied?”

“When there’s a ghost going around whacking people, your natural instinct should probably be to stay the hell outta the way.”

You roll your eyes and make sure he sees you do it. “Well I’m not a male in my early twenties, so I’m not really the target here, am I?” Your mind catches up a second later. “Wait, you found out it’s a ghost?”

“Yeah, it’s a ghost,” he replies, but he really doesn't seem to want to linger on that subject right now. “That little piggy you were with might be a male in his early twenties. You don’t know, which is why you should have stayed the hell inside.”

“He’s late twenties at the very youngest and you know it,” you say. “And since when am I not allowed to go get breakfast while on a job? Come off it, Dean.”

Dean is still furious, but he seems to be scrambling to figure out how to respond. You take advantage of his momentary speechlessness. “Tell me what you got.”

He is hesitant to drop it there, but he eventually does. He still looks displeased while he walks you through what he figured out - the fact that it’s a ghost; a female from the early 1900s who was left to rot in hospital in favour of a male patient in his early 20s and subsequently died from medical neglect. She has been enacting her revenge with a host of killings every ten years around the anniversary of her death. You will be going back to the hospital after hours, when it’s a bit quieter. 

“Pretty standard job. In and out,” he shrugs, and you thought he might distract himself with the details and have gotten over the whole diner incident by the time he finished telling you about it, but he’s still not looking at you. It sends a bolt of hurt through you but you shake it off.

“Right, in and out,” you agree.

The job is simple. In and out, just like he said. You distract the receptionist by asking after a grandmother that doesn’t exist while Dean chases the leads he had found earlier. He finds the bones within thirty minutes and burns them. He’s a bit banged up by the time he makes it back to where you’re waiting in reception, clothes askew and hair mussed up with a cut or two spilling blood through his shirt, but he won’t tell you what happened except that he ‘Sorted it.’ The receptionist gives you a skeptical look when you walk out with him, but she doesn’t say anything else. 

You feel exceptionally useless when you climb back into Baby. The power rush you had from riding shotgun has evaporated.

“I can’t believe you made me be the distraction again,” you mutter, scuffing your shoes against the car floor just to piss him off.

“Someone’s gotta to do it,” is all he says back. He still won’t look at you, not even to give you evils for the way you’re treating Baby. Hasn’t looked at you properly since this morning in the motel. It hurt before and it still does, but now you’re just fed up more than anything. There’s only so much awkward silence you can take. 

“Dean, will you- Goddamnit, can you look at me?” 

He takes a second, fingers flexing around the wheel as he pulls out of the carpark. His lips flatten into a thin line, before he looks at you for a brief second, raising his eyebrows as if to say; ‘There. Happy?’

But you’re not.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t know what the big deal is. You can pretend all you want that this is about me going to get a breakfast, but it’s not is it? You just didn’t like that I was with Jeremy.”

Dean wasn’t expecting that. All exasperated sarcasm melts from his face as he steals an astonished glance at you, eyes alarmed and mouth somewhat ajar. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“You don’t want me getting distracted on a job.”

At that, he seems to relax, slipping back into the same easy grouchiness as before and you wonder what it was he thought you were getting at. “Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters lowly.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” you sigh. “How come you can do whatever you want but I can’t?”

You surprise yourself as much as you surprise him by bringing this up. That’s a subject you always stay well away from - Dean and girls. You look away and pretend not to hear when Sam teases him after he stumbles into the motel room the day after a job ends. You’ve smelt all kinds of perfume on him - sweet, spicy, cheap expensive and say nothing. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom so you can stop yourself from retching when he approaches some random table in a bar and shoots a suave smile to someone who isn’t you. But it’s spilling out of you now; not because you can’t hold it in anymore (because you can and you will until the end of time), but because it’s simply not fair. You couldn't move on if you tried, you know this, but who is he to tell you whether or not you can try?

“Because, sweetheart, it’s different,” he says, and the word ‘sweetheart’ is uttered almost sarcastically, in a way you had never heard before. You had always been his only sweetheart - one of the only things he could give you and you alone, but it was always said with a sort of gentle veneration - never like this. It feels tainted now. No longer yours.

“How is it different, Dean?” You’re trying to keep that damned barbed wire from closing in on your throat again. Trying, for once, to not be the baby that cries too easily and loves too easily and gives herself away to him for nothing in return.

“Because those girls don’t mean anything. They’re not distractions,” he explains, voice thick and low. “But you can’t have someone who doesn’t mean anything. You carry on with that asshole and you’ll end up in some fuckin’ picket fence house with a wraparound porch.”

He’s halfway there. He’s right, of course. You couldn’t just have an indistinct someone who doesn’t mean anything. You could never let them warm your bed without making yourself feel ill and blue - you had tried it before and it didn’t work out well. 

But he really doesn’t understand that you could go on a hundred dates with Jeremy or with anyone else and you still wouldn't end up anywhere but right here. Following Dean around like a slobbering puppy. Because your sick, stubborn heart decided what it wanted years ago and has not forgotten.

Dean must mistake your silence for something else, because he watches you wearily, frustration falling away from his face and giving way to a panicked sort of concern. “Unless that’s…” he coughs nervously. “Unless that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” you confirm glibly. You don’t mention that it could be what you want, if he decided that it was what he wanted too. It’s your turn to avoid his eyes now. You watch the rain stream down the car window.

“C’mon, I’m tired of fightin’ with y’, sweetheart,” he says and the designation of ‘sweetheart’ is once again yours to claim. He is speaking to you sweetly, coaxing you out of your corner. But tears are springing to your eyes so you keep them trained away from him.

It’s mostly for his benefit, that you hide this from him. It’s not his fault that your world is moved by his hands alone. It’s not his fault that all his attempts to take care of you have worked so well that they backfired and hurt you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-” he sighs and you can hear him running his hand through his hair, even though you can’t see it. You can smell a burst of your shampoo when he does it. “I don’t know how to… Did I upset you?”

You don’t say anything for a moment, and he seems ready to speak again. 

“I don’t want the… picket fence and porch,” you say, tracing raindrops with your fingers. There’s a wobble in your voice. “But it would be nice to just have someone, maybe.”

That ‘someone’ is Dean, obviously. But you can still dream of someday breaking free of these feelings - finding someone else. You won’t feel a fraction of this intensity for them but that would be ok, that would be alright. And they wouldn’t look at you the way Dean does and they wouldn’t be able to make you laugh like he can but you would learn to live with that, maybe even learn to numb your feelings for Dean from this fire into a dull ache.

Because what good is your love for Dean when you’ve had to debase it so many times? You’ve tried to bastardise it - to turn it platonic, to turn it familial, even to get rid of it altogether and none of it ever works. It returns to you, defiled and wounded but no weaker, every single time.

“You could have me.”

Even the tears in your eyes can’t stop you from looking over at Dean now. You’re searching for any sign that he might be making some sort of joke, but you can’t find it. His eyes are trained firmly on the road, a worried pinch between his brows. You almost feel like you imagined it.

“I… What?”

“If you wanted to have someone. You could have me.”

Your breath feels stuck in your lungs. Dean has no idea what he’s saying; how unintentional cruel he is being to you. You have no idea whether he means as a friend or as a warm body to satisfy some part of your longing. You don’t want to think too long about whether he means the latter - because you’re deathly afraid that you are weak enough to accept his offer and then the whole thing really will fall apart.

“I didn’t mean it in that way. I meant-”

“I know what you meant. I want to be that. For you.”

He is speaking so uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the same soft that he offers you when you’re scared or upset, the confident arm around your shoulder while he coos and comforts. This is another kind of soft. He always looks tired, but right now he looks exhausted. You’ve only seen him look this vulnerable a handful of times and you feel a strange discomfort when you realise each time has been when he was speaking about his dad.

You are soaking in his words as he puts the car in park outside the motel. Crickets croak to fill the silence between you. He is sneaking glances and you know him well enough to know that he is trying to get a read on you.

“Why?” you land on eventually.

He frowns. “The hell do you mean why?”

“Why are you offering to-? You don’t need to feel sorry for me, or whatever-”

Dean laughs, more angry than amused. “You really think I’d tell you I want to be with you because I feel sorry for you? I’m fuckin’…” Dean sighs, face twitching with discomfort and awkwardness. “I think if you just gave it a chance, I could maybe be the someone you’re talkin’ about. Maybe.”

Your face flushes with heat and your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you had for breakfast. Your mind is racing to make sense of what you’re hearing - he could ‘maybe be your someone’? “What…”

Dean shuts down, as if a sudden door slams over that vulnerability he had shown you just a minute ago. “Y’know what, forget it-”

“No!”

He pauses, his hand going still on the car door. Your thoughts aren’t making sense at this point but you’re desperate to say something - anything - that might stop him from leaving.

“I want to-” you stutter, clumsy as a baby goat. “I want you to be my maybe-someone too, but I want to know for sure that you… I don’t know how to talk about this, but please don’t leave.”

Dean is skittish when he looks back over to you. You see a flicker of something masked by a cloud of doubt. Slowly, he reaches his hand out for yours. You clutch it with urgency, holding it tight against your own. His hands feel big and rough against your skin. Your thumb glides along all the little ridges and bumps and callouses; the results of the dirty work he never lets you do. He looks as if he is almost afraid you’ll bite when he reaches the other hand out, hesitantly moving up to your face, and his throat bobs a little bit when you lean in to his touch. His pretty green eyes are watching you carefully while his thumb works its way slowly along your cheekbone and you wonder for the briefest of seconds if this is another one of your dreams.

But the next second he’s kissing you and you know it can’t be a dream. Because even in your dreams, you don’t allow yourself to imagine it would be like this to kiss Dean. In your dreams, his kisses are hot and rough, the same way you had seen him dole them out to an endless carousel of girls in dark corners of bars, while you and Sam play solitaire and try to ignore what’s happening in your eye-line.

Dean’s lips are warm and unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he is really allowed to do this. You melt into him slowly, because you had thought about this moment too often for you to freeze up when it is finally happening. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, pulling you up against him, and chokes a broken sigh into your mouth, as if he was the one who had been waiting on this for years. As if he was the one who had to suffer all this longing, had to wield his love carefully so it wouldn’t pour out of him like water from a faucet.

You have gone astray in the feeling of his lips, of his large hands gripping your waist with such painstaking gentleness. Your heart is aching in your chest and you know it’s lost to him forever when he runs a careful hand through your hair, holding you with the same tenderness that he treats you with in all regards.

You’re not even thinking when you press yourself closer to him, clasping your hands around his shoulders and pushing your chest to his urgently. Your need for him - to just be close to him - is growing rapidly inside you like a fire. You shake a bit as Dean kisses you harder, mouth moving against yours, hot and messy.

Gone is the sweet gentleness from just a moment ago, but this is still not quite how you have seen Dean kiss strangers in bars. He’s holding you a bit tighter, kissing you with a bit more exigency. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you’re sure you had never seen him kiss anyone like this. Heat is pooling low in your stomach and you’re squirming, legs twitching as you try to get closer to him. Eventually Dean grunts, the sound sending sparks in your stomach and between your thighs. He splays a hand over your thigh and shifts it over his own. In this position, you become aware of how hard he is. You can feel it even through the layer of jeans and it makes you gasp.

“Dean,” you breathe, struggling for air. He’s undeterred. One hand moves to gently caress the side of your neck as his mouth moves to kiss you there, soft but insistent.

“Hm?” he hums against your neck. You feel its vibration.

Your brain is failing you. The need for him is catapulting you off the edge of sanity and all your focus is garnered towards that bulge below you. You press down without even meaning to and Dean groans at the contact.

“Hey now, slow down, sweetheart,” he says, pulling away from your neck and looking up at you with half-lidded, blown-out eyes. You make a noise that you don’t even hear. You think it’s a protestation. 

“F’you think I’m gonna take you in the front seat of Baby out in some scabby parking lot for our first time, you’re crazy,” he says, thumb reaching up to pull at your bottom lip. 

Your heart soars. First time.

“What, you think that mangy motel room is better?”

Dean laughs. “Maybe not. But ‘least there I can lay you out all pretty. Take my time with you like I always pictured.”

His words go straight to your abdomen in a strange, pleasant mix of love and desire. You clamber off his lap in record speed.

You frown. “Are you sure?”

“Am I - fuck - what the hell are you talkin’ about right now?”

Dean is sitting up against the headboard of the bed. His gaze is dark and unfocused, sweat dripping down his brow and on to his naked chest.

“Are you sure that you want to be my maybe-someone?”

He gives you a strange look, eyes squinting and corners of his mouth poking up in that Dean-is-very-bewildered way. “Huh?”

“I just want to make sure that you’re sure, because I don’t think I’ll be able to- Oh…”

Your mind trails off the subject as Dean uses his grip on your waist to thrust his hips up just a bit, hitting that sweet spot you had just recently (tonight) discovered. His cock is deep inside you, stretching you out in a way that is almost enough to make you want to drop the subject. If you cared about him any less, you probably would.

“I don’t wanna be your maybe-someone, sweetheart. I wanna be your someone. I love you.”

That brings you back. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and you have the odd compulsion to cry. Your body is experiencing a lot right now. “You love me?” The barbed wire is tightening again, but this time in a good way. That steamy grin Dean had been wearing crumbles into something softer. He nods.

“But what about the girls?”

“What girls?”

You flush. “Y’know. The girls you… in all the bars…”

His hands palm your hips with a bruising grip, flexing there as he bounces you on him experimentally, like he’s trying to get you to forget that any girls ever existed. Your cunt clenches tight around him, entire body buzzing, and black spots dance behind your eyes, but you sit still because you have really fucking great self-control. 

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head rolling back. “I don’t wanna talk about any damn girl except you right now.”

“Dean.”

His face scrunches up in exasperation as he fights to keep his eyes on yours. They keep travelling down to your tits. “I wasn’t lying when I said they didn’t mean anything, sweetheart,” he says, dropping down to press kisses to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut and you unintentionally grind down at the wonderful tingly feeling it gives you. Dean grunts. 

“Tried to go on as normal for a while. Thought I could get over you, ‘cause I didn’t wanna burden you with my shit. Didn’t work. Just ended up with a loada pissed off girls who kicked me out after I said the wrong name. That’s it.”

You barely notice that you had begun to grind down on him again until Dean wraps his lips around one of your nipples and you let out a desperate moan. His right hand moves down, feather-light, to stroke up and down your thigh.

“How- how long?”

“Dunno. Kinda sleep-walked into it,” he says, gasping between sentences as you leisurely ride him. “Think I realised when we were at Bobby’s house that one time and I heard you bangin’ around in your room for at least twenty minutes. Walked in and saw you wrapped up in that bedsheet like a ghost ‘cause you couldn't get it on and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. ’S stupid but it made me laugh so damn hard.”

He laughs shakily as he remembers it. You try to recall, but the angle he’s hitting inside you is turning any thought into a tough feat. “I don’t remember that. Must have been years ago.”

He just nods and leans up to kiss you, pretty and desperate. You pull away, even if you would much rather not. 

“You’ve loved me for years?”

“Probably longer than that too, sweetheart. Everyone else seemed to figure it out before I did. Everyone except you.”

He’s trying to distract you again with his lips on your neck, but your brain is working too fast now.

“Everyone- Dean, does Sam know?”

He grunts and you can feel it rip through his chest under your fingertips. When he looks up at you, his pretty green eyes have gone a shade darker.

“Please don’t say another man’s name while I’m fuckin’ you ever again, sweetheart,” he damn-near growls. “ ‘Specially not my brother’s.”

You’re being flipped over then, your skull narrowly avoiding the headboard, until you’re under him, knees pressed up and he’s sliding into you at his pace this time.

“But yes. Everyone means everyone.”

He rolls his hips into yours and you can’t stop the breathy moan that escapes at how he feels inside you. He’s so deep and you’ve never been this full before, but there’s no pain to it because it’s Dean and he had made sure you were ready for him - of course he did. He had played with your pussy; rubbed it and fingered it and licked it in ways you didn’t even know were possible before sliding into you with a slow, loving reverence that made your legs tremble and your heart quake. He’d eased in slowly, despite you whining that you wanted to take him all the way. Dean has always taken care of you and he always will, especially now.

“And since you clearly can’t be trusted on top yet,” he says, punctuating his point with a brutal thrust that has you gasping and clenching around him. “I’m just gonna have to fuck all those thoughts outta your clever little head. Maybe then I’ll let you get back on top. When you can’t treat this like a job we’re workin’ on and all you can think about is me and how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

God, his voice is travelling right through your body and you still can’t quite believe that this is really happening. Your hips jerk up to meet his thrust as he turns you to ruins below him. You’re still fighting to hold on to your line of questioning, but he’s making it so hard.

“Dean, I- oh-”

His hand goes down to find your clit, gives it a rub with his thumb without losing any of his rhythm.Your eyes squeeze shut and your body moves against his as if your mind doesn’t have any say or involvement in the matter. 

“That’s it, let me fuck you stupid. Forget about everything else. I’ll sort you right out, baby.”

It shouldn’t be possible for him to fuck you like this. One hand still under your knee and the other playing with your clit, still maintaining a bruising rhythm that sends stars to your eyes. 

It’s not fair. 

Because for as many times as you had pictured being fucked by Dean, as much as you had known that nobody else could compare, you still had no concept of just how good the real thing could be. How thoroughly it would destroy you for anyone else.

“So pretty and dumb when I’m splitting you open like this,” he whispers, fucking himself so deep in that you can feel the tip pushing against your cervix. “Can’t believe you’re letting me have you like this. Knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Thought about you like this every goddamn day.”

You have already come twice. Once on his fingers, once on his tongue. And now he’s about to make you come with his cock. You love every woman he has ever been with for showing him exactly the ways to touch you in order to make pleasure flash in every nerve, and you hate them for ever having him like this before you did. But it doesn’t matter now, because Dean seems as far gone as you and his face makes you think that maybe he’s destroyed for anyone else too.

The noises you’re making are barely coherent - something about how good it feels, how deep he is inside you - but they make Dean smile at you, sly and patronising as his tip keeps hitting that spongy spot inside you.

“Yeah, baby?” he coos at you, and all you can do is nod, even if you’re not sure what exactly he’s asking you. “Doin’ so good. Tight pussy’s suckin’ me in.”

Your eyes flutter, fighting the instinct to close only because you want to keep watching Dean - you don’t want to miss a second of how sweet and wrecked he looks above you. He’s got the control now, but you can tell he’s close to losing it by the way his eyebrows furrow just a little and his face goes unfocused. His drooping eyes travel around your body quickly, shooting from your face to your tits to where you’re being split open by him, like he can’t decide where to look.

“Please, Dean. Need more,” you whine, just centimetres from coming. You’re not even sure you could take more at this point, but you want to see what he’ll do.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says, even as he slams his hips into yours harder. Your eyes roll back. “Takin’ you nice and sweet right now. Gonna make you come apart real pretty for me. Enjoy it ‘cause next time I’m not gonna be this nice.”

Your brain stutters at the thought that this is him being nice. This feels utterly filthy to you.

There’s an overwhelming pit of pleasure in the bottom of your stomach and it seeps low into your pussy. You twitch once, clenching down on him, and with one more brutal thrust you’re falling over the edge, grinding right down on him. You’re spewing out words incoherently, babbling in tongues. One thing that is coherent, though - one thing that is entirely unmistakable - is how you gasp out; “I love you” in a broken moan.

You hadn’t really noticed that you hadn’t said it back when Dean first admitted it. It had felt obvious to you, like a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green and you love Dean Winchester. You didn’t really think about the fact that he didn’t know.

But you think about it now. When Dean’s half-lidded eyes suddenly shoot open and he’s marvelling at you with such open awe that it makes you feel like maybe you’re something sacred to him too. His face crumbles and he seems to lose control while you’re still riding your high, spilling so deep inside you that you can feel his warmth in your tummy.

Once he’s spent, he slows his hips down and thrusts shallowly while you twitch and jerk around him, his body folding over your own in a way that makes you feel wholly and completely surrounded by him. You feel lax and satisfied as you had never been before.

“You mean it?” he asks against your neck, lips pressing a small kiss there. You know that that kiss means; it’s ok if you don’t.

You shudder out a breathless laugh and your chest moves against his because of how closely your warm bodies are pressed together. 

“You really don’t understand. I’m crazy in love with you, Dean.”

His head lifts up and he searches your eyes with the same expression he uses to investigate a haunted house or look for evidence in some abandoned warehouse. “Since when?”

“Since forever,” you say, heat flooding your face. “Even when I was just some dumb kid you didn’t want tagging along with you and Sammy.”

He goes soft. He melts to a puddle and wraps himself around you even tighter, hand going to your face while he presses a hot, gentle kiss to your lips. “My girl,” he murmurs against your lips.

“You girl?” you repeat, pulling back even though you still feel like you’re floating. “Are you sure? I know you don’t really-”

Dean groans. “Sweetheart. You gonna make me fuck all those doubts outta your head again?”

You smile. “Maybe later.”