I'm Juliana, I'm 54 years old and I'm a writer.

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

@wvffles @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

@winchestergirl2 @spnbabe67 @stoneyggirl2 @my-stories-vault @this-is-me19

@tofics @artemys-ackles @mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @flawlesslyspellbound

@k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

Steve pulls Wanda out of the way of the charging brute, lumbering up the steps. “You’re wasting time,” he grits out.

“Rogers, I swear if you did something.”

“She isn’t here. Hasn’t been here in over two weeks.”

“When did you last speak to her?” Dante questions.

“Last night,” Steve answers. He warned that the meeting could be a trap, she'd laughed, and he could picture the eye roll that followed. “What happened at the meeting?”

“Nothing. Went to plan. It was simple. Easy.”

“Too easy?” Steve asks.

Dante purses his lips. “You think it was a setup?”

“They could have followed you. Waited until you peeled off, and she continued. Caught her off guard.”

Dante’s ringing phone halts any further theorizing. He answers with a curt, “Yeah?”

Steve focuses, wanting to hear the full conversation.

“We got the car and a body.” Steve’s heart stops until the caller adds, “It’s not one of ours. Looks like she put up a fight.”

A grim relief calms him for a moment, one of your enemies but not you. Hearing the location before Dante hangs up, he declares, “I’m coming with you."

Dante hesitates for a moment before growling. “Fine.”

The first one to fall is a low-level soldier. The second was killed execution style after refusing to give up information. The third body to drop finally gives them the secondary location where they took you.

Steve’s already moving before Dante gives the order to his men.

Rain hammers against the windshield. The countryside blurs in streaks of green and brown. Every second feels stolen, every mile feels impossible. He keeps hearing your voice, confident and amused.

“I’m not made of glass, Rogers, and my men are tough.”

God, he hopes you are too.

The windshield frames a farmhouse collapsing in on itself, surrounded by overgrown fields. Steve is out of the vehicle before it stops rolling. Fresh tire tracks lead around the back. He doesn’t wait for the others, rushing into the house, eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary—any sign of you.

Nothing.

Reaching the back of the structure, he glares through a broken window pane, contemplating his next move. An animal darts across his line of vision, drawing his attention to a trampled area of grass, surrounding a rain-soaked patch of recently overturned dirt.

His breath falters, and he hisses out a strangled, “NO,” as if he can change reality through sheer refusal. Breaking into a run, the door doesn’t survive the collision—wood and metal explode outward from the force of his shoulder, the rotted wood wall crumbles as the ceiling caves in on itself.

Steve doesn't even notice, shouting for the others as he drops to his knees and begins to dig. His bare hands tear through earth, mud cakes beneath his fingernails, and stones rip skin from his knuckles. He doesn't hear the others, doesn't slow his pace even as more hands join the fray, because his world is washed in a sepia haze, like the old silent movies.

Minutes stretch into a lifetime, but not far beneath the surface, a thud sounds… hollow wood. The outline of the box emerges from the dirt—a crudely built coffin.

For one terrible second, nobody moves, nobody breathes. It’s been hours. Have you been trapped all this time?

Then Steve lunges forward. Pressing the tips of his fingers between warped slats, he yanks a board free. Wood groans and splinters as he continues his assault on the container. The opening frames your pale, tear-streaked face. Despite the noise of the box being destroyed and the shouts of your name, you remain motionless, and he fears that he’s too late.

Then a gasp, a cough, and a wheezing intake of breath as you frantically scramble upright.

Steve makes a sound somewhere between a relieved sigh and a laugh. Pushing the hair out of your eyes, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing a streak of dirt from your chin. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

Another choked breath, eyelids fluttering and squinting. “S- Steve?”

It's barely above a whisper, voice hoarse, but the hit of relief loosens his chest. “Yeah, it’s me. I'm here.”

Placing a shaky hand over his, you lay your head on his shoulder, whispering. "Thank you."

By the time he lifts you from the mess of wood and mud, the rain has eased to a drizzle. Someone drapes a blanket over your shoulders, Dante presses a bottle of water into your hand, then hovers close by.

Steve sits beside you on the open tailgate, one hand fixed firmly on the small of your back. The other rests on your thigh. Dried blood paints the creases of his knuckles, dirt still packed beneath his fingernails, evidence of how he saved you.

You've been staring at them for a while now, a finger lightly drawing shapes on the back of his hand. You haven't said much other than to order a hit on the person who ordered the one on you.

“You need to see a doctor.” He frets.

“I will.” You sigh, taking another sip of water. “How’s my hair?”

A few of your men bark surprised laughs, but Dante's quick to reply, “It’s terrible, boss.”

Steve shakes his head. “You were buried alive, and you’re making jokes?”

Your shoulders lift in a weak shrug. “When you say it out loud, it sounds worse.”

Dante’s phone rings, but he sends you a worried look before answering, “I gotta take this,” he says, slowly edging away, “I’ll be just over here.”

“I’m good, D.” You give him a weak smile.

“I got her,” Steve says, nodding for him to go.

Dante answers, his expression immediately changing with a promise of violence in the tense greeting, “Give me something."

Steve responds in kind when you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

“You already said that, but you're welcome.”

There are too many eyes, and you release his hand far sooner than he wants. If he thought you'd let him, he'd carry you to the passenger seat, drive you back to the safe house, and take care of you for the rest of the evening, or maybe a few days.

With a freer intake of breath, you plaster on a smile. “I told you so.”

Steve frowns. “Told me so?”

“I told you having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”

Steve chuckles. “Does that mean I’ve paid back my debt?”

“Not even close.”

“Didn’t think so.”

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Benny is a lovely man. You understand why he’s Dean’s friend. They’re both ooze the same kind of confidence. The same strange combination of laziness and sheer dedication to everything in the world.

“Look at you.” Benny drawls when he shakes your hand. “Dean downplayed your beauty, my lady.”

You smile. It’s just nice to think Dean would talk about you at all. “He downplayed yours as well.”

Benny laughs, and Dean clears his throat behind you.

“Alright, that’s enough hand shaking. You’re gonna pull each other’s freakin’ arms off or something.”

He pulls you back, and Benny’s eyes gleam.

“I was just gettin’ to know her, Dean, no need to start barking.”

“I do not bark-“

“Yes, you do.” You giggle. “You pant, too. And wag your tail when I give you head pats.”

Benny smirks. “He’s such a good boy, isn’t he.”

You hum an agreement, still smiling, and Dean narrows his eyes.

“Glad you two get along.” He grumbles. “C’mon, giggles. Sit down.”

You let him pull you across the bar—another place you could’ve said no—and Benny follows with an amused smirk.

“Have you trained him yet?” Benny teases once your in the booth. “He is a big fan of treats and… other rewards.”

Benny wiggles his brows, and you flush furiously.

“Benny.” Dean uses his deeper, rougher voice. The one that means he’s serious about something.

He’s only used it on you once. When you walked home through the southside after a hookup at midnight, and he barked that you damn near gave him a heart attack. Ordered you to never do it again. You’ve never been afraid of him, but that had been the closest.

Less fear of him, though. More for him. It had been like he was opening up his chest and demanding you see how much you’d freaked him out by doing that.

Maybe he’s never used the voice on you, then. There’s no raw vulnerability, when he snaps at Benny.

And Benny doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. Not in the way you’d been guilty for days over scaring him.

“Sorry, brother. Just givin’ the lady some ideas-“

“She doesn’t need your ideas.”

“They’d be rather helpful-“

“No.” Dean looks at you, and you could swear his eyes soften in a second. “Tell him about work. And the purple dog.”

Your lips twitch. “It was a dinosaur.”

“Right.” He gives Benny a dramatic, obvious look. “It was a dinosaur.”

You stomp on his foot. He makes a big show of being wounded, and that was another spot where you could’ve said no to him.

But you couldn’t. You’re not sure you know how.

“Dean is very fond of you.” Benny hums when Dean goes to get drinks. “I understand why.”

“I- huh?”

“You are quite charming.”

“Uh- Thanks?” You swallow. “You too?”

Benny nods, watching you strangely. Like he’s trying to find something you’ve hidden from his sight.

“You are close. With him.”

“Uh, yeah. We live together?”

“Hm. That you do.”

You didn’t know Dean enjoyed the company of men who speak in riddles. You’re seconds from demanding just one straight word when Dean gets back with the drinks.

“You wanna split fries with me, sweetheart?” He asks, looking directly at you. Like Benny isn’t there at all.

And this would be a very good time to practice saying no. It’s something small. Inconsequential.

But you also know Dean sometimes doesn’t get a chance to eat at work. And that he won’t add something to the tab unless you’re sharing with him.

“Yes, please.” You smile, and Dean grins back.  

God. You’re horrible at this.

It’s not like you’re bad at saying no in general. You go out with Charlie a week later, and run into one of the dads from work. He’s single. Cute. Insists on buying you a drink with no expectations, and is rather charming. His son is a delight in class, and he’s humble about it.

“Sorry if this is too forwards.” He says at the end of the night, while you wait for Charlie to come around with the car. “And I was serious when I said no expectations, but- You’re beautiful. And I had a great time tonight. Would you want to go on a real date sometime?”

God. You wish you could.

But it wouldn’t be fair. Not to yourself, or to this lovely man who would just end up with his heart broken.

In another life, you dream you say yes. That he takes you out, and you’ve already forgotten about Dean by the end of the night.

But in real life, you’re already comparing them. You’ve been shivering in the cold for a few minutes now, and Dean would’ve given you his coat. In the bar you’d slipped, and Dean would’ve caught you.

The halo of the streetlights doesn’t make this man look like an angel.

It just makes him look like more of a man.

“I’m not allowed to date parents.” You say apologetically, and he laughs it off.

“Well, maybe when Finn is in first grade then.”

You smile, and don’t say a word. It’s a real rule.

You would’ve broken it for Dean.

“I need a favor.”

You look up from your cereal the next morning, the spoon already in your mouth. “Huh?”

A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.

“Son of a- Jesus, woman.” Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m not trying to.” You grumble, wiping your shirt. “And no being mean, you said you needed a favor.”

“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“

“Dean.”

He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like you’re not actively planning his murder.

“You still got something.” He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. “You know I’m helping you, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“

His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as he’s drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face that’s a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile. 

“Shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. “Goddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-“

“It’ll be fine.” You push to your feet with a shrug. “Come on, I can wash it.”

You start down the hall, and don’t realize that Dean isn’t following until you’re at the bathroom door. You look back, and he’s just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.

You frown. “Dean, the longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”

He just stares. “Uh-“

“Come on.” 

You wave him forward, and it’s like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression. 

You’re not sure what’s going on with him. It’s just a bathroom. 

“Sit.” You point to the floor next to the tub. “Put your head back, and take off your shirt. I’ll wash it later.”

Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldn’t be that hard. 

It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.

Dean’s shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, you’d be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp. 

He’s staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side. 

Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. You’re supposed to be cleaning him up. 

You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. It’s so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like you’re invading on yourself. Like you’re doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair. 

You’d been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft. 

When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex. 

You can’t keep looking at his body. It’s dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say. 

“What’s the favor?” You mumble, and Dean grunts.

“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”

You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. “Dean. What’s the favor.”

“I said never mind-“

“Dean Winchester.”

He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. “You can’t get pissed. If you don’t wanna do it, just- Say no. And we’ll forget it. Okay?”

You bite your lower lip, but nod. “Oh- Okay.”

“So.” He coughs. “Y’know how Sammy’s gettin’ married?”

“Mhm.” You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. He’d called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. You’d been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. “You want me to water the flowers?”

He chuckles softly. “Not exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.”

“You bought them.”

“‘Cause you were sad about not gettin’ a cat, and- Never mind.” He takes a deep breath. “My thing is- it’s next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothin’ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought I’d ask, even if you didn’t wanna-“

“Dean.” You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs. 

“Right. Sorry. Just- Here’s the deal.” 

He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. He’s dragged his eyes open again, and they’re fixed so nervously  on yours. He’s grabbed your knee with one hand. Like he’s worried you’re going to kick him, or run away. 

“My whole family’s gonna be there.” He mutters, searching over your face with every word. “They’ll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doin’ that.” He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. “And I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe… The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.”

You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place. 

Your mouth falls open. “Are you asking me to-“

“Yeah. But- Only if you want to.” He gives you a small, boyish grin. “But I’d owe you. Big time. Like- I’d pay the whole rent for two months big time.”

You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“

“I’m serious, I really need this-“

“I know but, that’s so much money, and-“ You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do… that.”

He squeezes your knee again. “We’d figure it out. Together.” Another charming smile. “How about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.”

You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. He’s giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You don’t know how you’re going to say no, but- 

All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all you’ve craved, for so so long, is Dean. 

And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with. 

Pretending to be Dean’s girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.

“Why me?” You ask softly, looking back to his hair. It’s filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. “I mean, there’s Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, she’s nice-“

“My mom already knows you.” Dean cuts you off with low words. “Easier sell, than some random chick she’s never heard of.” 

A lump forms in your throat. “Your mom knows me?”

“Yeah. I talk about you.”

You flush. It’s an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful. 

“Aw, you love me-“

“Shut up.” He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins up at you, and he doesn’t sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. “But- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.”

You really shouldn’t agree. You shouldn’t. It’s going to backfire. The love that’s been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive. 

You’re supposed to say no. Say no. Say no. Say no. Say-

But he said please.

“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins. 

You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing.

It made Dean smile.

✦Chapter Eight✦

✦End note: they're both too down bad someones gotta do something ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

It sounded different now.

Not quieter.

The fullness from yesterday hadn’t gone anywhere. It’d only expanded.

Somewhere beyond your side of the cabin, muffled through wood and distance, came the faint thud of movement from the opposite wing—a drawer opening. Then closing. Floorboards answering with a low complaint. A second later, Jess laughed at something under her breath, followed by Sam’s deeper voice too muffled to make out.

The sound pulled a smile from you before your eyes had fully opened.

They were here.

Not visiting for a weekend.

Not counting down the days before leaving again.

Here.

The realization settled into you fresh all over again, warm as the blankets tangled around you.

Dean leaving for work used to change the whole shape of the house. Used to leave spaces too large and silences too noticeable. But now the cabin breathed in four places instead of two. Even with him gone, the emptiness never arrived.

Your wolf stirred lazily beneath your skin, content and drowsy, brushing against the bond that threaded through the house. Jess bright and awake already. Sam slower, steadier. Dean farther out now, a warm steady presence moving through the edge of your awareness like a heartbeat at distance.

Working.

Thinking.

Probably already missing home.

You rolled onto your back and stared up at the ceiling beams overhead. Morning light slipped through the curtains in pale gold bands, touching the far wall and creeping across the hardwood floor inch by inch. Dust drifted through it in slow little galaxies.

Another sound carried from the opposite side of the cabin.

Jess, louder this time.

“No, because if you used my shampoo once—”

Sam’s reply was lost entirely.

You laughed softly into the empty room.

Then the smell reached you.

Coffee.

Fresh and rich, rising from downstairs in warm currents through the open central space of the house.

Dean.

He must have saved you some before leaving.

Your chest tightened with something too gentle to hurt.

You pushed the blankets back and slid from bed, bare feet meeting cool floorboards. The room still held the aftermath of sleep—rumpled sheets, pillows pushed crooked, one of Dean’s shirts draped over the chair where you’d tossed it last night. Beyond the glass doors, the covered balcony waited in blue morning shade, trees beyond it stirring faintly in the breeze.

You crossed first to the doors and pulled one open.

Cool air slipped inside immediately, carrying pine and damp earth and the distant birdsong of the woods waking up. The porch roof overhead softened the light, leaving the balcony wrapped in quiet shadow. From here, you could see the forest that had once been divided, Winchester and Winter land, morning mist still clinging low in places where sunlight hadn’t reached.

Peaceful.

Steady.

Home.

You stood there only a moment before the coffee smell called louder than scenery ever could.

Downstairs, the cabin opened around you as you descended your side staircase. The central room came into view piece by piece—the vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, the rounded wooden pillars framing the shift from living room to kitchen, the couch still slightly rumpled from last night, a forgotten bottle cap on the coffee table, one of Jess’s socks somehow near the hearth.

Proof of pack.

The kitchen beyond glowed softly in morning light spilling through the back windows. Dean’s mug sat in the sink. The coffee pot was still half full, steam long faded but warmth remaining.

You touched the handle anyway.

Still warm.

You poured yourself a cup and leaned against the counter with it, letting the first sip settle through you.

Footsteps sounded overhead on the opposite staircase, bringing a smile to match the softness of the morning.

Then Jess appeared first, hair wild, one of Sam’s T-shirts hanging to mid-thigh, grinning like she’d already been awake for hours instead of minutes.

“Well,” she said, eyeing your mug. “Rude. You started without me.”

“I started nothing. ”

“Still rude.”

Sam came down behind her slower, still buttoning a flannel, expression resigned in the specific way only Jess could produce.

“I was in the bathroom for three minutes,” he said.

“And in that time,” Jess declared, sweeping into the kitchen, “everything changed.”

You smiled into your coffee.

The day had begun.

Not in a way that drew attention—just… present. Moving through the kitchen with a second cup of coffee he didn’t seem particularly invested in, leaning against the counter while Jess talked about something half-finished from earlier, his responses coming a beat slower than usual.

You felt it before you named it.

The awareness.

The decision forming.

He glanced between you and Jess once—quick, subtle, like he wasn’t trying to interrupt whatever this morning had settled into, but was still taking stock of it.

Jess didn’t notice.

Or maybe she did, and chose not to call it out.

You did.

Your wolf shifted faintly beneath your skin, picking up on the quiet change in him—the way his energy angled outward instead of in. Preparing to leave, not because he had to, but because he knew when to.

Sam pushed off the counter with a soft exhale, setting his mug in the sink.

“I should probably head out,” he said, casual enough that it almost passed as an afterthought. “Need to return the rental before they charge me for another day.”

Jess blinked at him. “Already?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a bit of a drive. Figured I’d swing by Mom and Dad’s after. Haven’t seen them yet.”

There was something deliberate in the way he didn’t look directly at either of you when he said it.

Not avoidance.

Consideration.

Jess’s expression softened almost immediately, something understanding settling in behind her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “They’ll like that.”

He nodded once, then reached for his keys near the bowl by the door.

You watched him move—steady, familiar, grounded in a way that made the space feel solid even as he prepared to step out of it.

At the door, he paused just long enough to glance back.

Not at the room.

At the two of you.

A small, knowing look passed—brief, but clear.

Take your time.

Then it was gone, replaced with something lighter.

“Try not to burn the place down,” he added, already halfway into his boots.

Jess snorted. “No promises.”

“You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“Rude.”

He smirked faintly, then stepped out onto the porch, the door closing behind him with a soft, familiar click.

The cabin shifted again.

Not emptier.

Just… quieter in a different way.

The kind of quiet that didn’t come from absence—but from space being made on purpose.

Jess didn’t move right away.

She stood there for a second, listening to the sound of his footsteps crossing the porch, the creak of the boards, the distant start of the engine. The rumble carried through the trees, fading slower this time, stretching the moment instead of breaking it.

Then she turned to you.

And just like that, the air changed.

Not heavy.

Not tense.

But focused.

Intentional in a way the rest of the morning hadn’t been.

She didn’t speak immediately.

Just walked over, slower now, less energy in her steps, but more weight behind them. She picked up her mug from the table, took a sip that had long since gone lukewarm, and made a face before setting it back down.

Her eyes found yours again.

Softer this time.

Searching, but not pushing.

“You’ve been thinking,” she said, not a question.

You let out a quiet breath, leaning back against the counter behind you.

There wasn’t really a point in pretending otherwise. “Yeah,” you admitted.

Jess nodded once, like that was exactly the answer she expected. She didn’t crowd you. Didn’t rush in.

Instead, she moved to the table and pulled out one of the chairs, turning it slightly before sitting—angled toward you, open, patient.

Waiting.

Your wolf stirred again, not uneasy—just aware. The same way it always was with Jess. Like something in you recognized this space for what it was before your mind caught up.

Safe.

You pushed off the counter after a moment and crossed the room, the wood floor warm beneath your feet. The chair across from her scraped softly as you pulled it out and sat, hands settling loosely in your lap before you knew what to do with them.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

The quiet stretched—not awkward, not strained. Just… full. Like it was giving you room to decide how to step into it.

Jess watched you the whole time.

Not impatient.

Not prying.

Just there.

“Okay,” she said finally, her voice gentler than it had been all morning. “Start wherever you want.”

No pressure.

No assumptions.

Just an opening.

And somehow, that made it harder to keep it to yourself.

For a moment, you don’t answer her.

Not because you don’t have anything to say—but because now that the space is there, now that it’s just the two of you with nothing else filling the air, the words feel… bigger. Harder to place down without making them real in a way you haven’t quite let yourself do yet.

Jess doesn’t rush you.

She never has.

She just sits there, elbow resting lightly on the table, fingers curled around her mug more out of habit than anything else, watching you with that quiet steadiness that has always felt like being seen without being cornered.

You drop your gaze to the grain of the table between you, tracing one of the darker lines with your eyes as you let out a slow breath through your nose.

“It’s not anything… definite,” you say finally, your voice quieter than it had been all morning. “I don’t know anything for sure.”

Jess’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it softens further—like she’s already adjusting to the weight of what you’re trying to say, not the certainty of it.

“That doesn’t mean it’s nothing,” she replies gently.

Your mouth presses faintly at that, because she’s right. That’s the problem.

You shift in your seat, one hand coming up to rest absently over your stomach before you even realize you’re doing it. The motion is small, almost unconscious, but it feels louder in the quiet between you.

“I’ve just been… thinking,” you admit, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your shirt. “About what it would mean. If it… if it is.”

The words hang there, fragile in a way that makes your chest tighten.

Jess’s eyes flick briefly to your hand, then back to your face, her attention sharpening—not invasive, just more present. Anchored.

“And?” she asks softly.

You let out a breath that almost turns into a quiet laugh, but doesn’t quite make it that far.

“And it’s a lot,” you say, honesty slipping through easier now that you’ve started. “Some of it’s… good. Really good.” Your gaze drifts for a second, not quite focusing on anything in the room. “Like—I can see it, you know? Not clearly, but enough that it feels real. Enough that it—” You stop yourself, swallowing faintly before continuing. “It feels right.”

That part settles between you differently.

Not heavy.

Just… true.

Jess doesn’t interrupt it. She lets it sit, lets you feel it all the way through instead of stepping in too soon.

“But then,” you continue, quieter now, your thumb brushing absently back and forth where your hand still rests, “there’s the other side of it.”

Her head tilts slightly. “The scary part?”

You nod once.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out softer than you intend, carrying more weight than you planned to give it.

“It’s not just… being pregnant,” you go on, searching for the right way to say it without letting your thoughts run too far ahead of you. “It’s everything that comes after. What if something goes wrong? What if I’m not—” You stop again, the thought catching before it fully forms, but it’s already there between you anyway. “What if I can’t do it the way I’m supposed to?”

Jess’s expression shifts at that—not sharp, not corrective, but steady in a way that pushes gently back against the direction your thoughts are trying to go.

“You’re already doing it,” she says.

You blink, caught off guard. “Doing what?”

“Caring this much,” she answers simply. “Thinking about it. Wanting it to be right.” She leans back slightly in her chair, but her gaze never leaves yours. “That’s not something you fake your way into. That’s already there.”

Your throat tightens a little at that, not from overwhelm—but from being understood a little too clearly.

You glance away again, shoulders easing just a fraction.

“I haven’t told him,” you admit after a beat.

Jess doesn’t look surprised.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I figured.”

You huff out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Of course you did.”

“You don’t look like you’re hiding something,” she explains gently. “You look like you’re holding onto it.”

That lands differently.

More accurate than you want it to be.

“I just—” You stop, then try again, fingers curling slightly against your shirt. “If I say it out loud, it stops being… just mine. Just something I’m working through.” Your eyes lift back to hers. “And if it turns out to be nothing, I don’t want to see that in his face. I don’t want him to—”

Hope.

You don’t say it, but the word sits there anyway.

Jess nods slowly, like she understands exactly what you didn’t finish.

“Dean doesn’t do halfway when it comes to you,” she says.

“No,” you agree softly. “He doesn’t.”

“And you’re trying to protect that.”

You nod again, smaller this time.

“Yeah.”

The room settles around that truth, the quiet stretching again—but this time it feels steadier. Less uncertain. Like something has been named enough to take the edge off.

Jess exhales softly and leans forward, forearms resting on the table now, closing some of the space between you—not crowding, just… closer.

“You don’t have to decide everything right now,” she says. “You don’t even have to decide what it means yet.” Her voice stays calm, grounded. “You’re allowed to sit in the ‘if’ for a little while.”

Your shoulders loosen at that more than you expect.

Because that’s exactly where you’ve been.

Suspended there.

“Yeah,” you murmur.

Jess’s mouth curves faintly, something warm and familiar returning to her expression.

“And when you are ready,” she adds, “you won’t be the only one holding it.”

Your gaze lifts to hers again, something softer settling in your chest this time.

Not certainty.

Not answers.

But… support.

Real, tangible, and right in front of you.

Outside, a gentle breeze moves through the trees, leaving the cabin wrapped in quiet—but not the empty kind from before.

This one feels intentional.

Held.

And for the first time since the thought took root, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy to carry.

Jess watches you for another second after your last words settle, like she’s making sure you’re not about to spiral back into your own head.

Then—just as gently as she let you fall into it—she shifts.

Not abrupt.

Not forced.

Just… a small tilt of her head, a faint narrowing of her eyes like she’s studying you for something entirely different now.

“Okay,” she says, tone changing just enough to catch your attention. “Important question.”

You blink, thrown slightly by the shift. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” she agrees easily. “Hypothetically—if you are pregnant…”

Your stomach flips a little at the word, but before it can settle into anything heavy again, she continues.

“…how long do you think it takes before Dean becomes completely unbearable?”

You stare at her.

For a second, your brain doesn’t catch up.

Then—

A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

“Jess—”

“I’m serious,” she insists, leaning forward like this is a legitimate discussion. “Because I give it… maybe twelve hours.”

You shake your head, but the tension in your chest has already started to loosen, cracking just enough to let something lighter in.

“Twelve hours?” you echo.

“That’s generous,” she says. “That’s me accounting for the time it takes him to process and then fully commit to hovering.”

You huff out another laugh, shoulders easing back into the chair.

“He already hovers,” you point out.

“Yes,” she says immediately. “But this would be advanced hovering.”

You raise a brow. “There are levels?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She starts counting on her fingers. “Level one: normal Dean. Mild concern. Occasional check-ins. You know, baseline.”

You snort softly.

“Level two,” she continues, “increased eye contact, unnecessary proximity, suddenly very interested in whether you’ve eaten in the last thirty minutes.”

“That’s already happening,” you mutter.

Jess points at you like you’ve proven her point. “Exactly. Now imagine level three.”

You lean back slightly, already smiling. “I’m afraid.”

“You should be.” She ticks off another finger. “Level three is full-on ‘sit down, I’ll get it’ mode. You so much as look at something across the room and he’s already halfway there getting it for you.”

Your laugh comes easier now, warmer.

“…okay, yeah. That tracks.”

“I’m not done,” Jess says, eyes lighting up now that she’s got you. “Level four is where it gets concerning.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. Level four is where he starts arguing with you about what you’re allowed to carry.”

You cover your mouth, already laughing because you can see it.

“He would not—”

“He absolutely would,” she cuts in. “You pick up a grocery bag and suddenly it’s, ‘Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?’ like you just tried to lift a car.”

“That is so dramatic.”

“That is so Dean.”

You shake your head, but you’re grinning now, the earlier weight loosening more with every word.

“And level five?” you ask, because you know she’s not done.

Jess leans in slightly, dropping her voice like she’s about to reveal something classified.

“Level five is where he starts talking to your stomach like it can already hear him.”

You choke on a laugh.

“No—”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Full conversations. ‘Hey there, kid, you behave for your mom, alright?’”

You can’t help it—you laugh, head tipping forward as your shoulders shake.

“He would never—”

“He so would,” she insists, grinning now. “And he’d get all serious about it too. Like it’s a contract.”

You wipe at your eyes, breath a little uneven from laughing.

“Okay, that one—” you manage, still smiling, “—that one might actually happen.”

Jess beams, victorious.

“Thank you.”

You shake your head again, but there’s no tension left in it now. Just warmth.

“And Sam?” you ask after a second, glancing back up at her. “What does he do in all of this?”

Jess leans back in her chair, considering that like it’s an entirely separate case study.

“Oh, Sam’s different.”

“Different how?”

“He doesn’t hover,” she says. “He observes.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “That sounds worse.”

“It is,” she agrees. “Because he won’t say anything at first. He’ll just be watching. Taking mental notes. Researching.”

You groan softly. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Jess says, delighted. “You’ll wake up one morning, and suddenly there are books.”

“Books?”

“Stacks of them,” she confirms. “Every surface. Titles like ‘Understanding Prenatal Development’ and ‘Nutritional Needs During Pregnancy.’”

You laugh again, softer this time but just as genuine.

“That is so him.”

“And then,” she continues, warming to it, “he’ll start casually bringing up facts.”

You snort. “Casually.”

“‘Did you know that at week six—’” she mimics, her tone eerily accurate.

You cover your face, laughing. “Stop.”

“He won’t even realize he’s doing it,” she adds. “He’ll think he’s being subtle.”

“That man has never been subtle a day in his life.”

“Correct.”

The two of you sit there for a moment, the laughter easing into something softer but still present, still lingering in the air between you.

Jess watches you again—but this time, there’s a hint of satisfaction in it.

Like she knows exactly what she just did.

Your chest feels lighter now.

Not because the thoughts are gone.

But because they’re not sitting so heavy anymore.

Because you can see it from another angle now—not just the fear, not just the uncertainty… but the life inside of it. The way it would look. The way it would feel.

Messy.

Loud.

Full.

You let out a quieter breath, the last of the tension slipping out of your shoulders as you meet her gaze again.

“Okay,” you admit, a small smile still tugging at your mouth. “That helped.”

Jess’s grin softens into something warmer, more familiar.

“Yeah,” she says lightly. “I know.”

Then, after a beat, she nudges your foot gently under the table.

“And for the record,” she adds, “no matter what happens… you’re not doing any of it alone.”

This time, when the words settle, they don’t feel heavy.

They feel steady.

Like something you can stand on.

Chapter 62 ------- Chapter 64 - coming soon

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“Why are they here?” She asked.

“Princess?” August asked and looked over her shoulder at her phone, his hand sliding over her stomach. The door chime came through her phone again right before the notification banner appeared on the screen.

Leon: I’ll handle it.

They watched through the security camera in the entryway as Napoleon went down the stairs at a decent speed while buttoning his suit jacket closed and fixing the cuffs, running his fingers through his hair briefly before opening the door.

The smile on his face was pleasant, but controlled, as he looked out at the media team that had taken them by surprise.

“Olivia Rogers, yes? With Dayglow Media?” He already knew the answer, but inwardly delighted in the surprised look he received.

“Um...yes.” She said, “Mister...”

“Napoleon Solo,” He said, extending a hand, “Head of Public and Media Relations for the Pack Council. We’ve never met professionally or personally, but I figured it was only a matter of time.” She hesitated, but reached out to shake his hand. He didn’t fail to notice the way she wiped it against her pant leg when it fell back to her side. “How may I help you this morning, Ms. Rogers?”

“We were hoping to speak with Mrs. Graves.” She said, “Her husband arranged for an interview to assuage the concerns of the congregation. There have been rumors circulating about a possible divorce and the affliction she’s been struck with.”

“I bet he did.” Napoleon said, “However, he failed to notify her of that arrangement so she is, unfortunately, unprepared. Also unavailable. I would be happy to schedule something at a later date, however.”

“I mean, we’re here now, and—”

“As I said, she’s unavailable.” The small smile never left his face.

“Mister...Solo, was it?” She asked and he gave a nod, “Is there a reason why you’re keeping us from talking to her? Among others, there have been rumors that she’s being held captive by multiple wolves. That they evicted the Pastor from his home in order to control her.” His eyes went to the small camera trained on him and his smile widened a touch.

“Ms. Rogers, if you had done your due diligence as reporter, you would found that legally, the house belongs entirely to Samantha—pardon, Mrs. Graves. Jonathan Graves was not unceremoniously booted onto the street with nothing but the clothes on his back; he was given ample opportunity to grab essentials before leaving. Divorces are messy. Or, they can be, and Mrs. Graves had every legal right to ask Pastor Graves to leave the marital home until the divorce was finalized. As it is hers, as I’ve said, and as you would have found...again, had you done your research.” Napoleon said.

“So there is a divorce pending.”

“I am comfortable in telling you: unequivocally, yes. The paperwork has been filed and believe me when I say, there is no hope for reconciliation. She has expressed to me quite plainly that she wants nothing more to do with him or their marriage.”

“And the rumor that she’s being held captive by—”

“A rumor, nothing else, and an unsubstantiated one at that. She’s not “being held captive” by...anyone. She’s well aware that she can leave at any time and go wherever she pleases. Mrs. Graves is exactly where she wants to be and who she wants to be with.”

“It would be better if we could hear this from her.”

“And for the third time, Ms. Rogers, she was not made aware of this appointment beforehand so she is unavailable at this time. Again, I would be more than happy to schedule a formal sit-down at a later date. Please have someone from your scheduling department contact me and we will go over a day and time that would work best for both parties.” He reached into his breast pocket as he spoke, pulling out a slim case and sliding a business card from it, holding it out to her between his fingers. She stared at it a moment before taking it, giving a tight signal to the cameraman who lowered camera with a glower. “Have a wonderful day, Ms. Rogers.” With that, he closed the door in their faces, throwing the lock a little harder than was strictly necessary so they could hear it and it’s tone of finality. Hearing steps behind him, he held up a halting hand until he heard the van pull from the driveway and fade away.

Turning, he pulled Samantha into his arms as she went to him, holding her close and catching how she trembled slightly.

“Thank you for handling that.” She said, looking up at him and he gave her a gentle smile, leaning down to kiss her softly. “Why were they here?”

“Jonathan sent them. After seeding the idea that you’re being held captive.” Napoleon said, “Unsurprising. Dayglow Media is basically a tabloid with a holier-than-thou coat of paint.”

“Maybe I should have talked to them.”

“It’s better this way, trust me.” Napoleon said, “The fact that they were here with no warning was planned, I promise you. Trying to catch us off guard.”

“But we’re not doing anything wrong.” A pause, “Are we?”

“Not in the slightest.” He reassured her, “But they were probably hoping you and the others would be acting like the “demons” they think wolves are and they’d have a better story than “Pastors wife divorces him”.”

“Do you think he’ll come here?” She asked and he saw the flash of fear that passed over her eyes at the thought.

“He may.” Napoleon admitted, “But he won’t be allowed anywhere near you and you will always have at least one of us around if he is here. You’ll never be alone with him.”

“I know.” She said and her eyes closed, deflating in a sigh. “I know. You’ll all protect me. He can’t hurt me.”

“Ever again.” Napoleon said, “Samantha, August shared with me that you were...young when Jonathan married you.” She just nodded. “I did ask, he didn’t give the information unprompted, and I would have asked you, but I didn’t want to pull up any potentially painful memories until I was sure. I had my suspicions.”

Story tags: Demon!Dean, Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel

A/N: Here we go. Let me know if I got that Demon Dean character right.

Dean was living his best life.

About damn time, too.

He had no idea how the hell he woke up with black eyes after Ramiel beat his ass into the floor of Hell and sliced him open, and he didn’t really care. There was probably some big answer. Some cosmic crap. Maybe he’d punched his card enough times downstairs to get the upgrade.

Whatever.

Worked out pretty damn good from where he was sitting.

Being a demon had perks. The healing? Awesome. Getting punched, cut, burned, shot, all of it went away before it could turn into a real problem. The strength wasn’t half bad either. He could drop a grown man with one hit if he felt like it. And yeah, most days he felt like it.

The black eyes were a nice touch too. Scared the hell out of people. Saved time.

Best part, though? No guilt.

No shame. No voice in his head asking what Sam would think, no damn lecture about doing the right thing. No saving people, hunting things, family business sitting on his back every second of the day, weighing him down.

That had been the real joke, hadn’t it? All those years thinking he was free because he had the car and a road in front of him. Bullshit. He’d been chained to everybody else's problems since he was four years old. Dad’s orders. Sammy’s life. The world ending every other damn Tuesday. Angels. Demons. Prophets. Hell. Heaven. Purgatory.

Her.

His wife looking at him with those eyes every time she thought he was one bad day away from losing it.

Exhausting.

Now? Now he did whatever the hell he wanted. Drank until the bottle ran dry, then grabbed another. Ate when he felt like it. Slept when he bothered. Picked fights because some asshole looked at him wrong, breathed too loud, or because Dean was bored and wanted to feel bones crack under his fist.

And people got in his way. A lot. Bartenders with opinions. Bouncers with hero complexes. Some jackass at a gas station waving a gun around before Dean had even finished reading his morning papers.

Yeah, Dean liked fixing that.

Liked how fast a room changed when everybody realized he wasn’t playing by the same rules. Liked the fear, and the silence after. That look people got when their brains finally caught up and told them they’d made a real bad call.

Mostly, though, he liked being left the fuck alone. No wife, no brother, no friends breathing down his neck.

Yeah. Dean was having the time of his life.

Except that was a load of crap.

Because the truth was, he was pissed.

Goddamn furious, actually. It sat under his skin, all day, every day. He drank, fought, laughed, sang bad karaoke just to piss off a whole bar. He let women smile at him, touch his arm, lean in close and make promises they thought sounded dirty.

He hit strip clubs because why the hell wouldn’t he? Cheap booze, loud music, naked women. And nobody asking him what he was feeling after.

Should’ve been perfect.

It wasn’t.

He tried anyway. Let a blonde in a red dress drag her nails down his chest. Let a brunette breathe filthy crap into his ear. Sat close enough to the stage that some dancer’s perfume stuck to his jacket, her thighs right there, bare and open because he had cash in his hand.

Nothing.

A whole lot of nothing.

His body worked fine. Better than fine, actually. His brain was the problem. His stupid, stubborn, son of a bitch brain kept looking at every woman in front of him and picking her apart. Lining her up against the one that wouldn’t get the hell out of his head.

Too tall. Too thin. Too loud. Wrong mouth. Wrong laugh. Wrong hands. Wrong eyes.

Wrong everything.

And why the fuck should he chase other guys’ scraps when he already had the good stuff?

That was the part that pissed him off. He could have anyone. That should’ve been the whole damn point. Take what he wanted and move on. Except every time some woman got close, all he could think was that she wasn’t his. Didn’t know where to put her hands. Didn’t know when to push, when to shut up and let him get his mouth on her. Didn’t know what made him lose his goddamn mind.

His wife knew.

Yeah, his wife burned him now, which was a real pain in the ass, but she knew.

And that was the problem.

He’d been in a strip club a few nights ago. The dancer had leaned down, all fake smile and practiced moves. She was good. Dean would give her that. Had the whole room watching. Men sitting there with their mouths open, ready to empty their wallets because a pretty girl looked at them for five damn minutes.

Dean watched her and got annoyed.

Because she wasn’t his wife.

Then his brain did something stupid. He pictured her up there instead. Her body under the lights. Her hips moving. Her eyes on him. That nervous little look she got when she wanted to be bold and hated being watched at the same time. All those men staring at her. Wanting her. Thinking about her.

His hand tightened around his glass until it cracked.

He reached for the dancer, and some bouncer decided to be a hero. Dean barely remembered what the idiot said. Something about hands off. Something about taking it outside. Then the guy touched the dancer’s arm, guiding her back. And Dean saw that hand on his wife.

That was it. Lights out.

He had the guy’s face smashed against the edge of the stage before the poor bastard even understood he was in a fight. Blood hit the floor. Somebody screamed. The dancer stumbled back so fast she almost ate shit in her heels. Dean kept hitting him. Again and again, because the picture wouldn’t get out of his head.

Another man’s hand on his wife. Another man thinking he could tell her what to do.

Hell no.

Nobody touched what belonged to him.

And she belonged to him.

Yeah, okay. He left her. That one was on him. He walked out of the bunker because he could. Left Sam on the floor with his girlfriend scrambling for him. Left his wife standing there with his gun in her hands and that broken look on her face.

Because she shot him.

His sweet, bleeding-heart, please-let-me-save-you wife put a bullet in his chest because he pushed her hard enough and she broke right where he wanted her to. He could still feel it. Her hand under his. The kick of the gun. The way her whole face went empty after, like he’d made her do something she could never take back.

Yeah. He had.

And damn, had it felt good.

Dean was pretty sure he could make her do anything. Because she loved him that much.

He didn’t love her like that anymore. That soft crap was gone. The hand-holding, wedding-vow, die-for-you garbage. Human Dean could keep all that. Dean wasn’t sitting around missing candlelight or pillow talk or that look she gave him when she thought he was still good underneath.

Screw that. He didn’t want to be fixed. He didn’t want her telling him he was sick, or Sam looking at him with that kicked-puppy face and talking about cures.

But her love?

That was fun.

She loved him so much she couldn’t think straight when he was in the room. She loved him so much she followed him even after he dropped Sam. She aimed a gun at him with both hands shaking and still needed him to make the call.

His wife loved him so much he could stand in front of her with someone else’s blood on his hands, and she’d still search his face for her husband.

That was devotion. That was power and she had handed it to him. Just like that. The only irritating part was the burn.

Because she was his.

And Dean wanted her.

That was where everything kept jamming up. He wanted his hands on his wife. Wanted her under him, over him, against him. Wanted her breathing hard, trying to hate how much she still reacted. Wanted her mouth, her thighs, her hands grabbing at him because, for one second, she forgot she was supposed to be scared.

Yeah, he wanted that part where she stopped thinking. Always his favorite.

And now he couldn’t touch her.

Every time he thought about that, he wanted to break something. So he did. Trashed a motel room one night just because there wasn’t anybody around worth hitting. Broke the mirror, smashed a chair through the TV, tore the place apart until his knuckles were bloody and healed again.

Didn’t help.

Cheap girls didn’t help. Drinking didn’t help. Porn didn’t help. The fights got boring. Even the fear started tasting the same.

His mind kept going back to her.

Every damn time.

So he started calling. At first, it was funny. Just a little game. Let the phone ring once, maybe twice in the middle of the night. Hang up before she could answer. Picture her jolting awake, scared and hopeful, reaching for the phone with his side of the bed cold beside her.

Yeah, that was good. But then she called back and that changed things.

The first time he heard her voice through the line, rough with sleep and fear, Dean had to close his eyes. That pissed him off, too, because it worked on him. Not in some sad, soft way. It didn’t make him want to apologize or crawl back home and beg her to forgive him.

Fuck that.

No, it made him want to be there. In the room with her. In their bed. Close enough to watch her say his name with that crack in her voice. Close enough to see if she’d reach for him before she remembered she shouldn’t.

So he said nothing.

Let her ask who it was. Let her breathe too hard into the phone. Let her finally whisper his name. Dean didn’t answer. He just listened. And well… maybe he enjoyed that more than he should have.

He knew they’d been chasing him for three weeks.

Sam, because Sam was predictable as hell. He’d hunt until he dropped. Make that tight, miserable face and talk about saving Dean because Sammy never knew when to quit. Charlie helped for sure. Eileen too, trying to keep Sam from losing it. Cas probably hovered around being useless, feeling guilty.

Dean let the whole Scooby gang catch enough to keep them moving. Left crumbs when it suited him. Let them get close, then walked away. Again and again.

But all he wanted was to get his wife away from them.

Dean wanted her alone. With him. Long enough to stop focusing on a pointless cure and admit she still wanted him. Even like this. Especially like this. She admitted once, a long time ago, she had a thing for dangerous Dean. Well, it didn't get more dangerous than this.

He just needed to figure out how to shut that damn burn off, because Dean was done watching from a distance. Done listening to her voice through a phone. Done pretending any woman who wasn’t her was worth his time.

He smiled behind the wheel of a stolen car and turned toward the gas station ahead.

Time to pick up his wife.

He waited until Sam got out of the car.

His wife sat in the passenger seat with the laptop open across her knees, head down, working hard. Probably blaming herself for every bad thing Dean had done since he walked out of the bunker.

Yeah. This was gonna be fun.

Dean watched from the side of the building, out of view of the pumps and the store windows. Sam went inside to pay for gas and that was all Dean needed.

He slid in behind the wheel and shut the door. She didn't even look up. He was right beside her and she had no damn clue.

He took one second to look at her before she noticed. She looked tired as hell. Pale, dark circles under her eyes. Hair pulled back too tight. His ring still on her finger.

Dean smiled.

Then he turned the key.

Impala woke up under his hands with that familiar rumble and his smile got wider because she still didn’t look up.

Eyes moving fast over the screen, one hand near the trackpad, the other resting against the side of the laptop. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the stubborn set of her mouth. Even worn down, she was still working the problem. Still trying to find him. That was that devotion again. Right there. Stupid and dangerous, making her careless because she was too busy trying to save the guy she married.

Adorable, really.

Dean let his eyes drag over her slowly. The FBI fit was a test of his goddamn willpower. The white shirt was holding on for dear life, buttons straining, fabric pulled tight across her chest. Dark slacks hugged her thighs where the laptop rested. She had probably thrown the outfit on without the second thought. To look official while they ran around the crime scene.

Dean wanted to haul her across the seat and ruin the whole crisp little fed suit. Ruin her. He had missed that body more than he wanted to admit and now it was sitting inches away from him.

His fingers tightened on the wheel. The burn was the only thing stopping him. The fact that if he grabbed her now, she might scorch half his damn skin off before they made it out of the parking lot.

Fucking annoying.

He bit his bottom lip hard enough to feel the sting, dragged his eyes back up, and finally gave her the courtesy of letting her know their little game had changed.

‘Hey, sweetheart.’

Her whole body went still. Just for a split second.

Then her head snapped up fast enough for him to see the shock hit. Her eyes went wide. The last bit of color drained out of her face, and Dean watched fear kick through. Then disbelief.

He stayed relaxed behind the wheel, one hand resting low, the other near the gearshift. Her gaze moved over his face before she could stop herself. She took in the hair, the scruff, his hands. Took him in sitting there in his own damn car, grinning at her, and he saw the exact second her panic got tangled with something messier.

Dean caught that, of course.

Fear was there, a lot of it. Smart. He was dangerous, and she knew it. But her eyes dropped to his mouth, and he could tell by the way her lips pressed together right after… she hated that she looked.

Yeah, she definitely liked what she saw. He always knew when she liked what she saw.

Dean’s grin sharpened.

Her hand twitched toward the door and he didn’t move to stop her. He didn't have to.

She looked toward the store. Toward the open lot outside the windshield. He could practically see the thoughts lining up in that big brain of hers. Open the door. Scream for Sam. Burn him if he grabbed her. Maybe jump out before he pulled away. Good plan, a real solid hunter move.

She didn’t do any of it.

Because she had been searching for him for three weeks, and now he was right there. Because she wasn’t stupid enough to throw away the first real shot she’d had since he walked out of the bunker.

Dean looked at her and smirked. ‘How ’bout we go for a ride?’

She didn’t answer. Her throat moved when she swallowed.

Dean kept his eyes on hers for another beat, because he wanted her to know exactly what was happening. ‘Just you and me.’

Then he shifted into reverse and backed the Impala away from the pump.

That finally broke something loose in her. ‘Dean.’

God, that voice. Rough from exhaustion. Careful as hell. Trying so hard not to shake.

‘What are you doing?’

Dean turned the wheel, eased Baby toward the exit, and smiled at the road.

‘Oh, whatever I want.’

Her breathing changed. Just a little. Not enough for a human to catch. Human Dean probably would’ve missed it too, busy being torn up about feelings.

But now, Dean caught everything.

Her eyes flicked toward the gas station doors again. Of course, Sam was still inside. Dean didn’t even look. Didn’t care enough to. What he cared about was having her eyes back on him. He liked them there. And three weeks of watching from a distance had made him meaner about it. He wanted her looking. Wanted her scared, wanted her mad. Wanted all that attention aimed at him where it fucking should be.

In the rearview mirror, the station door burst open. Sam came running out, face going slack with panic when he saw the Impala moving. Poor Sammy. Always a step too late and making the same pathetic expression every damn time.

His wife turned in the seat, looking back through the rear window.

‘Sam,’ she breathed.

Dean gave the gas a little more pressure.

The engine opened up and the car surged forward fast. Sam ran, chasing them for a few useless seconds. Dean watched him in the mirror, long legs rushing through the lot, one hand already reaching for his phone. He shouted something Dean couldn’t hear. Then he slowed. Stopped. Stood there in the lot, getting smaller by the second.

Dean chuckled. ‘Attaboy.’

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Dean held out his hand, palm up, eyes on the road. ‘Your phone.’

She didn’t move. The phone buzzed again.

His fingers curled once in the air. ‘Sweetheart?’

Dean glanced over. She had pulled it from her pocket, and Sam’s name lit up the screen. Her thumb hovered close, but she didn’t answer. She looked at Dean instead, fear tighter now.

He could see the defiance sit under the fear. Small, stubborn, right in her eyes. She knew the phone mattered. She knew why he wanted it. And she didn't want to give it up easily.

‘Give me the damn phone!’

The snap of his voice made her flinch. His mouth twitched, because he didn’t care. She wanted to play tough, she could deal with him running short on patience.

She chewed the inside of her cheek. Weighing her options. Then she slapped the phone into his palm, hard. And made damn sure her fingers dragged across his skin when she did it.

Pain shot through his hand, hot and mean. His palm hissed. Smoke curled up between his fingers for half a second before the contact broke. Dean’s grip tightened around the phone, and his jaw clenched before he could stop it.

Son of a bitch.

She watched him, chin lifted, eyes bright with terrified satisfaction.

Dean laughed under his breath, flexing his burned fingers around the phone. The skin was already stitching itself back together, but the sting stayed long enough to piss him off. And turn him on at the same time.

So that was how she wanted to play.

‘Good girl.’

Her expression twisted.

Dean crushed the phone in his fist. Plastic cracked, glass popped. The screen shattered inward, buzzing once in a pathetic little rattle before going dark. He rolled down the window and tossed the pieces out onto the road.

She watched them scatter behind the car. For one second, her face slipped. Fear came up again, sharp and real. She looked out the windshield, then toward the side mirror. Tracking the route. Counting turns. Trying to figure out where Sam was behind them and how long before he got a car.

Dean could almost respect it.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, jaw flexing.

Dean didn’t answer. Silence bothered her more. He knew it would.

She shifted in the seat, anger taking over. Good. He always liked her with some fire in her. Her breathing had picked up again, and that damn shirt was still doing its best to keep his attention.

Dean forced his eyes back to the road.

She stayed quiet for a while.

Not because she had nothing to say. Dean knew better. Her mouth was tight, her hands clenched around the laptop, and her pulse jumped at her neck. She was holding back. He could almost see her building and rebuilding the plan. If she jumped out, she got hurt. If she burned him, he might crash the car. If she pushed too hard, Dean might disappear again.

That was the part holding her still. He knew it. She knew it.

She wasn’t backing down because she trusted him. No, she was doing it because leaving meant losing him all over again.

Dean dragged his teeth over his bottom lip, because damn if that didn’t work for him.

He reached over and closed the laptop with two fingers. His arm passed close enough that her breath hitched and she jerked it away from his reach. His eyes flicked down. That shirt pulled tighter, the fabric straining across her boobs with the sudden movement. His grip tightened on the wheel until the old leather creaked.

‘Put that in the back.’

‘It’s not connected to anything because you crushed my fucking phone,' she mouthed off. That pleased him more than it should have.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘And I also told you to put the damn thing in the back.’

She didn’t move fast enough.

Dean let the smile drop.

‘Now.’

That did it. Her eyes flicked to his face, and this time she must have seen something there she didn’t want to push. She turned carefully, set the laptop on the back seat, then faced front again with both hands in her lap.

Dean glanced down.

‘Look at you,’ he said with a little smirk. ‘Still wearing the ring.’

Her left hand tightened before she looked down. Then she covered it with her right.

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. ‘That’s cute.’

Her gaze moved to his hands on the wheel.

He flexed his left hand, letting her see the bare finger. No ring. He hadn’t really thrown it away, he just didn’t need it on his hand. Didn’t need the silver and her blood sitting there pretending they meant the same thing now.

Her face cracked for one second before she forced it down.

‘Aw,’ he said, smiling. ‘You don’t like that, do you?’

She stared out the windshield.

Dean leaned back, one hand loose on the wheel. ‘I can hear your breathing change, sweetheart. It's, uh, cute little tell you’ve got there.’

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked again, voice firmer now.

She was pulling herself back together. He could practically see her trying to keep her breathing under control.

‘Already told you. For a ride.’

She turned toward him, lifting her hand a few inches between them, palm angled toward him. A warning. Her fingers were steady enough to look almost impressive.

‘I won’t ask again.’

Dean glanced at her hand, then back at the road.

‘Or what? Hm? You gonna touch me?' he smiled, flashing his black eyes. 'Go ahead, make a move. See how it ends.’

He expected her to recoil at that. She didn't. Her hand stayed there.

Brave little act, sure. But now it was kinda starting to get on his nerves. Also making his blood heat in a way that had nothing to do with rage.

‘You still think your touch scares me?’ he asked. ‘That’s great.’

He checked the mirror, took the next turn with easy speed, and watched the empty road ahead.

Every second sitting this close to her was starting to grind under his skin. She smelled the same. That was the real problem. Same shampoo, same skin, same warm, sweet scent. Close enough to touch and still completely out of reach.

Three weeks of cheap liquor and even cheaper women, and now she was right there.

He wanted his hand on her knee. Wanted his fingers under that shirt, popping those buttons one by one because they were already fighting a losing battle. Wanted to lay her down on the bench seat and remind her how fast he could make her stop thinking.

His palm still stung from the phone, reminding him her magic sat between them like a goddamn wall.

Dean flexed his burned fingers around the wheel and smiled because the alternative was putting his fist through the dash.

‘Look, we both know you ain’t gonna do it. Not while you still think your Dean’s coming back.’

Her mouth tightened.

‘The only reason I’m holding back,’ she said through her teeth, ‘is because I don’t want to accidentally kill you.'

‘Uh-huh.’

‘But believe me, I have no problem hurting you.’

Dean’s smile widened. Because that right there, that was something worth playing with.

‘Yeah, I bet you don’t,’ he said. ‘Gun worked just fine, right?’

Yep, perfect hit.

Her reaction was exactly what he expected. Anger dropped out of her face so fast it was almost funny. Pain was there now, real pain. She tried to hide it by turning toward the window, jaw tight, one hand curling against her thigh.

Dean remembered the sound of that shot like it had happened five minutes ago. He had pushed and pushed until she broke, and part of him still liked knowing he could do that.

‘That one still keeping you up?’ he asked, knowing damn well what he was doing to her.

She didn't answer right away, just kept staring at the road outside. Then she looked at him slowly.

‘Fuck you.’

Her eyes flashed and for a second, he thought she might actually touch him. Slap him, burn him, make him swerve straight off the damn road. And part of him wanted her to. Part of him wanted her to stop pretending she was nice and sweet, and finally hit back.

Instead, she curled the hand on her thigh tighter. She breathed in through her nose, slow, careful. Trying to calm down, to hold herself back. Dean watched the way her chest rose and hated the goddamn shirt again.

The want came up hard enough to make his teeth clench. He wanted to grab the back of her neck and make her look up at him.

He didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Because of the fucking magic.

Dean turned down another road. Less traffic now, fewer houses, more trees crowding the edge of the pavement. He knew where he was going. Had picked the place a couple days ago. Sam wouldn’t find it fast. Cas might not find it at all if Dean got the angel proofing right.

She noticed the turn and her posture changed. Shoulders tighter. Right hand moving toward the door again, very slow this time.

‘Relax,’ he said and his voice came out a little strained. Dean forced his hand loose on the wheel before the leather cracked under his grip. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you.’

She scoffed, but there was no humor in it. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘I’m serious.’ He glanced at her, voice dropping. ‘If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, you wouldn’t be sitting there glaring at me.’

She swallowed. Then her eyes narrowed, because the road closed in ahead. Dean slowed just enough to take the turn, then cut the wheel hard onto a smaller road half-hidden between trees.

‘Then what do you want?’

Dean smiled again. He heard the shake under the words. She tried hard to bury it under anger. She always did that when she was scared and trying not to give anyone the satisfaction.

‘I want my wife,’ he said simply.

That made her flinch again.

Then she straightened, pulling herself back together.

‘Your wife is sitting right here,’ she said carefully. ‘So what happens now?’

Dean’s smile sharpened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention back to the road, because staring at her too long was making the hunger worse. She kept breathing too hard and he could hear every damn rise of her chest. He knew the difference between fear and wanting. Knew her body too well to buy the whole act.

Gravel cracked under the tires. The road behind them vanished fast, swallowed by the woods and the low growl of the engine. She looked out the windshield, then back at him, alarm rising fast now.

The trees closed in around them, thick and dark on both sides of the narrow road. Branches scraped along the car. Beside him, she grabbed the edge of the seat, eyes wide.

Dean kept one hand on the wheel and watched her from the corner of his eye.

She was scared now. Really scared.

Dean smiled and drove them deeper into the woods.

Every part of your body was screaming at you to do something.

Burn him. Grab him. Throw yourself out of the car and run for your life before he got you anywhere farther from Sam, farther from cameras and witnesses.

But your mind wouldn’t let you.

You had spent three weeks trying to find him. Three weeks staring at security footage until your eyes burned, chasing dead ends, listening to silent calls in the middle of the night, trying to push through grief and terror. And now he was here. Right next to you. Driving with one hand on the wheel and that awful smile on his face, taking you God knows where, while the broken pieces of your phone were scattered somewhere on the road behind you.

You couldn’t screw this up by panicking.

That was always how it went, wasn’t it? You thought you could fix something by acting fast, by throwing yourself into the worst part of the situation and trusting that courage would carry you through. Then it turned into something complicated and even more dangerous.

So no. You had to be smart.

You were scared out of your damn mind, of course you were. You were trapped in a car with a demon. You knew what demons were, what they did. What he had done.

Still, he had not killed you. He hadn’t even hurt you, not physically at least. He had crushed your phone, mocked you, scared you, and pushed every painful button he could reach, but he had still kept both hands to himself. That meant he needed something from you. Dean wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of taking you from under Sam’s nose just to leave a body in the woods. He wouldn’t risk Sam following, wouldn’t risk your magic against his skin unless there was a reason.

That was the part that made your blood boil.

He knew you wouldn’t hurt him unless you had no choice, and that every time you imagined using your hands on him like that, something inside you twisted. It made you so angry you almost wanted to hurt him just to wipe that certainty off his face.

But your husband was still inside him. Somewhere. Twisted, trapped, whatever the hell happened to his soul down there. And if you wanted to bring him home, if you wanted to cure him, you needed to be careful.

That didn’t mean seeing him drive you deeper into the forest wasn’t freaking you the hell out.

You had no idea what he was planning or why he had suddenly decided to come after you now. It sure as hell wasn’t love. You doubted demons loved anything besides saving their own filthy skins.

And power.

They loved power. You had learned that the hard way. With Abaddon, with Crowley, with every black-eyed son of a bitch that had ever smiled while trying to tear someone apart from the inside out.

So maybe that was what this was. Power.

This demonic version of your husband wanted control, and who better to practice on than his wife? The woman who still wore his ring, who could burn demons alive but couldn’t burn him without losing sleep over it?

Your hands curled around the edge of the seat. If he thought you were going to bow down and do whatever the hell he wanted, he was in for a rough ride.

At least, that was what you kept telling yourself while trying to ignore the insane fear blooming in your chest.

The road had barely been a road for the last few minutes. Gravel and dirt crunched under the tires, branches scraping against the Impala’s windows and roof with soft, ugly sounds that made your skin crawl. Baby was built for highways, back roads, long drives with music too loud and Dean’s hand warm on your thigh. She was not supposed to be here, carrying you deeper into a place where no one could see what happened next.

Trees pressed in on both sides, thick enough to block most of the fading light, and your pulse jumped again.

You hated that, so much, because apparently Dean could hear it now. Or sense it, or whatever creepy demon thing he had been using since he got into the car. He caught every hitch in your breathing, every time your body betrayed you by reacting to him, because he looked good. Terrifying, sure, but incredibly hot.

God, that part made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

Your husband had become the same thing that destroyed your family. The thing your great-grandfather had sacrificed himself to protect his wife and child from. The thing your bloodline had been built to burn.

And still your heart kicked too hard every time your body remembered how big and strong and confident he was beside you.

Fucking disgrace.

You forced your fingers to uncurl from the seat.

You were going to pull yourself together. You were going to focus on getting Dean back. You were going to keep him from hurting anyone else.

You were going to keep him from hurting you.

Dean made a slow turn through the trees, careful enough that it told you he had been here before. The road dipped, then climbed slightly, and the branches parted just enough for you to see the cabin ahead.

It was small, old, beat-up, with dark windows and a porch that looked one heavy step away from giving out. It was nothing like the lodge your great-grandfather had left you by the lake. This looked closer to the places Sam and Dean had been forced to use after Bobby’s house burned down.

Your throat tightened.

Dean rolled the Impala to a stop right in front of it and shut the engine off. The sudden silence pressed hard against your ears.

For a second, you couldn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed on the cabin, trying to make sense of it. Part of you had expected this the moment he turned into the woods, because of course he wouldn’t take you somewhere public.

That still didn’t tell you what he wanted.

‘I know what you’re thinkin’.’

Dean's voice snapped you out of it, low and close enough to make your shoulders tense.

You turned your head to look at him.

He was already watching you. Leaned back in the driver's seat, his body angled toward you now, one arm draped over the wheel. His mouth curved with lazy satisfaction.

‘I’m not gonna rip your throat out and bury the body behind the shack.’

His eyes moved over you slowly. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and the look on his face made heat crawl up your neck despite the cold fear in your gut.

‘I might bite, though.’

Anger snapped through you so fast you almost snarled at him. He looked so pleased with himself. So careless and full of himself, making jokes while your pulse was still trying to beat its way through your throat.

Then the practical part of your brain finally caught up and you realized…

He wasn’t driving anymore.

The engine was off. The keys were still there. The wheel was right there.

You could threaten him. Burn him just enough to force him back. Incapacitate him, maybe. Get behind the wheel. Drive straight back to the bunker, lock him down, and start the cure before he had time to disappear again.

You didn’t give yourself time to think it through.

You threw yourself across the seat at him.

The space was tight. Your knee landed hard against his thigh, your ass slammed into the steering wheel, and the edge of the seat dug into you sharply enough to hurt. You didn’t care. One hand braced against the backrest behind his shoulder, and you forced yourself over him, straddling him awkwardly in the driver’s seat before he had time to react.

For once, Dean’s eyes went wide.

Not from pain or strain under your weight.

From pure shock.

For one glorious second, you had caught him off guard.

That gave you the opening.

You shoved your forearm under his jaw, pressing it hard against his throat and forcing his head back against the seat. Your sleeve kept your skin from touching his directly, which meant you weren’t burning him yet. Your fist stayed close to the side of his neck, bare knuckles barely an inch from his skin.

You leaned over him, breathing hard, face almost level with his.

‘Enough,’ you growled and your voice almost didn’t sound like yours.

Dean stared up at you. No smirk now.

‘If you think you can toy with me,’ you said, pressing your forearm harder into his throat, ‘if you think you can just kidnap me and I’ll follow like some lovesick puppy, you’re out of your damn mind.’

Dean stayed completely silent. His eyes were locked on yours.

You were shaking now, but rage made it easier to hide.

‘I will burn the fuck out of you.’

The words came fast, pulled out of grief and loss and every sleepless night, every nightmare, every silent call, every crime scene, every second you spent staring at his empty side of the bed, wondering what he was doing.

‘I swear to God, Dean, I will do it. I will cut my skin open and bleed on you if I have to, and trust me, that will hurt worse than anything you have ever felt.’ Your breath dragged through your teeth. ‘So unless you want to find out exactly how much of you I can burn off before you stop healing, you’re going to move your black-eyed ass out of the driver’s seat and let me take you home.’

You held him there.

Your forearm stayed hard against his throat. Your fist hovered close to his skin. Your heart slammed so violently you were sure he could hear it. His eyes sharpened under you.

Then his hands came up slowly and stopped at your sides, hovering just inches from your body. Not touching. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your shirt and the space between you. For one second, you braced for him to grab you.

He didn’t.

Heat started building under your sleeve where your arm pinned his neck. The fabric softened the burn, but it didn’t block it. Your magic pushed through anyway, and Dean’s jaw tightened just enough to tell you he felt it.

Good. Let him.

You expected him to fight. To throw you off. To slam you into the dash or grab your wrist and twist until something broke. You were ready for it. Terrified, but ready. If he hurt you, you would stop holding back.

But instead, his eyes narrowed.

His lips parted, and the tip of his tongue pressed briefly against his teeth.

Then the amusement came back. Slow. Awful.

Dean's hands lifted a little higher in mock surrender, smile spreading.

‘Oh, baby,’ he said, voice rough around the pressure on his throat, ‘I’m right where I wanna be.’

His eyes dropped.

You followed the look before you could stop yourself.

The sudden lunge had popped several buttons on your shirt free, leaving your bra and the heavy swell of your breasts exposed in the narrow space between you. Right in his line of sight.

‘Fuck,’ you snapped under your breath.

Heat rushed into your face, but you refused to move. This was not the time. You were not going to let him make you flustered enough to retreat.

You opened your mouth to repeat the demand. One last warning before things got ugly.

Then you felt him. Hard. Pressed right up against you where you were straddling his lap.

The realization hit so sharply that your hand almost slipped from its place near his throat.

Your face burned hotter. You were straddling him, threatening to burn him alive, and apparently this just counted as goddamn foreplay to him. Your whole body went rigid, heat rushing into places you should not be thinking about right now.

Dean felt you freeze. His smile turned filthy.

For one stupid second, embarrassment lowered your guard.

That was all he needed.

He moved with a strength you weren’t prepared for, even after everything you knew. One moment you had him pinned under your arm, and the next his hands closed on your waist, burning under the fabric as he hauled you off him and shoved you down across the front bench seat.

Air punched out of your lungs.

Your back hit the old vinyl upholstery. Your hip slammed against the edge of the seat. Before you could get your hand up, Dean was over you, one knee braced between yours, one hand planted near your ribs, the other gripping your shoulder, pinning you in place.

The fabric kept him from direct skin, but the burn still flared between you. You smelled it almost immediately. His skin blistering under his own grip. His jaw clenched, eyes black now, but he didn’t let go.

He leaned over you with a smile that made your chest seize.

‘You wanna play hunter with me?’ he asked, voice low and dangerous. ‘Fine. We can play all you want.’

You tried to twist under him. His grip tightened, and the burn got worse. Still, he didn’t move.

‘But if you keep pushin', sweetheart, eventually I’m gonna push back.’

You shoved against him with your forearm, trying to get enough space to bring your bare hand up. He shifted his weight down before you could, trapping your arm between your bodies. You kicked once, knee scraping against the underside of the dash, and he pressed his hips down harder to stop you.

Your breath caught.

You hated the tiny pull that answered low in your stomach. Hated it so much it made your eyes burn.

‘Get off me,’ you forced out.

Dean’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your face. His smile widened just enough to tell you he had felt the change in your body.

The burn was getting worse. His jaw clenched, and a faint tremor moved through his fingers, but he still didn’t let go.

Then his expression shifted. The amusement faded. His eyes dropped to his hands, to the red, ruined skin already trying to heal, and for the first time since he pinned you, irritation cut clean through.

‘I want my wife,’ he said, quieter now. ‘Your magic’s gettin’ in the damn way.’

Your heart kicked.

The reason he had brought you here was suddenly clear, and it made your stomach turn.

Dean’s eyes came back to yours.

‘So now you’re gonna be a good little pet,’ he said, every word deliberate, ‘get out of the car, get inside the damn cabin, and handle it.’

Your mouth had gone dry.

You had known he needed something. You had known there had to be a reason he took you alive, a reason he called, a reason he played this game for three weeks and then finally came for you himself.

He wanted your protection gone. He wanted access to you without the burn.

Your voice scraped out of your throat. ‘How?’

Dean stared at you for a beat, then slowly pulled his hands away from your body. He still didn’t let you up. His palms braced against the seat on either side of you.

He was looking down at you with black eyes, his face hovering above yours so close you could see your own stunned expression in them.

‘I’m sure that big brain of yours can figure it out,’ he said. ‘But you’re not leavin’ this place until I can touch you.’

Anyway, I struggled with this so much I almost dropped the whole story. The excitement kind of gave way to frustration because I just couldn’t get what was in my head down on the page the right way. Well… I guess that happens sometimes.

A/N: I hope I made Dean’s motivation clear enough. I was really trying to capture the obsession and the wanting, not him needing his wife because of some deep love he still feels for her. Also, I know it seems like she’s not burning him as badly as she burns other demons, and yes, I do have a theory for that too. Don’t worry.

Tag list:

@tinysnacklefan @spacepl4ant @ladysparkles78 @foxyjwls007 @mbinvisible @freddiemcn @alliwantisanimeandfood-blog

“I just- I’m thinkin’ about how quickly brakes can get messed up, then you don’t know until it’s too late-“

“It’s not too late. My brakes are fine.”

“Until they’re not.”

“But they are. Right now.”

“Right, ‘cause I’m checkin’ them-“

“Dean Winchester.” You’d given him a stern look, and he’d bowed his head. You’d sidled fully up against him, ducking under his arm to put a barrier between him and your car. If you hadn’t, you think he would’ve been out there until the heat got to him, and you found him passed out with tanned skin and sunstroked eyes.

He’d looked a little like he was already there, when you’d been only inches away. Blown out eyes and sweat on his brow, ducked down to press against yours. The tip of his nose on the bridge of yours, his breath minty and warm over your cheeks, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline.

“Let’s go inside,” you’d murmured.

His tongue had flicked over his lips, and you’d seen the protest forming. He needed something to do, or he’d just pace and worry all damn day.

“We can go up to that car show in Sinoma.”

He’d let out a sharp, tired breath. “Sweetheart, you don’t gotta-“

“My dad isn’t going to be here until, like, seven. And the airport is up north anyway-“

“You don’t like car shows.”

You’d shrugged. “I like you.”

Dean had worked his jaw. You’d given him your sweetest smile, and leaned up to kiss his nose. He’d cupped your cheek, let out another heavy breath, and given in.

The car show had distracted him for most of the day. You’d—tragically—made him put on a clean shirt and greaseless pants, then let him drag you around, pointing out different models and makes and saying a bunch of words that sounded fake to you, but clearly made perfect sense to the dork on your arm.

“Look at this one.” He breathes, and sometimes the only way you’re sure he loves you is the way he looks at you the same way he looks at cars. “Jesus, that’s a beaute. Gear shift- Those were common in the year, but this one’s clean, it took a while to get ‘em clean- Safer like this, too, ‘cause if you’re drivin’ with someone who knows stick it means they give a shit, instead of just cruising at 80 without thinking about it-“

“You drive at 80.” You say, and Dean shrugs.

“Yeah. But I’m thinkin’ about it.”

You laugh, and Dean grins, ducking down to kiss your cheek.

“I’d never drive fast enough to hurt you, baby. You know that.”

“Hm.” You squint in mock doubt. “What if I asked you to?”

“Asked me to?”

“Mhm.” You bounce on your toes, beaming up at his adorably scrunched face. “What if I asked you to drive unsafely?”

“Why the hell would you ask me that-“

“For fun.”

“For fun.”

You nod, leaning your chin up against his chest, and Dean chuckles.

“I’d do it if you wore a helmet.”

Your nose wrinkles. “That would be ugly-“

“Then I guess I’m not doin’ it.”

“But I said please-“

“And I said wear a helmet.”

“It would mess up my hair-“

“You’d look pretty anyway.” He squeezes your side, and you try to roll your eyes, but it just comes out with another breathy giggle. “C’mon, speedy. They got ice cream.”

Dean grabs your hand, and you let him pull you to the crowded food truck. He steals quick glances at the cars—he’s already see all of them, but that doesn’t really matter—and you watch him with a soft, ditzy smile on your face. You know you look hopeless. It’s probably sickening to watch, but you don’t really care. It’s sweet on your tongue, sticky like honey and poured down your throat with ease. Dean’s the only thing in the world that doesn’t get rancid or sour from your exposure. You dig your nails into his palm and hang off his arm, and refuse to let go.

“Thanks.” He mumbles in your car, staring at his empty paper bowl. “For- Y’know.”

You smile around your spoon and don’t bother to say you’re welcome. It isn’t some favor you’re doing him, or treat that he’s earned for good behavior. You like seeing him happy. It makes you feel lighter. Filled up with helium, just to the right of your heart, forcing that dazed smile and all those giggles you’ve forgotten how to bite down.

“You think he’s gonna like me?” Dean mumbles, and you nod, your spoon still in your mouth. Dean sighs, giving you a pleading, puppy-like look.

You reach over the bench and run your fingers through his hair. He takes the spoon out of your mouth, raising his brows, and you pretend to bite at his hand. “I was eating that-“

“C’mon, Princess.” He taps your nose with the spoon. “Humor a guy. Tell me he’ll adore me or whatever.”

“He will adore you,” you shrug, and Dean chuckles.

“Convincing.”

“I’m being serious-“

“Sure you are-“

“I am.” You grab your end of the spoon, pulling down his hand. “He’s going to love you, De.”

Dean’s throat bobs, and you know he doesn’t really believe you. You’re not too worried about it. When you told Bobby that you wanted him to meet your boyfriend, he’d grunted and made a face you could hear through the speaker phone.

“Boyfriend, huh.”

“Yeah. He’s sweet, dad. You’ll like him.”

He’d sighed, heavy and tired through the phone. You hadn’t read too much into it. He was always sighing a lot. “How long you been together, that you’re askin’ me to meet him.”

“Seven months.”

“Kiddo-“

“But we’ve known each other for two years.” You’d added quickly. “And he’s a really good guy. He’s a mechanic, for cars- You can bond about that, and-“

“Mechanic?” Bobby had cut you off with short words. “He got a job?”

You’d hummed. “And he’s really good at it.”

Bobby had snorted. “How do you know he’s good, you don’t know nothin’ about cars-“

“I know enough. I paid attention-“

“No, you didn’t. You’d sit in the mud and talk to the birds ‘till I dragged you inside-“

“Well- It was boring-“

“I know. But that ain’t knowin’ enough, kiddo. This guy could be shit, and- I’ll meet him, but if he’s a bum-“

“He’s not a bum.” You’d said, gripping the phone tight in your hands.

Bobby had paused, and you’d chewed on the inside of your cheek. It would be fine, if they didn’t get along. Perfectly fine. You’d just have the two most important people in your life at odds, and holidays would be horrible, and Bobby would try to talk you out of marrying Dean—which simply wasn’t going to happen, because if you so much as picture an alter, Dean always materializes like a vision straight from heaven—but it would be fine, you’d get through it, you always get through it-

“He treat you well?” Bobby had asked, and you’d nodded quickly, so eager to agree that you forgot he couldn’t see you.

“Yes. It’s- He-“

You’d glanced at the bathroom door, where you could still hear the water running from Dean’s shower. You’d stumbled over the words, because there weren’t any that were good enough. That could possibly have the size and gravity to explain how Dean was like a symbiotic limb, a moss that had grown over your heart, a shell that you’d crawled into and hidden all your fears and loathing in the cavity of his chest. He’d taken it, and you’d taken his, and you didn’t know love could be like breathing until he put his hand on your throat and reminded you to try.

“Really well,” you’d settled on. “You’ll like him, daddy. Just- Please don’t scare him.”

Bobby had grunted, but you knew all this grunts. And that was the one that meant he was really willing to try. “He scare easy?”

And you’d told him no. Dean doesn’t scare easily. He’s the bravest person you know, with the small exception of planes. You’d twisted a ring on your finger and said with loud, sheer confidence that Dean was just going to want to make a good impression.

Which was, technically, true. Dean did just want to make a good impression.

He was just also terrified of making a bad one.

“How old’s your dad again?”

“I don’t know, fifty?”

Dean shoots you a disbelieving look. “You don’t know?”

You shrug weakly, and he chuckles.

“Jesus, sweetheart-“

“He’s old! That’s all I have to know, is that he’s old. He’s not sixty yet!”

“You sure?”

You nod, tracing over the lines of Dean’s palm in your lap. “We can’t use the senior discount at the diner downtown.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “That’s how you measure it, huh.”

“Yeah, because- Don’t make that face.” You whack his arm. “When we’re old you’re going to be so excited for that 15% off, Winchester.”

“When we’re old?”

Shit. “Well- It- It happens to everyone-“

“But we’re gonna do it together.”

“I- I mean, if you- I’d-  You-“

You’re babbling, flushed and wound up at the top of your chest. You do want to be old with Dean. You want to be fifty and still driving with him, just like this. You want to see his smile turn into crows feet, and count the gray hairs in his beard—you’re trying to make him grow a beard—and hold his hand all the way to the senior home, then the grave.

But that sounds insane. You’ve been together seven months, that’s hardly a fraction of a lifetime, but it’s also the clearest horizon you’ve ever seen. The only path that doesn’t lead to Dean is the one behind you, and it’s all a one-way road.

Dean kisses the back of your hand, smirking against your skin. “Breathe, Princess.”

You do, averting your gaze to collect yourself.  Dean’s fingers brush over the nape of your neck, a silent command to look back his way. You obey, and find him grinning at the road. He meets your pleading, wide eyes, and rumbles a deep, almost enchanting laugh from his chest.

“Can you share your old person pudding with me, when I eat all of mine?”

You scoff, slumping back into the bench. “No. I only get one.”

“What if I offer my Jell-O? I hear the really good old homes got both.”

“I don’t like Jell-O. And- You don’t like pudding.”

Dean shrugs. “I like things that you put your mouth on.”

“I- Dean.”

You flush, and he grins, squeezing your hand three times. You relax into his side, your head on his shoulder, and he shifts to kiss your brow.

“You put your mouth on me, think it might be better than therapy.” 

You press your thighs tight, core throbbing more violently than should be allowed, and roll your eyes. “That’s not true.”

“I’m serious, I like me more when you wanna touch me-“

“I know you’re serious.” You give him a flat look. “But that’s not how therapy works.”

“We dunno,” Dean dismisses, tangling his fingers with yours. “No ones tried it yet.”

“People have tried blowjobs-“

“Not from you, pretty girl.”

Your face is burning. You suppose it’s good that he’s getting it out of his system, before you get to the airport. You’re still worried you’re going to explode. “You won’t even let me blow you,” you grumble, and Dean chuckles.

“You’re not ready, Princess.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m ready for-“

“Last night I let you touch it,” Dean drawls. “And you got so fuckin’ horny you started humping my knee.”

You flush, and glare out the window. That’s not fair. He’d been hard and thick, and his hips had jumped up when you’d stroked your thumb over the bead of pre-cum leaking from his angry, red head. He’d watched you under lidded eyes, chest heaving and blunt nails digging into your hips, and you’d felt powerful. Powerful in a way you didn’t know how to handle. It had been a stabbing rush of relief, when Dean had grabbed your wrist and dragged you fully into his lap. You’d been guided down onto his cock and rocked your hips back and forth, your face buried in his neck. He’d yanked you back by your hair and rutted up like an animal, forcing cries of his name from your lips.

But he could do that same kind of thing, if he’d just let you use your mouth. You’d been poking around, and men usually liked that. Dean had practically said as much, even if it was a teasing joke.

“Men like blowjobs, right?” You’d asked Sam at lunch yesterday, and he’d choked on his bread.

“I- I mean- Yes, but- Why-“ He’d hit his own chest, forcing himself to swallow. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”

You’d shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

“How the- I mean,” Sam had sighed your name. “I think I have to worry about it? Is your boyfriend tryig to make you go down on him, because- That’s not okay-“

“It’s not that.”

“Then what-“

“He won’t let me go down on him.” You’d glowered at your own sandwich, poking the poking out meat with a finger. “He says that-“

You’d cut yourself off, glanced up at Sam’s red face, and decided that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to tell him that his older brother kept insisting that he eat you out every night.

“Never mind.”

Sam had thought about protesting for a second—brow pinched and mouth fish-like—but had just grumbled something under his breath and returned to his food. You’d asked Jess the same question later, and she’d told you that yes, men did like blowjobs, but if you were going to give Dean one he should deserve it.

You think he deserves it. The problem seems to be convincing him of that.

“Princess,” he coos, rubbing the back of your neck. “C’mon, don’t get pissy about this-“

“I’m not pissy.”

“I can see the freakin’ steam coming out of your ears-“

“You’re hallucinating.”

Dean sighs your name, and you shoot him a glare.

“I can give you head, Dean-“

“I know you can, sweetheart,” he gives you an exasperated smile. “That ain’t the part I’m worried about.”

You wrinkle your nose, ready to look back out the window and keep sulking. It’s a stupid, bratty thing to be angry about, but it’s burrowing itself deeper than just your and empty throat. “I’d be good at it,” you grumble, hugging yourself tight. “If you- You’d just have to show me what I’m supposed to do, and I’d do it.”

Dean groans, fingers flexing against the sensitive skin of you neck. “Jesus, baby, you can’t just say that-“

“But I’d listen!” You whip around glare at him, and he shakes his head.

“Yeah. I know you would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“Nothin’-“

“Dean.” You shift closer, planting a hand on his thigh. He tenses, shooting you an almost worried look, his tongue darting over his lips. “I told you I would for normal sex, and I did, so- I don’t understand why- Do you just not like blowjobs?” You frown, trying to read the way he works his jaw, the way his ears turn red and his mouth pressed into a thin line. “It’s okay if you don’t like blowjobs-“

Dean plants a hand over your mouth, and you blink in surprise. You’re about to drag it away and snap at him—you’re trying to have an open conversation like he always tells you to, he doesn’t get to shut you up—when he gives you a pleading, blown out look. He rasps your name, and your eyes flick down. To his knuckles, white on the wheel, and his jeans, tented and straining.

Oh.

“Please stop sayin’ blowjob,” he rasps, and you nod a little stupidly, attention fixed on that bulge. “I really don’t wanna be popping a boner when I shake your dad’s hand.”

That’s a good point, but there’s still a sour taste on your tongue. You try to pucker your lips and ignore it, but Dean knows you too well. His thumb traces the curves of your mouth, and his eyes shine on yours.

“For the record, I love a blowjob. Big fan. Always have been.”

You glare at him, and he flicks your nose.

“We’re just takin’ our time, Princess-“

“I don’t-“

“And.” Dean gives you a stern look. “If you’re really that set on giving me head, I ain’t that big a masochist. We’ll work it out.”

You sit up a little taller, and Dean snorts.

“Jesus, woman-“

“Shut up.”

“I’m worried you’re gonna lock us in a sex room-“

“That’s- I- I’m just- It feels good.” You try to glare out the window, but Dean catches your jaw and holds your face in place.

“What feels good?” He teases, and heat starts to pool in your core.

“Dean…”

“Me?” He shoots you that boyish, charming grin. “I feel good?”

God, he does. His big hand and light fingers and all that heat, radiating off his body. “No.”

Dean chuckles, pressing his thumb up against your lips. “Liar.”

You’re embarrassingly close to sucking on his fingers. You only don’t because he pulls them away, resting his hand back on your thigh and asking a question about your thesis. You indulge him—even though it always feels like he’s indulging you—and he hum, tapping his fingers on your knee as he drives, then holding your hand as you walk from the airport to the terminal.

“Because it’s- Well- Art is our oldest form of documentation,” you tell him, staring at the pretty profile of his jaw as he guides you through the crowd. “It’s not that oldest form of art, but it’s the best preserved-“

“Back up.” Dean frowns at you over his shoulder. “Art ain’t the oldest form of art?”

“Art, as in drawing, isn’t the oldest form of art as in- Like creative expression.”

“What’s the oldest form of that, then?”

“Storytelling.”

“So- Writing-“

“No. Storytelling. It was verbal, before we invented writing, and a while after too.”

Dean nods slowly, slinging his arm around your waist as you stop near the edge of the crowd. “Like- Uh- The Illiad.”

You beam at him. “Just like the Iliad.”

Dean grunts, gaze still fixed on the milling people, but you can see the puff of his chest. You kiss his cheek, and his gaze falls to you.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he sighs.

“Hey, Princess.”

You tug on the collar of his shirt, and he gives you that disbelieving, almost dazed expression. Like he can’t believe that you’re real. He presses his lips against yours, and you push up on your toes, trying to drag him as close as the laws of the world will allow, before you just absorb each other and become one-  

A familiar voice clears his throat from behind you, and Dean’s head shoots up. He goes ridged in a second, the color draining from his face with his smile, and you sigh.

“Don’t stop of my account,” Bobby grunts, and you roll your eyes, spinning around in Dean’s arms.

His glare is fixed on the sweating, frozen man around. You try to step forward, but Dean yanks you back like he think’s he’ll sink into the ground without your touch.

“De-“

“De, huh.” Bobby looks him up and down, and maybe you’re going to have to smack both of them. “That short for something?”

“It’s short for Dean, and- Don’t be mean to him, he’s nervous-“

“I’m not nervous.” Dean says quickly, and you give him a flat look. “I’m not. I’m-“ He squares his shoulder, pushing out a hand for Bobby to shake. “Dean Winchester, sir. I- Uh- I graduted from highschool, I make ‘bout 80k a year right now, but I’m up for a promotion-“

“You are?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah, Chip loved the tourin’ idea-“ He glances back to Bobby. “Chip’s my boss, he’s thinkin’ about letting me open a branch out in California, so I’ll be able to be ‘round more-“

“De,” you hit his chest, and he blinks like a cornered animal. “Why didn’t you tell me that-“

“Found out like an hour ago, was gonna tell you in the car, but-“ He swallows, still looking at Bobby like a cornered animal. “Uh- You know.”

Bobby raises his brows. “What happened in the car?”

Dean opens and closes his mouth, pallid and panting, and you sigh.

“Nothing.”

Bobby eyes Dean suspiciously. “He ain’t lookin’ like it’s nothing-“

“I told you, he’s nervous.” You rub Dean’s back, and he just keeps blinking. You’re a little worried he’s broken. “Dean, baby-“

“I’m CPR certified!” He blurts, and Bobby blinks. “I can swim and drive and- And I know how to handle a gun- In a safe way, the rootin’ tootin’ way- Not the NRA way- ‘Less you’re- I mean- I’m pro-women-“

“Dean.” You pat his shoulder. “Shh.”

He nods, giving you a grateful look. His hand is still outstretched. Bobby hasn’t taken it.

You jerk your head, and Bobby makes a face, looking Dean up and down.

“80k, huh.”

“Yes, sir-“

“How old are you-“ 

“Twenty-five, sir-“

“Stop callin’ me sir.” Bobby grunts, and Dean nods frantically.

“Yes, s-“ He cuts himself off with wide eyes. “S’okay.”

You’d laugh, if you weren’t worried about his heart giving out. When you catch Bobby’s eye, there’s an unreadable glint in it that you don’t care to disset. You nod to Dean’s hand again, and Bobby sighs, and takes it.

“I heard you’re takin’ me to dinner, big shot,” Bobby says, and you sigh.

“Bobby-“

“I’m hungry, kiddo-“

“Why didn’t you eat on the plane-“

“All they had were crackers and stale Pepsi. Didn’t wanna spoil my damn appetite.”

You sigh, but let it go. Your goal is to get through the evening without Dean talking himself into a hole, or Bobby giving your poor, lovely boyfriend a panic attack so bad he dies.

“Don’t be mean to him, dad,” you murmur while Dean pays for the parking, and Bobby shrugs lazily.

“I ain’t being mean-“

“He’s really trying, okay. Just- If you don’t like him, pretend to. I’m worried he’ll commit ritual suicide if you don’t.”

“Hm. Good to know.”

“That’s- Don’t-“

“He’s pretty.” Bobby shrugs, ignoring your protests. “Birthin’ hips.”

You snort. “God, don’t tell him that-“

“Why not? He got a problem with kids?”

“No, he- He loves kids, he basically raised his brother-“

“So he’s tryin’ to knock you up-“

“Dad-“

“So you ain’t able to see a future with ‘im? Don’t want that guy carryin’ your kids?”

You cross your arms over your chest. “No. I’m worried that if you tell him he’s got birthing hips he’ll start to worry about getting pregnant.”

“Ah. So he’s stupid.”

“He’s whimsical-“

“Just another word for stupid-“

“He’s sweet.” You say defensively. “And I- I’m joking-“

“I know,” Bobby chuckles, giving you an amused look. “I missed you, kiddo.”

Your lips twitch up, and when he offers a hug, you take it quickly. “I missed you too,” you mumble against his chest. “Please don’t scare Dean.”

“I’ll do my best,” Bobby grunts. “But that boy seems jumpy.”

“Because you’re scaring him-“

Dean calls your name—you have the parking ticket—and you pull away with a sigh.

“Is he tellin’ you to leave me?” Dean whispers as you feed the machine. “’Cause I can turn this around, sweetheart, just gimme a day-“

“You don’t have to turn anything around.” You murmur. “He likes you.” 

“He does?”

You nod, and Dean narrows his eyes.

“You better not be lyin’ to make me feel better.”

“I’d never do that,” you hum, and he grunts.

“How about- What if I do this,” he holds a thumbs down, slowly turning it up. “And you tell me where he’s standing on me right now. Then I know what ground I gotta make up for.”

“You don’t have to make up for anything, De.”

“Uh huh.” He starts to move his thumb back down. “Just tell me when.”

You stare at him, flat and bored, and he sighs.

“C’mon-“

“Can we get Chinese?” You ask, pulling the stamped ticket out of the machine. “He likes Chinese.”

“Yeah, we can go to the place off Fillmore, just-“

“And can we get ice cream after?”

“We can get whatever you want, Princess, just-“

You kiss his cheek, and almost watch the blush bloom from where your lips brushed his jaw. He looks back to Bobby, panicked and tall again, and you take his hand.

“Let’s go.”

Dean stumbles after you, but doesn’t protest. He nods at Bobby like they’re passig businessmen, and Bobby nods back, and you miss Sam for a long moment. He wouldn’t be this stoic about getting dinner.

You slide into shotgun, while Dean helps Bobby load the truck, and watch them carefully in the rearview mirror. No one seems to be throwing punches or dying. You count that as a real, small victory. Bobby says something, and Dean nods. Dean walks around the car, and his knees are shaking less.

“What did he-“

“Just askin’ if he was staying at your place or a hotel.”

You blink, and look back to the rearview mirror, then Dean. “And you told him no, right?”

Dean grunts, and your jaw goes slack.

“Dean-“

“Your couch is comfortable-“

“You’re staying at my place-“

“I can sleep on the floor.”

“You’re not sleepig on the floor-“

“Alright, I’ll sleep in the car-“

“You’re not sleeping in the car, either-“

“Sammy knows I’m in town-“

“Sam thinks you have a hotel-“

“Then I’ll get a hotel-“

“Don’t, just- Bobby.” You twist around in your seat, as Bobby slides in the back. “You got a hotel, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Bobby shrugs. “But if you got room-“

“I don’t have room-“

“Dean said ya did.”

Dean cringes, and you rub his knee, giving Bobby a taut glare. He sighs, and rolls his eyes.

“Fine. You can ship me off to the home.”

“I can pay for it, dad-“

“No. ‘S fine.”

 Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then chokes out, “I can sleep in the car-“

“No, you can’t.” You grab his hand, and move it to the gear shift. “Drive.”

 Dean listens,  and you give Bobby a silent, angry look. He, at least, looks a little ashamed. When you get to the restaurant, he compliments Dean’s parking and lets him take the seat next to you. It’s the small victories.

The place is loud. Bustling and full, forcing the three of you to a booth in the back. Dean’s still stiff, but he relaxes when you hold his hand. You look between him and Bobby, but they both seem determined to make as little eye contact as possible. You clear your throat, and they both turn to you with something close to hope in their eyes. As if you’ll just talk the whole time, and save them the pain of having to know each other.

“Dean works in auto mechanics,” you say casually, holding his hand under the table. “Dad, what do you do?”

Bobby gives you a flat, you know damn well what I do look. You smile innocently, nodding in prompt.

“I run a junkyard,” he grunts, and you hum.

“What kind of junkyard.”

“Cars.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “Wow, that’s pretty awesome. Is it like- Your own junkyard?”

“My name’s on the license.” Bobby shrugs. “Got it from a buddy, when he moved to Denver for his girl. Served me well, and it’s sure as shit cheaper to run it outta my yard than anything else.”

“Out of-“ Dean glances at you. “You grew up in a car yard?”

You snort. “Yeah, I’ve told you that-“

“Yeah, but- You didn’t say cars.” He looks back to Bobby. “What’s the best one you had, comin’ through the yard?”

“Hm.” Bobby tilts his head, actually thinking about the question. That’s a good sign. “Benz. Classic.”

Dean whistles, and you’re not really following the conversation anymore. You know they’re getting along, more and more with every second. Bobby asks Dean what kind of car he drives, and Dean gets to talk about the Impala, and it’s impossible not to fall in love with him when he gets like that. Lit up like a child, feet bouncing and every word more eager than the last.

“Got her from my dad.” He says proudly. “Wasn’t in the best shape, when he passed her off, but I keep her going. She purrs now. Always does.”

Bobby hums, drumming his fingers on the table. “You bring her here?”

“Usually, yeah. But right now she’s parked back in Chicago. Had to take a flight, for this one.”

He squeezes you, and you flush. Bobby gives you a questioning, guarded look. Like he already knows why Dean had to take the flight. You avoid his gaze, and his shoulders heave.

“You do that a lot?” He asks Dean, still looking at you, and Dean shrugs.

“Only when she needs me.”

Bobby grunts, and you chew your lower lip.

“Bobby-“

“You got any family, Dean?” Bobby looks back to Dean, who nods, still oblivious.

“Yep. Younger brother, and- Mom and Dad. Obviously.”

Bobby nods tightly. “You close with them?”

“Uh- Yeah.” Dean’s throat bobs. “’Specially my brother.” 

“Dean’s paying for him to go to college,” you add, and Dean waves you off.

“It ain’t that big a deal-“

“Your brother is Sam, ain’t it?” Bobby cuts him off shortly, and Dean swallows.

“Uh- Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

“That’s how we met,” you say, mostly just trying to run interference at this point. “Dean came down to visit Sam, and we kept in touch after.”

“Hm,” Bobby still hasn’t looked away from Dean. “Stanford isn’t cheap.”

Dean shrugs. “Worth it, for Sammy to get his fancy degree.”

“You ever think of goin’ to college yourself?”

“No, si-“

Dean cuts himself off from another sir, and Bobby hums.

“Bad grades?”

“Couldn’t sit still. Liked actually doin’ things better than talking about doing them,” he nudges your shoulder with an affectionate smile. “We can’t all be as good at thinking as this one.”

You flush, but roll your eyes and fold your napkin over and over in your hands. Bobby’s lips twitch, when you risk a glance up. Progress.

“You live in Chicago?” Bobby asks, and Dean nods again.

“Share a place with my best friend. Charlie.”

“Hm. What’s he do?”

 “She works in tech,” Dean says smoothly. “Makes a hell of a lot more than I do. Think she only houses me ‘cause I cook a mean lasanage and she likes tryin’ to steal my girl.”

You laugh softly, and Bobby’s smile pulls a little taller.

“What about your folks?”

“Dad was a marine. Mom stayed home with me and Sammy ‘till he was in elementary, then she started workin’ at a woman’s shelter.”

Bobby gives you a curious frown, and you shake your head. Their parents were around. Doesn’t mean Dean didn’t help bring Sammy up more than he should’ve.

“Winchester, huh.” Bobby looks Dean up and down, and Dean nods.

“Like the gun.”

“Not a common last name.”

“Well, it’s no Smith, but there’s enough of us.” Dean smiles, and Bobby hums.

There’s something in his eyes that you can’t read again. He’s looking Dean over too carefully, and you’re about to ask something—you’re not sure what—when Bobby clears his throat.

“You like spicy food?”

“Love it.”

“You make a burger.”

“My brother says they’re the best he has.”

Bobby’s lip twitch, in something dangerously close to approval. You squeeze Dean’s hand under the table, and smile. It’s going fine.

By the time the food is out, Dean’s stopped tensing at every other word, and Bobby isn’t looking at him like he’s going say on the side, I axe murder young women. They’re laughing and chatting like they’re known each other for years. Dean’s arm finds its way over your shoulder, and Bobby doesn’t even seem to notice. You’re happy with this development, until they start to talk about you.

“She’s twelve.” Bobby grins, sipping a beer between every word. “Scrawny kid, but mean. Sharp.”

“Toothy,” Dean offers, and Bobby snorts.

“Toothy as a Beaver.”

“Hey-“

“C’mon, kiddo, you looked like you wanted to bite everything that got in ten feet.” Bobby smiles at the air, reminiscing too loud for your taste. “Was a fuckin’ miracle, when you started talkin’ to Jo. I was worried you were gonna become one of those weird wolf-kids.”

You scowl, and Dean—obviously less worried with his safety than he should be—snorts.

“Sorry,” he says to your glare. He doesn’t sound it. “Bet you were cute though.”

“Oh, she was cute alright.” Bobby grumbles. “She’d give me big waterworks and I’d fold like that.” He snaps, and you scoff.

“When did that ever happen-“

“Remember when Rufus tried to get you to join that music thing? You broke down every day ‘till I just stopped tryin’ to make you go.”

“Well, it was- I didn’t even want to go-“

“I know you didn’t. You made that real clear.”

You wrinkle your nose at your rice. “I did the summer thing with Jo, though. So- It wasn’t like I was just- Boring.”

Dean chuckles, kissing the side of your head, and you slump against him. Bobby watches you, silent but—at least—not angry.

“You met Jo, Dean?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“She came to visit me,” you explain. “And he was already here.”

Bobby nods, and you know he’s already planning to ask Jo what she thinks of this. Of you and Dean. She’ll say something good. Liking Dean isn’t the kind of thing she’d lie to you about.

“You like her?” Bobby asks Dean, and Dean nods, eyes darting nervously over to you.

“She’s, uh- Good friend. Close.”

Bobby grunts. “You can say that again. Caught her sneakin’ in and out of my window so they could have sleepovers without askin’ us. We woulda said yes, kiddo-“

“No, you wouldn’t have. You would’ve told me to do homework-“

“Like me tellin’ you to do homework ever did anything-“

“Didn’t stop you from trying to make it do something,” you huff. “And I did more homework when Jo was there.”

Bobby just looks straight to Dean. “She was a brilliant kid, but I’d go to every damn parent-teacher conference, and they’d tell me the same shit.”

You sigh. “Dad-“

“You got a bright one,” Bobby echoes. “She’d be a straight shot up, if she could just do her fucking homework.”

“They did not say fucking.”

“They might’ve. You weren’t in the room.”

You roll your eyes, and Dean laughs.

“You are stubborn, baby-“

“The homework was stupid!” You blurt. “It was all- What’s this word and read this book, and I’d finish the book in a day then get in trouble for it, was fuckin’- So stupid-“

You huff, sinking in your seat, and Dean rubs your upper arm. He kisses the top of your head again, then glances to Bobby. And something silent passes between them. Something mused and affectionate.

You won.

“You like him,” you say to Bobby, while Dean grabs the car. Bobby grunts, waving you off.

“I don’t hate him.”

“No, you like him.”

“You coulda done worse.”

“Daddy.”

Bobby sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Fine. He’s got a level head, good heart, good values-“

“He cooks.”

“Good thing, ‘cause you couldn’t find your way out of an oven top.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

 Bobby chuckles. “You could ask ‘im to teach you some shit, you know.”

“I have.” You smile at Dean’s silhouette, wandering between the cars. “But he likes doing it.”

Bobby hums. For a second, the silence lingers. Then-

“ I like ‘im.”

“I knew it-“

“Don’t get smart with me, kid, it ain’t a big thing-“

“You don’t like anyone-“

“Well, he’s alright.”

You beam. Alright, from Bobby, is basically a glowing, thrilled endorsement. You’d been hoping for just a fine, but Dean’s just that amazing. 

Your phone buzzes, and Bobby gives you a curious look as you pull it out of your pocket.

“Dean?”

“Sam,” you mutter, frowning at the screen. “He’s asking if you landed.”

You type back a yes, and Bobby watches you carefully.

“He really doesn’t know, does he?”

“Know?” You say absently, and Bobby grunts.

“’Bout you and Dean.”

You freeze. Bobby’s gaze isn’t judgmental. Just… Silent.

Almost judgmental.

“Bobby...”

“You think he ain’t gonna like it?”

You shake your head, and Bobby sighs.

“You or Dean?”

“Um- I’m- I think- both.”

“I ask Dean, he gonna say the same thing.”

You glare at him, and he just holds your gaze. You sigh. 

“He told Dean not to ask me out. He had a kind of… habit,” you chose your words carefully. “Of his relationships. Before me.”

“Hm,” Bobby’s face is unreadable. “He break that habit.”

“The second we met.”

“He tell you that?”

You nod. “And Charlie backed him up.”

“Charlie.” Bobby hums. “You met her?”

“Over the phone. She’s really nice, she- She talked him into getting a new computer so we could call more.”

Bobby raises his brows. “More?”

“We spent like- A year and a half,” you smile at your shoes. “Just talking. Before he asked me out.”

“Ah.” Bobby stares out at the parking lot, and you sigh.

“He’s really good to me, dad-“

“I can tell.” He mutters, not looking down. “You didn’t tell me you had another episode.”

You swallow, feeling rather small. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble, and Bobby sighs.

“Kiddo-“

“I feel a lot better now,” you give him a pleading smile. “Really.”

Bobby scans over your features, mouth in a thin line, and lets out a sharp breath through his nose. He looks back out the parking lot, pulling a vape pen out of his jacket. You sigh.

“Dad-“

“Relax, I ain’t gonna do it in the hotel.”

“It’s bad for you-“

“Better than the cigarettes.”

“Jody-“

“She’s the one who put me on ‘em,” his lips twitch. “Got tired of me putting them out on the porch before I came in, I guess. Claire showed me, they got all kinds of flavors-“

“Is Claire vaping?!” You stand a little taller, and Bobby snorts.

“Christ, no. Jody would kill her.” Bobby smiles at your worried, pinched expression. “I’m gonna kick these too, kiddo. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worried about you.” You mutter. “I’m worried about your lungs.”

Bobby snorts, and nods to your phone. “What’d Sam want?”

“Um-“ You glance back to your phone, and the half-typed message. “His family, they’re in town-“

“I know, we got his brother playin’ valet-“

“His mom and dad, Bobby,” you say flatly. “And Jess’ family is up too. They’re getting tomorrow, but he was wondering if I wanted to bring you and Jody and Claire to Graduation.” You pause. “That’s- If they’re- They don’t have to-“

“Claire’s got school ‘till Friday. They’re flyin’ out after.” Bobby gives you a softer smile. “We’re proud of you, kiddo. We ain’t missin’ this.”

You smile to yourself, looking back to your phone. “So, yes?”

“Why not,” Bobby shrugs. “Dean gonna be there?”

“Yeah, but-“

“You two ain’t gonna be dating.”

You swallow. “We’re telling Sam after.”

“Alright,” Bobby glances back at your phone. “You got his parents names?”

“Um- John and Mary.”

“John,” Bobby echoes, and you nod.

“And Mary.”

“Hm.”

You frown at Bobby—at his wired, almost sunken expression—but before you can ask why, Dean’s pulling around with the car. Bobby walks around the hood, putting away his vape, and Dean squints at him through the window shield.  

“Is that a fuckin’-“

“Yeah,” you sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Used to be cigarettes. Old army habit, I guess.”

“Oh. Right. Dad does that too,” Dean shrugs, slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Old marine thing, I guess.”

Bobby slides into the backseat of the car, and there isn’t much talk as Dean drives him to the hotel. The music is low, the lights of the highway hazy, and your eyes are drooping by the time you’re parking in front of the hotel. Dean helps with the bags, and at the end, you see him stretch out a hand to Bobby.

They shake, and you smile.

Dean kisses your forehead, as he pulls out of the parking lot. You know you’re looking at him with dazed, starry eyes. But it makes his smile widen and all his features soften, and you hope he knows. That you think of him like this, always. The start of every beginning and end of every line. You love him all the time, you’re just letting it pour out of you like a waterfall, all over him like a prayer.

“You wanna get ice cream, Princess?” He murmurs, and you smile, and nod.

Dean brings you to the quiet place, a few blocks from your apartment, pulling the Impala a distance from all the other cars. His leather jacket gets wrapped around your shoulders before the wind can even hit your skin, and he kisses your brow when you squint at the fluorescent lights. You rest your head on his shoulder, hugging him around the middle while he orders. There’s a little family by the benches, and a gaggle of teenage boys with bleach broccoli hair around the Jeep. One of them meets your eyes and whispers to his friends. Dean glares at them over your head, pulling you closer into his chest.

“Hooligans,” he mutters, and you giggle, tracing over his chest.

“You’re gonna make a good old man one day, De.”

He rolls his eyes, and it means nothing at all. “You bet your ass I am, sweetheart. Our lawn isn’t gonna have a single messed up patch.”

You both realize what he said at the same time. Dean looks down at you. You take a shallow breath, and blink slowly. The wind blows and the lights turn a heavenly white. Dean opens his mouth, and-

“Dean?” The ice cream attendant calls, and he sighs, going to grab the ice cream. He got your favorite. You didn’t expect anything else.

You sit in the backseat of the car, between Dean’s legs. He plays with the hair at the nape of your neck, ignoring his ice cream until your remind him it’s going to melt. The silence is easy, but it circles around in your head, over and over and over, a bird of prey looking to latch it’s claws into something and never let go.

“Do you think we’re going to stay in California?” You ask casually, and Dean’s fingers still.

“Maybe,” he says. Slowly. Carefully. “If- You know. You wanna stay here?”

You hum, taking his hand in yours. “I don’t want to go to Chicago.”

“That’s alright, I can go anywhere.”

“Would Chip let you go anywhere?”

“Anywhere that’s got cars, yeah.”

You hum, playing with one of his bracelets. “California has cars.”

“So we’re stayin’ in California?”

“I like Maine.”

“I can work with Maine-“

“What about Louisiana?”

“We could stay with Benny-“

You twist, pressing a hand on his chest. “Where do you want to go?” You demand, and he blinks at you.

“Princess, I’ve told you, I’m happy wherever you are.”

You sigh, collapsing onto his chest. He holds you there, rubbing up and down your spine. He sets his ice cream on the floor to cradle your head, and you hold him tighter.

“I’d like somewhere with parks,” he mutters softly. “Know you’re gonna wanna a dog, and I’m gonna have to walk it-“

“I’d help walk it.”

“Nah. You’re gonna be the breadwinner, baby. Too busy.”

You laugh, wet and amused, and Dean rocks you both back and forth.

“You know, they got some good programs for PhD’s in New York,” he says. “Or we could go abroad. They got better Zoology programs there.”

“They do?”

“Mhm.”

You push up on his chest, and he grins. Quiet and roguish and all yours.

“We could go to London, Brazil, or Japan, or- Just somewhere. Figure out where we’re getting old later,” he reaches up, tracing the line of your cheek. “When we’re old.”

“We’re gonna get old?” You ask softly, and Dean smiles.

“Yeah, we are. Together.”

✦Part 10✦

✦End note: he's so silly. i need him biblically. ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

“You look disappointed.”

Steve leans against the railing beside you, casually, as if meeting a friend. “I was hoping for a more private space.”

“For any particular reason?” you tease.

He grins and doesn’t hesitate to answer, “The company and conversation.”

You'd find that kind of confidence insufferable from anyone else, presumption bordering on arrogance. Instead, his sincerity makes him dangerously charming.

You remind yourself to tread carefully. Emotions beget recklessness. Recklessness leads to mistakes. Mistakes ensure downfall. Before the conversation can wander into precarious territory, you pull a set of keys from your pocket and toss them to him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He straightens, stepping closer…much closer than necessary. “No instructions?”

“The gray Honda in the parking lot. The location address is programmed into the GPS. Memorize it, then destroy the GPS before you leave.”

“And the car?”

“Yours.”

The wind whips a lock of hair across your face, and seemingly without thinking, Steve tucks it behind your ear. His finger slowly traces the shell of your ear and along your jaw. It's intentional, but you don't flinch away. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long.

The slight widening of his eyes notes the realization of what he's doing. Clearing his throat, he quickly drops his hand, as well as his gaze.

You remain silent. Mercy seems appropriate—at least this time.

“What’s the catch?”

“None.”

“For now,” he adds for you.

You gift him a small smile. “The house is off-grid. Only one other person knows of its existence.”

His brow lifts. “A house?”

“One of my private residences. If it were only you, I’d have given you something smaller. However, the women in your party deserve a little luxury.”

“The other person?"

"Someone I trust with my life."

Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"

"Crime empire."

“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.

The joviality between you is comfortable and unexpected. It will become a problem if you don't stop it now.

“What do I owe you?” His eyes flick to your mouth, there and gone, but not fast enough.

“You’ll know when I decide to collect.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was supposed to.”

“You practice these lines?”

“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”

This time, his laugh is warm and unrestrained. It catches you off guard. You know that Captain America is a persona he wears for the public, and this isn't the public figure. This is Steve Rogers. This is the man behind the superhero. A man out of time, carrying too much weight on his shoulders and trying to help his friends.

His laughter fades, but neither of you moves to end this clandestine rendezvous. The harbor stretches endlessly before you, and for a moment, you contemplate how easy it would be to slip into the shadowy depths and let the weight you carry be swept away by the fog.

“I should go,” Steve mutters, breaking through your thoughts.

He seems reluctant to actually take action, so you encourage his exit. “You should.”

The broad smile and perfect teeth are infuriatingly stunning. Attraction is dangerous. Personal involvement with a client is deadly.

“Minimal contact is best,” you state, tone back to stern professionalism. "You have my direct line should something arise that needs my attention."

"What if I just want to talk?" His face is unreadable, his tone matching yours.

"Unadvisable."

"Will you visit?"

The hint of hope is fleeting in his eyes, and you bite back a cheeky remark. Instead, asserting, "My time is money, Mr. Rogers. If needed, I will be there, but there will be a cost."

The nonchalant shrug is exasperating. “I’m starting to enjoy being in your debt.” He doesn't turn to leave, but slowly walks backward, eyes hidden beneath the hat's brim.

“Then clearly I’m doing something wrong,” you scoff.

He steps into the dim halo of an overhead post lamp, which highlights that infuriating yet endearing smile. “Not from where I’m standing.” Another step, and the fog engulfs him, leaving you, once again, alone on the wharf.

The purpose of the meeting was to finalize the deal. A place for him and his team to lay low for a yet-to-be-decided favor. Somehow, it feels as if something far more invaluable took place.

His acceptance when you handed him the keys was also an exchange of trust.

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If there was one thing you hated, it was driving at night. Especially in the middle of nowhere Texas.

Unfortunately for you luck just hasn’t been on your side these past few years. Things weren’t always so bad but after dad died everything just sorta…tailspinned. When your now ex boyfriend offered to let you crash with him, it was sorta the only choice you had, given being alone felt unbearable. Sure, he was lazy. Sure, he spent your money like his own and somehow always had an excuse for why he couldn’t hold a job. But splitting rent was easier than paying it alone.

Then the yelling started. Then the holes in the wall. Then the apologies, and then one day he put his hands on you. A mere twenty-four hours ago you were at work and cooking dinner, now you were on the road, your entire life thrown into your trunk. By midnight, Texas was in your rearview mirror. And for the first time in years, you had no idea what the endpoint would be. 

The only guiding light through this was Murphy, the mutt you adopted years ago. Despite being sixty-five pounds of drool and fur, he was your best friend. He’d been through it all with you. He was there through the screaming matches, through the nights of sleeping in your car, through every kick and punch.

Sometimes you’d wake up in the middle of the night just to find the dog stretched across the bedroom floor, positioned between you and the bedroom door like a barricade, poor pup tried. 

He watched and he guarded. He reminded you that there was always one thing to love you without conditions. Which is hilarious, considering Murphy looked intimidating as hell. Most people saw the shepherd mix and crossed the street. 

You saw the puppy who wanted to be tucked into your sheets during the winter and didnt like to step on wet grass.

Driving from Odessa to Chicago was no small feat, and unfortunately for your, the trip had just begun. 

Just four hours ago you were throwing your entire life into the backseat. You hadn’t exactly left with a plan. Now you were somewhere in North Texas, inching closer to the Oklahoma border with a dog in the passenger seat and absolutely no idea what your life would look like in a week from now. 

It should have terrified you.

Maybe it did.

But every mile that appeared in your rearview felt a little lighter than the one before it. 

The radio crackled, filling the car with a burst of static before cutting out completely.. "Of course! Just what I was wanting to happen." You smacked the steering dashboard. Nothing. You smacked it again. Still nothing. Murphy picked his head up from the passenger seat, watching you with a tilted head, "Don't judge me.” His ears went up. With a sigh, you reached over and switched the radio off entirely. The silence was somehow worse. At least the static had been something. Now all you had was the steady hum of the engine, the occasional rattle from somewhere in the backseat, and your own thoughts were so determined to be the loudest thing in the car.

The road stretched endlessly ahead of you, surrounded by fields that seemed to go on forever. Darkness swallowed everything beyond your headlights, leaving nothing but empty highways and the occasional road sign to remind you civilization still existed. There wasn't another car in sight. Then you gas light came on. You just stared right at it, “No”. the little orange light remained illuminated. “No, no, no.” As if arguing with the machinery would somehow make it disappear. The dashboard, unfortunately, wasn’t interested in negotiations. You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “Dont do this to me.” You let out a frustrated groan. You glanced back at the gas gauge and immediately regretted it.The needle was hanging on for dear life.You were running on fumes, blind optimism, and whatever prayers your grandmother had taught you as a kid."Okay," you muttered, sitting up a little straighter. "That's fine. Totally fine."

It was not fine.

Not even a little.

By the time you were able to make out what appeared to be a gas station, your engine was sputtering every few minutes and your gauge had been in the red for about 30 miles.Your road map wasn’t much help anymore either. Somewhere between Odessa and wherever the hell you were now, it had become covered in coffee stains, crumpled corners and muddy paw prints courtesy of Murphy. At this point, your best course of action was prayer. And maybe a little luck. 

The gas station slowly came into focus as you pulled off the highway. The building looked ancient, illuminated by a handful of flickering lights. You rolled into your pump and killed the engine. The sudden silence was almost deafening. For a moment, neither you or Murphy moved. Then you look across the car at him and he looks back, you sigh and grab your purse, “Okay Murph, please protect the car. Its a very important job” His tail thumps on the leather seat. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head before climbing out of the car.

You glanced toward the gas station and silently prayed there was something inside worth eating. You wandered aimlessly through the tiny gas station, dragging your feetin down each aisle as you searched for something that could remotely qualify as dinner. Your stomach growled, loudly. At this point Murphy’s dog food was starting to sound appetizing. With a sigh, you made your way over to the hot food station, if you can even call it that. The ancient roller grill spun beneath a heat lamp that looked older than you. A handful of hot dogs rotated endlessly while several corn dogs sat beside them, looking like they;d been in rotation since the Clinton administration. 

You stared at the selection. The selection stared back.

“Wow”

A hot dog or a corn dog. How nutritious. How balanced. How absolutely terrible. The hot dog won. Mostly because it looked less likely to kill you. You grabbed a pair of tongs and inspected it suspiciously. 

“Congratulations,” you mutter to yourself. “You’ve officially hit rock bottom.” The hot dog, thankfully, offered no opinion. You dropped it into a paper tray and headed toward the register.

“Hey, Hon. Whatcha lookin’ for?” the older gentlemen behind the counter looked up from a crossword puzzle, glasses perched low on his nose. You answered with a shrug. You set your hot dog on the counter, going back to the cold freezers for some water and a coke. “You don't happen to have any maps, do ya?” The man chuckled. “Maps? Now there’s somethin’ I haven’t heard somebody ask for in a while” He bent down behind the counter and rummaged through a drawer. “Course I got maps. Where ya headed?”

“Chicago, I think.” The cashier let out a low whistle. “Chicago?” you nodded in response, ”Thats’a long drive” Something about the old man reminded you of your dad. Maybe it was the concern in his voice, the deep set eyes or mauve the way he looked worried instead of judgmental. Either way it made your heart ache. “I'd be careful out there in I were you,” the man slid a folded road map across the counter.

“Well,” you said, lifting up the hem of your shirt, barely enough to show your small black handgun tucked into your waistband, “my daddy made sure his only child had some protection”. The cashier nodded approvingly, “Smart man.” The man behind the register shook his head in approval, “Total’s $6.12, girlie”. You handed over the cash, gathered your map, drinks and hot dog. As he handed over the receipt, his expression was soft. “Whatever’s waiting for you up there,” he said softly “ I hope it' s kinder than whatever you're leavin’ behind.”

For a moment the air felt thick. You had forgotten about your face, the bruise that's slowly taking over your left cheek. You just nodded. 

“Me too”

Instantly, the summer air hit you. Thick and swampy. The parking lot wasn't empty anymore, you in your accord, a black sleek car and a rusty van all gathered. You make your way to your accord, trying to balance the drinks while managing to fish your keys out of your pocket. The second the doors unlocked, a large head popped up from the passenger seat, "There's my good boy” You let Murphy out, letting him stretch his legs trusting him to still remain by you. 

You poured him some water in a makeshift bowl you made out of a saucepan you found while you were throwing all of your belongings into your car. You set the water down and scratched behind his ears, then focused your attention on the gas pump. The nozzle had set in place. You barely had started pumping when the side of the van slid open. Three men climbed out, the immediate sensation of your hair standing up and shoulders tensing puts your nervous system into over-drive. “Well look’it over here” You kept your eyes locked on the gas pump, why can't these things go faster? Another one of the men laughed, “You look a little far from home, ain’t ya?” You ignored them. You would rather die than give any men like them a lick of attention. Years of being a woman taught you a lot of things, one of them being that usually no response, is the best response. Apparently, they didn't appreciate that. 

They inched closer, so close you can smell the cigarettes and cheap beer leaking from their clothes. The one closest to you narrowed his eyes at you “Jesus.” You stiffened, Murphy attending your side, eyes locked on all three men. He pointed at your face, “What the hell got ahold of you?” 

Instinctively, your hand traced your cheek. The bruises had faded from the angry fist print to a bruise beginning to form. Your left cheek was already swollen, you can feel heat radiating on the side. The question alone made your stomach turn, not because of them asking but from how interested they seemed.

You dropped your hand, “Mind your fuckin’ business.” The first man held up his hands. “Sorry lady, just askin’” you cross your arms, leaning on your car. “Then stop.”

For a split second you recognized his facial expression, you learned it long ago, the kind when a man wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted. “Feisty bitch.” he muttered. Another one laughed, “maybe thats how she got the black eye.”

Murphy jumped up from sitting onto all four paws, a low growl penetrated from his chest. The men all shifted their gaze to him “Aw thats cute” and the three men laughed, “Damn dog thinks its so scary.”

You shift your weight in your heels, “I would be careful y’know.” Your grip on the gas handle gets tighter and tighter. “My dog bites.” You said evenly, trying to be unaffected.  Murph’s ears go flat, another deeper, more threatening growl rumbled. The tallest man took a step towards the car, immediately Murphy lunged at him, he would have bit the poor man if he wasn't so glued to your hip. Dog would never leave your side. “Jesus Christ” all three men take a few steps back.

"Yeah," you said dryly. “I told you he bites.” The tallest man, who had previously tried to take a step towards you twitched his head, “you mouthy fuckin’ female.” your stomach twisted, you hated that sentence, that tone, the cocky-ness. All of it just reminded you of the horror movie you just ran from. “Why are you alone anyways? Pretty thing like you, with nobody to watch you.” he licks his lips. As if being alone pumping gas was some kind of invitation.

You looked away to the gas pump, focusing solely on the numbers climbing up. Almost done, almost at a full tank. Then you can get the hell out of here. 

“She’s not alone.” the voice came from somewhere beside you, all three of those men turned around, facing the accusation.You looked between the gas pump and the trio to see the black car you’d taken note of earlier. Two men were standing outside of it now.

One was tall, really freakishly tall, shaggy flat hair that pressed down to his brow. He held a bottle of water in one hand and was staring daggers through each of the men in front of you, thoroughly unimpressed.

The other one, leaning so casually against the drivers side door, blondish hair and green eyes sporting a leather jacket. He was relaxed, like he couldn’t care less about this situation at all.

“Murphy, get.” 

You swing the driver's side door open, and Murphy immediately obeyed, assuming his position in the front seat. The second he was settled, the dog planted himself behind the wheel, ears pinned and teeth bared through the window. The tallest man scoffed, finally taking a step back from your car. His attention shifted past you and toward the two strangers standing near the black impala. “And who the hell are you?” he asked.

“Sam.” the taller one answered, so matter of fact, so simple. 

The men looked between themselves, “yeah, and what about you?” chin gesturing to the driver.

“Dean.” The driver said, smiling. 

Something about the way he said it made it sound like you were supposed to know him instead of complete strangers standing in a gas station parking lot.. Judging by the confused look on the other man's face, y'all were total strangers. Dean whistled dramatically, “Yeesh, alright i think it's pretty obvious our friend here wants nothin’ to with y’all. Now go.”

His green eyes flickered towards you for a second, just long enough for your spine to be on fire. He looked back at the trio. 

He saw it, the bruises. The bright lights above the gas pumps were definitely not doing your face any favors.

“I think y'all should do everyone a favor and get back in your van.” He dipped his head and adjusted his stance on the car, standing up fully.

“Or what?”

Dean’s smile sharpened, not enough to be threatening but enough to make you think it wouldn’t be a hard switch to turn on. Dean tilted his head towards your car. Murphy immediately lets out a string of barks, deep and throaty. “Or he gets a chance to properly introduce himself.” Murphy punctuated that statement with a bark that echoed in the lot. The trio of men lingered before finally backing off, “Whatever” the tallest one muttered. Dean nodded,”good choice.”

The van doors slammed shut one after another, the engine roaring to life as the vehicle pulled out of the station. You didn't realize just how tense you had gotten until those particular taillights disappeared down the highway. The parking lot fell into silence again, Murphy let out a grumble as he made himself comfortable in the passenger seat. 

“Y’know that dog thinks he just saved your life.” Dean chuckled. You spin towards him. Dean had moved closer to you, sliding his hands into his leather jacket. Somehow relaxed, not a single indicator of being fresh out of a confrontation. “He did save my life,” you smile. Dean just raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips together. “No, I'm pretty sure all he did was yell.”

“Suprised a man like you doesn't know intimidation is a skill.” Your head sits cocked to the side.  The gas pump clicked, signaling your tank was finally full. A filthy grin spread on his face, “Trust me, sweetheart, I know.” Sam groaned from across the car, rolling his eyes “Here we go.”

You couldn't help the laugh that slipped but looking down at the total of your gas bill you winced, forty-two dollars. Bye-Bye the rest of your gas budget. With a sigh, you face back to Dean and Sam. “Are you really driving all the way to Chicago?” Dean asked, watching you. Eyebrows raised “How’d you know that?” 

“Cashier talks.” 

You groaned, “Yeah, of course he does.” Dean grins even wider, "that's one hell of a drive,” he walks his way around to you, closing the distance between yall, “You're not driving alone, are you?” You nodded. His expression changed for a slight moment, a short flash of concern. But replaced quickly just as soon as it appeared. “That’s one hell of a drive.” Sam shifted his weight and offered a small smile, first time the kid looked at you in the eyes, “yeah, tell me about it.” Sam gestured towards Murphy. “Well uh, least you got him.” 

You shook your head.”Yeah” you said smiling looking over your shoulder at your boy. “Hes not exactly incognito.” Dean laughed and flashed his teeth. You could tell what kind of man he was, a charmer. A man used to getting everything he wants handed to him. Something about these boys seemed dangerous. 

As you tossed your map onto the dash, you noticed out of the corner of your eye the men standing up straight. Sam’s phone was ringing. Sam glanced at the small screen before passing a look to Dean.

Someone serious must have called. Dean sighed, “Damn it,” Neither one of the two looked amused. Whatever they had going on clearly wasn’t something they shared with strangers, so when you looked back, Dean was already climbing into the drivers side but he paused. “Well, Chicago.” You frowned. “My name isn’t Chicago.” Dean just smirked. “I think it suits you.”

Before you could stand any sort of protest, he slipped into the car. Seconds later the car's engine screamed alive, Sam gave you a small wave and a smile before climbing into the passenger seat before peeling out of the station and disappearing onto the highway. 

Only when the headlights became faint little twinkles did you climb into your Accord. Murphy immediately shoved his head onto the arm rest. You gave him a big pat on the butt and started your engine. You looked toward the empty highway.

As you drive, you relax. The pain of your cheek and eye throbbed. The warmth of the bruise stretching across your face. 

Thats all you could feel as you passed through the deserted highway. You adjusted your grip on the wheel. Just twenty-four hours ago, you were in your apartment. You were coming home from work. Murphy was waiting by the door. You knew every pothole, every streetlight, every short cut. Now, that was all in your rearview mirror.

Just keep driving.

The words repeated in your brain like a prayer.

Just keep driving. 

You had your plan: Chicago, apartment, fresh start. That was all you needed. A city where nobody knew you. An apartment where nobody could hurt you. A life without living on egg-shells. The bruise on your face throbbed. The bruises hidden beneath your clothes hurt worse. 

You swallowed hard. 

No. You couldn't do this. 

The second your mind drifts back to him, back to your ex, you immediately try to show those thoughts away. You weren’ t doing this tonight, especially when you're driving at 85 miles per hour on the darkest stretch of highway. You’d spent enough nights crying over him. Enough nights curled up in bed wondering why everything hurt so much. Enough nights staring at the ceiling trying to convince yourself that he really didn’t mean to hit you, that he does love you, and somehow he would be different tomorrow.  

Just keep driving. 

Everything hurts. Your back hurts, your neck hurts, and your wallet definitely hurts. Two days after you left Texas, you were beginning to understand the deep hatred people have for road trips.And if you had to eat one more gas station hot dog, you were fairly certain it would send you into the ER. 

Above you the motel sign flickered overhead as you pulled into the parking lot. 

VACANCY!

One of the letters buzzed more aggressively than the others, threatening to give up at any moment. The perfect establishment a woman traveling alone should be staying in! “Oh, don't look at me like that,” Murphy glanced up from the passenger seat.”You don't get an opinion. You didn't have to spend forty-three dollars on gas today.” His tail thumped against the seat.

The motel itself wasn’t better than the sign. A long row of identical doors stretched across the building, each one painted a faded shade of blue. The parking lot was half empty, illuminated by the buzzing yellow lights. This whole place looked sick but still, a bed and shower. Standards were rock bottom. 

Twenty minutes later, your standing inside room fourteen. Murphy immediately claiming the bed nearest the window, the entire bed. The oversized shepherd mix spun in three circles before going onto his back. “Thats my bed.” Murphy stops, turning over to look at you, tail wagging. “Move” you pointed towards the second bed, “That one is literally empty.” Murphy just rested his head on his paws. Conversation over.

Somehow the motel room looked exactly how you;d expected, the floral comforters, questionable artwork, a television that only works on two of the channels. Home sweet home.

After grabbing some clothes and dog food from the car, you were finally able to shower. The motel bathroom wasnt much to look at, cracked tiles and a mirror with a weird ring of brown around it. For twenty glorious minutes, you stood beneath the steaming water and let it wash away two days worth of road grime, sweat and exhaustion.

Your eyes drifted toward the mirror.

The bruising on your cheek had started to fade-ish. Yellow, purple, and green stretched across the left side of your face like someone had taken a paintbrush to your skin. The swelling had gone down some, but it was still there. Still visible, still a reminder. 

You looked away, putting your oversized hoodie and sleep shorts before stepping back into the motel room. Murphy was already waiting by the door. The second he saw you his tail was thumping against the carpet. You huffed, “Fine.”

Ten minutes go by and you found yourself wandering across the motel parking lot while Murphy sniffed every square inch of grass he could find.

The motel wasn't exactly bustling with energy, a few scattered cars, a flickering neon sign and the sounds of a television from someone's window. You shoved your hands deeper into your hoodie pocket, then froze.

A black car sat parked three doors down. You stared at it. The longer you looked at it the more familiar it felt. Black paint, chrome and a long body. 

“What the hell?” Murphy lifted his head while you stood and stared at the car ,then the motel, then the car again. "Looks familiar don'it?"

Now she understood something important.

Being a mother wasn't the end of her story.

It was one chapter.

A beloved chapter.

But not the last one.

The knowledge settled deep inside her and transformed something fundamental. She no longer felt caught between gratitude and longing. She could love her life exactly as it was and still wonder what came next.

The two things weren't opposites.

They were companions.

As a result, she began to glow again.

Beau noticed first.

One morning she caught him watching her across the kitchen while she packed Eliza's lunch and bounced Ella on her hip simultaneously. The look on his face was warm and knowing.

"What?" she asked.

His smile widened. "Nothin'."

She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."

"I just like seein' you smile again, darlin'."

The simple honesty of it made her laugh.

And she was smiling more these days.

Not because life had suddenly become easier.

God knew it hadn't.

Life with a kindergartener, a toddler, and a seven-month-old baby could hardly be described as peaceful.

Eliza remained a force of nature.

Every afternoon brought new reports from kindergarten, elaborate wolf-and-duck diplomatic incidents, and increasingly complicated imaginary adventures that somehow required the participation of every family member. Beau had recently been appointed Wolf General. Emily had been named Ambassador to the Ducks. Caleb had been promoted to "Tiny Chaos Monster," though Eliza insisted that was a respected title.

Caleb, for his part, seemed determined to experience every moment of existence at maximum speed.

The boy ran instead of walked. Climbed instead of sat. Explored instead of rested. He approached life with the absolute confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of consequences.

Y/N spent a shocking amount of her day preventing him from launching himself off furniture.

Then there was Ella.

Sweet, observant, increasingly mobile Ella.

The baby who had once remained happily wherever she was placed had developed opinions.

Strong opinions.

She wanted to be where the people were.

Wanted to watch her siblings.

Wanted to investigate absolutely everything.

She wasn't quite crawling yet, but she was trying with impressive determination, which meant Y/N spent much of her time discovering that Ella had somehow migrated across rooms through sheer stubbornness.

Thankfully, she wasn't alone.

Emily remained a blessing.

Between college classes and her growing relationship with Peter, she still found time to help whenever she could. She picked up Caleb from daycare on days Beau ran late. She entertained Eliza with movie discussions that inevitably devolved into wolf politics. She cuddled Ella while Y/N showered or folded laundry or simply sat down for ten uninterrupted minutes.

Watching Emily with her younger siblings filled Y/N with quiet affection.

The young woman was thriving.

College suited her. Peter suited her. Confidence suited her.

And she carried all of it with a grace that made Y/N proud.

Then there was Beau.

Always Beau.

The steady center of everything.

The sheriff's department kept him busy. There were storms and budgets and mayors and emergencies. There were long days and occasional late nights and enough paperwork to make any reasonable man question his life choices.

Yet somehow he still came home and immediately threw himself into family life.

He helped with homework.

Read bedtime stories.

Built blanket forts.

Changed diapers.

Made dinner when Y/N was exhausted.

Loved all of them with a wholehearted devotion that never seemed performative or forced.

One evening, Y/N stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and simply watched.

Beau sat on the floor with Caleb climbing over him like a mountain. Eliza was explaining some critical wolf legislation. Emily was laughing at something Peter had texted her. Ella sat in Beau's lap, fascinated by his watch.

The room glowed with lamplight and laughter.

It wasn't perfect.

There were toys everywhere.

Someone had spilled juice.

The dishwasher needed unloading.

But standing there, Y/N felt something settle peacefully inside her.

The future no longer frightened her.

Work.

School.

Something entirely different.

Whatever came next would come.

And when it did, she wouldn't face it alone.

Because that was the true gift Beau had given her.

Not permission.

Freedom.

The freedom to imagine a future while knowing she already had a home.

Eight months brought changes to Ella almost weekly.

Not dramatic changes. Not the sort that announced themselves with fanfare.

Instead, Beau and Y/N kept finding themselves stopping mid-conversation and saying, "When did she start doing that?"

At eight months old, Ella had become mobile—or at least determinedly mobile.

She wasn't quite crawling properly yet, but she had mastered a highly effective combination of scooting, rolling, and dragging herself forward that allowed her to appear in places no one expected. She could sit independently now, reaching for toys without toppling over, and she had developed a fascination with dropping things from her highchair solely to observe whether adults would retrieve them.

The answer, unfortunately, was yes.

Every time.

Her babbling had become more elaborate too.

"Mama."

"Dada."

"Baba."

Whether she understood the words was debatable.

Whether she enjoyed the reaction they produced was not.

This morning she sat proudly in her highchair wearing approximately half her breakfast.

The other half was distributed across her tray, bib, cheeks, hair, and somehow one eyebrow.

Ella seemed pleased with this arrangement.

Across the table, Emily was eating toast while simultaneously helping Y/N manage the morning chaos.

Eliza was explaining why wolves absolutely required library cards.

And from upstairs came Beau's voice. "Buddy!"

Y/N closed her eyes briefly.

"What happened?" she called.

"Your son committed a crime."

"Our son."

There was a pause.

"Our son committed a crime."

Emily laughed into her coffee.

A moment later Beau appeared at the top of the stairs holding a juice-stained shirt.

Apparently Caleb had decided that drinking juice was less entertaining than launching it directly onto his father.

Beau disappeared again to change.

Meanwhile, Y/N wiped applesauce off Ella's chin.

Ella immediately smeared more onto her own face.

"Helpful," Y/N murmured.

Ella grinned.

The baby had recently discovered that smiling could get her out of almost anything.

It was proving alarmingly effective.

Emily reached over to rescue a banana slice before it hit the floor. "She's getting sneakier."

"She's learning from Eliza," Y/N said.

"I heard that!" Eliza announced.

"Good."

Eliza nodded, satisfied.

Y/N laughed softly and turned back to Ella, who was now enthusiastically squishing scrambled eggs between her fingers.

Then a thought struck her. Not sudden exactly. More like a seed finally breaking the surface. She looked over at Emily. "Hey."

Emily glanced up. "Yeah?"

Y/N hesitated for just a second. Then asked, "Could you get me a copy of the college catalog?"

Emily blinked. "The catalog?"

"Yeah."

Y/N reached for a napkin, wiping Ella's hands before the baby could decorate herself further. "I thought maybe I'd like to look through it. See what classes they offer."

Silence fell for a heartbeat.

Not uncomfortable.

Just surprised.

Emily lowered her toast. "You mean... for you?"

A faint smile tugged at Y/N's lips. "Maybe."

The answer was simple, but it sent a spark through the room.

Emily's eyes widened. Then slowly, beautifully, she smiled. The kind of smile that came from witnessing someone open a door they hadn't realized was still there.

"Yeah," Emily said warmly. "I can do that."

Across the room, Eliza looked up. "Is Mama going to kindergarten too?"

Y/N laughed. "Something like that."

At that exact moment, Beau returned in a fresh shirt, Caleb on his hip. "What'd I miss?"

Emily looked positively delighted. "Mom might be thinking about college."

Beau stopped.

Then smiled.

A slow, proud smile.

The kind Y/N had come to recognize.

The kind that said there she is.

And for the first time in a long time, thinking about the future felt exciting.

Lunch was quieter than breakfast.

Not silent—there was still an eight-month-old involved—but quieter.

The house had settled into its midday rhythm. Eliza was at kindergarten, undoubtedly negotiating treaties and organizing wolf affairs. Caleb was spending his half-day at daycare, likely charming teachers while simultaneously testing every boundary available to him.

For the first time all morning, the house belonged mostly to Y/N and Ella.

Ella sat on the living room floor surrounded by toys, happily entertaining herself by repeatedly dropping a stacking ring and then looking offended that gravity continued to exist.

Y/N had just settled onto the couch with a sandwich when the front door opened.

Emily stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Y/N replied.

Emily grinned and held up a thick book. The college catalog. "I come bearing knowledge."

Y/N laughed. "That was fast."

"I had an hour between classes."

Emily kicked off her boots and crossed the room before dropping onto the couch beside her.

The catalog landed heavily in Y/N's lap. For a moment, neither of them opened it. The weight of it felt oddly significant. Not because it was a catalog. Because of what it represented. Possibility.

Emily glanced over. "So."

Y/N looked up. "So?"

"What are you thinking of studying?"

Y/N laughed softly. "That's the problem. I have absolutely no idea."

Emily smiled. "That's fair."

She reached over and opened the catalog between them. Page after page of possibilities greeted them.

Business.

Education.

Communications.

Psychology.

Accounting.

History.

English.

Criminal Justice.

Social Work.

Healthcare.

Art.

Y/N stared. The sheer number of options was overwhelming.

"How does anyone pick?" she asked.

Emily laughed. "They panic first."

"Good. Glad to know that's normal."

"It is."

Ella chose that moment to successfully move herself three feet across the floor through determination alone.

Both women stared.

"Was she over there?" Emily asked.

"I thought she was."

Ella looked delighted with herself.

Y/N shook her head and got up to retrieve her before she reached the coffee table.

When she sat back down, Emily was still flipping through the catalog.

"You know," Emily said thoughtfully, "you're really good with people."

Y/N adjusted Ella on her lap. "So are a lot of people."

"Yeah, but you genuinely like helping them."

The observation made Y/N pause. She thought about the years before Beau. The jobs she'd held. The people she'd met.

The satisfaction she'd always found in helping someone solve a problem. "I don't know," she admitted.

Emily nudged the catalog toward her. "You don't have to know today."

Y/N looked down at the pages. That was true. Nobody was demanding a decision. Not Beau. Not Emily. Not herself. This wasn't about having answers. It was about allowing herself to ask questions.

Her finger traced over a few program descriptions. She paused over one. Then another. Emily watched quietly, wisely resisting the urge to push.

Outside, snow drifted lazily past the windows.

Inside, Ella babbled happily from Y/N's lap. And for the first time, Y/N wasn't looking at a future she feared. She was looking at one she might actually get to choose.

The front door opened a little after five-thirty.

Immediately, Beau knew two things.

First, he was home.

Second, absolute chaos was underway.

"Caleb, we do not climb the furniture!"

That was Y/N.

"Ducks don't follow rules!"

That was Eliza.

A crash followed.

Then Emily's voice. "Nobody move. I think we're still okay."

Beau grinned before he even got his jacket off.

The Arlen household.

Never boring.

He stepped into the living room to find Caleb halfway up the couch cushions, Eliza sprawled on the floor conducting what appeared to be an emergency wolf council, and Emily attempting to save a tower of blocks from imminent destruction.

The only calm person in the room was Ella.

And that was because she was sitting in the middle of the carpet happily chewing on a toy giraffe.

"Daddy!"

Eliza launched herself at him.

Beau caught her automatically. "Status report."

"The ducks are causing problems."

"Again?"

"They never learn."

"Understandable."

Caleb immediately abandoned his climbing expedition and attached himself to Beau's leg. "Da!"

"Hey there, tornado."

Y/N emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of vegetables and a look that said she had survived another day.

Barely.

Beau crossed the room and kissed her. "How was your day?"

"Productive."

"That sounds suspicious."

"It probably is."

He laughed. Then his eyes landed on the coffee table. A thick book sat there. His gaze narrowed. Recognition dawned.

And suddenly his entire face lit up. "The catalog."

Y/N smiled despite herself. "The catalog."

Beau carefully extracted himself from Eliza and Caleb and picked up the book. The excitement that crossed his face was immediate and genuine. Not polite support. Not forced enthusiasm. Actual excitement.

He flipped it over in his hands. "You got it."

Emily looked up from where she was helping Ella investigate a stuffed rabbit. "I brought it home after class."

Beau sat down on the couch, catalog in hand, looking absurdly pleased. "Have you found anything interesting?"

Y/N laughed softly. "I've barely started."

"That's okay."

He patted the couch beside him.

"Come here."

She rolled her eyes but sat anyway.

Beau wrapped an arm around her shoulders and opened the catalog between them.

Eliza immediately climbed onto the opposite side. "What're we reading?"

"College classes."

Eliza gasped.

"Mama's going to kindergarten."

Emily burst out laughing. "Basically."

Beau's shoulders shook with amusement.

Y/N covered her face. "Oh Lord."

"I think Mama should take wolf classes," Eliza informed them.

"Do they offer those?" Beau asked solemnly.

"Probably."

The conversation dissolved from there.

Eliza insisted on reviewing the catalog despite being unable to read most of it.

Caleb attempted to turn pages at random.

Ella eventually managed to grab one corner and tried to eat higher education.

Through it all, Beau remained impossibly enthusiastic.

Every few minutes he'd point something out.

"What's this one?"

"That sounds interestin'."

"Didn't you always like that kinda thing?"

There was no pressure behind it.

Just curiosity.

Support.

Excitement at seeing Y/N excited.

At one point she caught him watching her instead of the catalog. "What?"

His smile softened. "Nothin'."

She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."

His hand found hers beneath the catalog. "I just like seein' you dream again, darlin'."

The words hit her harder than they should have.

Around them, the children continued their usual brand of cheerful mayhem.

Emily laughed at something Eliza said.

Caleb climbed into Beau's lap.

Ella squealed triumphantly after successfully stealing a page corner.

The house was loud.

Crowded.

Alive.

And sitting there in the middle of it all, surrounded by the family she'd built and the future she was beginning to imagine, Y/N found herself smiling.

Not because she had a plan.

Not because she had answers.

But because she finally believed she was allowed to have both a present she loved and a future she could still shape.

And judging by the look on Beau's face, her husband was ready to cheer her on every step of the way.

The house settled slowly that night.

Eliza required one final discussion about wolf patrol routes before agreeing to sleep. Caleb fought bedtime with the determined stubbornness of a child convinced he was missing something important. Ella, exhausted from a day of scooting across floors and terrorizing educational materials, finally surrendered after a bottle and a lengthy cuddle.

By the time the last bedroom door clicked shut, silence felt almost startling.

Not complete silence.

The familiar kind.

The hum of the refrigerator. The distant rush of the heater. The small sounds of a house breathing around them.

Beau found Y/N in the living room.

The college catalog still rested on the coffee table, now adorned with a few bent page corners courtesy of Ella and several sticky notes courtesy of Eliza, who had apparently marked programs she believed involved wolves.

Beau smiled when he saw it.

He sat beside Y/N on the couch and immediately reached for her, pulling her into his side until she fit comfortably against him. His arm settled around her shoulders, his hand rubbing absent circles along her arm.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The catalog sat open on her lap.

Pages dog-eared.

Possibilities highlighted.

Dreams still unnamed.

Eventually Beau tilted his head toward it. "So."

Y/N smiled. "So."

He chuckled. "You got any idea what you wanna do?"

She looked down at the pages.

There were so many options.

So many lives she could imagine herself living. "I don't know yet."

The answer surprised her with how much peace it contained.

A few weeks ago that uncertainty would have frightened her.

Now it felt exciting.

"I really don't know," she admitted. "Part of me thinks about going back to work. Part of me wonders about school. Sometimes I look at these programs and think, maybe. Then I turn the page and think maybe something else."

Beau listened quietly. No judgment. No expectations. Just listening.

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder. "I know that probably sounds ridiculous."

"It sounds normal."

She laughed softly. "I just..." She searched for the right words. "I feel excited."

The confession made her smile. Because it was true. Not anxious. Not trapped.

Excited.

The future no longer felt like something happening to her. It felt like something she could help shape. Beau's entire face softened. God, he loved hearing that.

He bent his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I'm happy for you, darlin'."

The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like a blanket. "I mean it," he continued. "You spent years puttin' everybody else first. If you're excited about somethin', I wanna hear about it."

Y/N looked up at him. "Even if I don't know what it is yet?"

He laughed. "Especially then."

His hand found hers, threading their fingers together. "You know what I see?"

She shook her head. "What?"

"I see a woman who finally realized she's allowed to dream again."

The words hit harder than he intended.

Her throat tightened.

Because that was exactly it.

Not that she hadn't been happy.

She had.

Not that she regretted a single choice.

She didn't.

But somewhere between pregnancies and diapers and school pickups and sleepless nights, she'd quietly stopped imagining anything beyond the next day.

Now she was imagining again.

And Beau looked positively delighted by it.

"I love you," she whispered.

His smile deepened. "I know."

She rolled her eyes. "That wasn't an invitation to quote Star Wars."

"It wasn't?"

"No."

"Missed opportunity."

Y/N laughed despite herself.

Beau grinned and pulled her closer until she was practically curled against him. "Whatever you decide," he murmured, kissing her temple, "we'll figure it out."

We.

Not you.

Not me.

We.

The word settled warmly between them.

Y/N closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat.

The catalog remained open.

The future remained unwritten.

And for the first time in a very long time, that felt wonderful.

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Fingers tracing the stem of your wine glass, softly you accuse, “You kept me waiting.”

“Traffic.”

Interesting. The corner of your lips curls upward, but you keep the smile in check. Without hesitation or waiting for permission, he pulls out the chair opposite yours and sits.

Your father would have hated him immediately. You find yourself admiring his confidence.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.”

His lip twitches, but as you did, he restrains the gesture. “So is ‘business woman.’”

You softly laugh, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”

Steve leans back in his chair, seemingly relaxed, as if he's meeting an old friend, but the tension he carries is palpable. “You're the head of the biggest Mafia organization in modern history. I’d assume you’d want a reputation.”

“My father built the empire.” You pause and shrug. “I run it. Reputation follows.”

Steve’s expression shifts, not fear or surprise, more like acceptance. “I heard rumors.”

Now you smile. “So you came to see for yourself.”

Rich amber liquid lightly swirls as you push a glass toward him. He doesn’t immediately reach for it.

“Expecting poison?”

“No.” Eyes briefly flicking between you and the glass, he smoothly replies. “You wouldn't waste good whiskey.”

“True.” You take a sip of your own drink to hide your growing admiration. “So, Mr. Rogers-"

"Steve."

The slight arch of your brow is the only indication of your surprise. "Steve. Why are you here?”

If you were anyone else, his steady gaze would be disconcerting. Instead, you hold that contact as you lean back in your chair.

“Needed to see for myself if the stories were true.”

“What stories?”

He takes his time to respond, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. The action makes the room feel smaller, more intimate.

“About your intelligence.”

"Exaggerated, I'm sure,” you deadpan, knowing full well they are not.

“Your ruthlessness.”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Your beauty.”

The word lands softly, effortlessly, as if he isn't currently sitting in the lion's den while complimenting the lioness.

Rain patters against the window, refracting light from the city below into a glittery haze. The gentle sound fills the momentary weighted silence.

Crossing your arms, you lean forward to rest them on the table. “You flirt with all the crime bosses?”

Steve flashes a devastatingly handsome smile. “Just the beautiful ones.”

It appears to please him when you laugh at his reply. “Careful, Rogers…Steve,” you correct when he raises a brow, “my father used to feed men to the sharks for less.”

“Good thing you’re not your father.”

You will never admit it aloud, but you are entertained by the man. No one seems to understand, except, apparently, the super soldier who's quietly challenging you. Your father ruled through fear. You rule through loyalty. Your father demanded respect. You earn it. Steve neither fears you nor is loyal to you, yet despite going against all he believes in, he respects you.

Standing, you take another sip of wine before moving toward the window. The city, your city, sprawls below your feet. A kingdom built on secrets—a throne made of whispered threats, owed favors, and corrupt deals.

Steve joins you. Not close enough to touch, but near enough to matter.

“You know,” you quietly say, “most people prefer to actively avoid being in debt to me.”

Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. The movement is quick, barely noticeable yet impossible to miss. “I think I’ll survive,” he states, “besides, I know you're intrigued.”

“Having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”

Though he outwardly remains stoic, you know he's smart enough to know the consequences of what his request means for him and his teammates. Still, he doesn't hesitate. “We just need a place to lay low.”

“Half the planet is out looking for you. It won’t be easy…or cheap.”

“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”

You give him a calculated, flirty smile. “Alright, Steve, let’s discuss details over dinner.”

The charming smile you receive is slow but certain, making you wonder whether you're dealing with a future ally or a formidable opponent.

For the first time in a very long time, you're uncertain if the most powerful person in the room is actually you.

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And perhaps... some sad news.

I foresee an ending to Crossroads of the Heart. I do love writing CJ Braxton and his steady love for Y/N, with the chaos gremlin that is Gabby and her unusual love with Miles, but I feel the end has come for that storyline. I don't know when it'll end, only that it will. I promise it'll end well and happily though!

And I know I mentioned I'd be working on a novel! Well, it's definitely going to be worked on! I have a tentative title in place, and a general storyline already! 😄

General teaser of the novel, for those who wanted to know about it:

[Male main character/MMC] thought the best parts of his life were behind him.

[Female main character/FMC] spends every weekend singing at weddings and every Monday reminding herself not to believe in fairy tales.

When a mutual friend's wedding throws them together, neither expects more than a pleasant conversation. Instead, they find themselves drawn into an easy friendship built on sharp humor, honest conversations, and the kind of understanding that only comes along once in a lifetime.

As friendship slowly deepens into something more, [MMC] and [FMC] begin to wonder if maybe life isn't divided into winners and losers, first loves and lost chances.

Maybe there are second verses.

And maybe the most beautiful songs are the ones that continue after you thought they were over.

———

So yeah. I'm happily writing again. The FUBAR is, hopefully, seeing the end.

Oh, life will continue to, er, life—but that difficult situation? I got out. I'm safe. To borrow a phrase from a family member, I'm rebooting my life and it's getting better. Not great, but far better. I'm healthier. And outside of melting in the heat, the stress... is manageable. To the point where my muse is exploding with stories again.

So thank you all for being patient with the sudden silence, the lack of updates. I super appreciate it all. 💖

Sincerely, Taylor

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Please don’t.

Rain washes away more than blood.

A breeze slips across your skin, threading through your hair and lifting loose strands across your cheek. You don’t brush them away immediately. Your attention is on the woods beyond town limits. On the aerial photos you memorized. On the distances between body dumps.

The suit wasn’t your favorite attire, but it got people to talk to you. So did the fake IDs you kept in your car. Different departments with fake names, depending on who you had to pretend to be for the job.

You lean against the side of your car outside the station, hands shoved into the pockets of your suit pants. The fabric still feels wrong on you. Too stiff. Too restrictive. But badges and pressed jackets make people cooperative. 

Predators don’t stray far from what they know.

I need a map.

With a quiet huff, you push off the car and slide into the driver’s seat, keys in the ignition. Your fingers only paused when you saw the sleek black car park in front of you. It was beautiful, bringing a soft smile to your lips before you turned the key. 

He would have loved that.

You turned the key, the engine roared to life, and you pulled away, not looking back. 

Papers are scattered across the bed, the cheap floral comforter barely visible beneath them. A county map sits at the center, two red marks pressed hard into the paper where the bodies were found. Two more circles mark where the victims were last seen alive.

You’ve changed into jeans and a soft shirt. The blue flannel hangs open over it, sleeves pushed to your forearms. More you. More comfortable.

Your finger taps slowly against your chin as you stare down at the map.

There’s a pattern here. There has to be.

You lean closer, pupils narrowing slightly as your eyes track distance and terrain. Rivers. Logging roads. A stretch of private land that borders both dump sites. Your hearing fades out—the hum of the motel AC, the distant traffic, even the muted television next door.

When you focus, you focus.

You don’t hear the engine pull into the lot outside.

You don’t hear the doors open. Or the heavy footfalls crossing gravel toward the office.

Your attention is fixed on the space between your markings.

If there were a third body, you’d have your center point. Most werewolves hunt within a comfortable radius. They dump strategically—somewhere visible enough to instill fear, but not so close to home that it draws suspicion.

Your nail presses into the paper at the edge of the woods near Miller’s Creek.

You feel it before you fully think it.

There.

A subtle prickle along your spine. Instinct settling low in your stomach. Not danger exactly.

Just proximity.

Dean drops the duffel onto the small table without looking at it. The room smells like industrial cleaner and something fried three hours ago. Sam locks the door out of habit before tossing the room key beside the TV remote.

Dean jerks his chin toward the window. “You see that Charger?”

Sam doesn’t have to ask which one. “Midnight blue. Two spaces down.”

“Yeah.” Dean exhales through his nose. “Clean. Not local.”

“Could be passing through.”

“Maybe.”

Dean doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Hunters notice other hunters. It’s instinct. The car didn’t scream civilian. It sat too deliberately. Like it belonged anywhere.

Sam flips open the case file and spreads the photos across the table. “Two victims. Both missing their hearts. No defensive wounds worth mentioning. That’s efficient.”

They don’t hear the neighboring door click shut.

They don’t hear the Charger’s engine turn over, smooth and steady, before it pulls out of the lot.

Dean steps closer, hands braced on the table. He studies the photos without flinching. “Claw marks are wrong for a bear. Bite radius fits werewolf.”

“Lunar cycle doesn’t,” Sam counters.

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly. “Full moon is still a week away. One attack happened two nights ago, and the one before that was almost a week before.”

“Which means either we’re looking at something that isn’t a werewolf…”

“Or one that doesn’t play by the rules.”

Dean straightens, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. His mind wants to drift—just for a second—to Maria. To the way she used to stand right there beside him, leaning over case photos with her hair falling forward. She always spotted the thing they missed. Something small. Something weird.

He swallows the thought down.

Five years is long enough to stop expecting someone to answer when you speak.

“Both victims were last seen near the treeline off Miller’s Creek,” Sam continues. “Different nights. Same general area.”

“Hunting ground,” Dean mutters.

“But if it’s a werewolf, why dump the bodies where they’ll be found?” Sam asks. “Most try to hide it.”

Dean’s eyes flick over the map Sam unfolds. “Unless it wants to be seen.”

Sam glances up. “That’s not comforting.”

Dean huffs faintly. “Neither is a wolf that doesn’t care about the moon.”

Silence stretches for a moment. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.

Sam gathers the photos back into a stack. “We should talk to the families. And the last people who saw them alive. Maybe they noticed someone hanging around.”

Dean nods once. “Yeah. Let’s move before the rain hits.”

He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair. The Fish & Game badge is already clipped in place. Easy cover. Small town. People trust uniforms.

As they step toward the door, Dean pauses just long enough to glance toward the window again. The midnight blue Charger isn’t there, and he wonders how he missed it leaving.

For a split second, something tightens low in his gut. Not quite suspicion.

Just awareness.

He shakes it off.

“Let’s go,” he says.

The door opens and closes behind them.

They’re already walking toward the Impala, minds locked onto claw marks and missing hearts.

Neither of them realizes they’re hunting something that doesn’t need the moon.

And neither of them knows someone else is tracking the same trail.

The town thins out quickly. Storefronts give way to open stretches of road and low tree lines that creep closer the farther you drive. The sky hangs heavier now, clouds sagging low enough that it feels like you could reach up and press your palm against them.

You’re not going to the families.

Grief makes people loud. Defensive. Messy. And you don’t need messy.

You need patterns.

There’s a bar three miles from the treeline. Not close enough to raise suspicion. Close enough that people could wander. Hunters drink. Loggers drink. Locals who think they’re tougher than the woods drink.

Prey gathers where it feels safe, even if they don’t know they’re prey.

You slow at a stop sign halfway there.

Your foot presses the brake, but your mind doesn’t.

The world in front of you blurs—not visually, but mentally. The road becomes the map from your motel room. Red marks. Circles. Terrain lines bending around water and private land. Miller’s Creek cutting through like a vein.

Two bodies found here and here.

Last seen here and here.

Your fingers curl lightly against the steering wheel. Your pupils narrow, unfocused on the present. You can almost feel the distance between the points. The way a predator might move through that terrain. The wind direction. The slope of the ground.

It’s not random.

It’s controlled.

Your claws press faintly at your fingertips again, a low hum of awareness under your skin.

There’s a center point. There has to be.

Your head tilts slightly as you picture the bar’s location relative to the creek. Not directly on the path. But near enough to serve as a feeder line. A place to watch. To choose.

The thought is just beginning to lock into place when—

A horn blares behind you.

Sharp. Sudden.

Your focus snaps back so fast it almost hurts. The world rushes in—the dull gray sky, the red octagon of the stop sign, the empty road stretching ahead.

“Damn it,” you mutter under your breath.

You don’t check the rearview mirror. Don’t care enough to. Your foot shifts to the gas, and you turn right onto the next road, tires rolling smoothly over the damp pavement.

Your heart rate steadies quickly. It always does.

But the interruption lingers.

You were close.

Close enough that the pattern had started to breathe.

Rain spits once against the windshield. Then again.

You don’t look back.

You’re already thinking three moves ahead.

Sam glances out the window, quiet. “Should be up here,” he murmurs.

Dean narrows his eyes at the stop sign ahead. And at the car sitting there. Midnight blue. Not moving. No one else in sight. Just… stopped.

Dean taps the horn once. Short. Sharp.

The car doesn’t budge.

Dean huffs, finger still on the horn. “Come on… Really? Just sitting there? Enjoying the view, huh? Scenic stop sign tour?” He rolls his eyes and taps it again. “Tourist in a hurry to do absolutely nothing… I swear.”

Sam’s lips twitch, just a fraction. “Maybe they’re… looking at something?”

Dean waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Or they’re part of a roadside meditation program. Whatever. Move it.”

The Charger finally turns right, tires crunching over the edge of the asphalt. Dean exhales, muttering under his breath. “Figures.” He glances up at the stop sign. No other cars. No obstruction. Nothing. Just… patience, apparently not his strong suit today.

He pulls up to the stop sign, checks left and right, then lets the Impala roll forward, taking a left toward the victim’s family home.

Sam keeps his eyes on the GPS, making a note of the turn. “Road’s narrow,” he says.

Dean smirks faintly. “Perfect.”

Dean eases the Impala up the narrow gravel drive, eyes scanning the modest farmhouse tucked behind a thicket of trees. The front porch light casts a weak glow, barely illuminating the tidy yard. Sam flicks off the GPS and folds it into his bag, hands steady, expression unreadable.

Prologue ----- Chapter 2 - coming soon

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Sam immediately looked down at his plate to hide a smile.

Bobby ignored him.

“Food first,” he declared. “Apocalyptic soul-stealin' nightmare later.”

Natalie found herself smiling despite everything.

Bobby noticed and pointed at her next. “And you. Eat.”

“I am eating.”

“More.”

“Bobby—”

“More.”

Dean snorted into his beer.

Natalie shot him a look.

Traitor.

Bobby sat back, apparently satisfied that everyone had food in front of them, and for the first time all evening, the house settled into something almost normal.

Almost.

Conversation drifted in fits and starts. Sam made an observation about the water spirit. Bobby complained about hunters who never returned books where they found them. Dean argued that Bobby's filing system was incomprehensible.

Through it all, however, something had changed.

Something small.

Something private.

Natalie sat beside Dean, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed. The first touch was accidental. At least, it could have been. Her hand shifted near her plate and her knuckles brushed his.

Neither of them pulled away.

A few moments later, Dean's thumb grazed lightly against the back of her hand. Natalie's breath caught. No one noticed.

Well.

No one except Sam. Sam noticed everything. Across the table, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

A little while later, Natalie reached for her beer at the same time Dean reached for his. Their fingers touched. This time Dean let his hand linger. Just for a second. Just enough to make sure she felt it.

Natalie's lips curved faintly.

Bobby was in the middle of complaining about rust demons—"which ain't a thing but probably should be"—when Dean's hand found hers again beneath the table.

Not holding. Not yet. Just resting close enough that his thumb could stroke lightly over her knuckles. The gesture was so small. So simple.

And somehow it felt more intimate than the kiss.

Because this was Dean. Dean, who rarely slowed down. Dean, who carried affection in actions more than words. Dean, who kept finding reasons to touch her simply because he could.

Natalie looked down at her plate to hide her smile.

Across from them, Sam saw it anyway. He glanced between the two of them. The subtle touches. The quiet happiness. The way Dean looked lighter than he had in years.

Sam smiled to himself and returned to his dinner.

At the head of the table, Bobby continued grumbling about food, hunters, and the state of the world. But beneath all that gruff irritation was relief.

For tonight, at least, everyone was home. Everyone was alive. And for the first time in a very long time, the house felt full again.

Bobby sighed. The kind of sigh that suggested he had personally suffered on behalf of every stubborn person in the room. His eyes drifted to Natalie's plate.

Natalie immediately caught him looking. And gave him a look. It was a very specific look. I am eating. Back off, old man.

Bobby's mouth twitched.

Dean saw the exchange and barked out a laugh.

Natalie shot him a betrayed glance.

Dean bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.

"I ate," she insisted.

Bobby grumped under his breath, eyeing the admittedly diminished contents of her plate.

Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "Fine."

"Thank you."

"Don't get used to it."

Natalie rolled her eyes.

The moment settled something in the room. A little of the tension leaked away. The familiarity of it—the banter, the grumbling, Bobby monitoring everyone's food intake whether they liked it or not—felt strangely comforting after everything that had been revealed.

For a few moments, they simply ate.

Then Bobby set down his fork. The room quieted. He looked at Natalie. This time there was no irritation in his gaze. Just concern. "Tell us about the Master."

Natalie's smile faded.

Dean immediately felt her tense beside him. Without thinking, his hand brushed hers beneath the table. A silent reassurance.

She glanced at him briefly. Then took a breath. "I'm not sure how much of what it told me was true."

Sam leaned forward slightly. "Tell us anyway."

Natalie nodded. "It doesn't think the way we do." That was how she began.

The room went still.

"When I talked to it..." She paused, searching for words. "I got the impression that Heaven and Hell weren't enemies to it."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it wasn't aligned with either side."

Bobby's expression darkened.

Natalie stared down at her beer bottle. "It spoke about both of them like they were neighboring countries."

The statement landed heavily.

Sam's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "It exists outside the system."

Natalie nodded. "As far as I could tell." She rubbed her thumb against the glass. "Outside Heaven. Outside Hell. Outside the usual universe entirely, maybe."

Dean's stomach tightened. The way she said it sounded less like theory and more like experience.

"It described Heaven and Hell as..." She hesitated. "Structures."

Bobby looked disgusted by the implication.

"Structures built around rules."

"And this thing isn't bound by those rules?" Sam asked.

"No." Natalie swallowed. "It lives in the spaces between them."

The room fell silent.

Dean remembered the scar. Remembered her saying it could have killed her. Remembered the fear in her voice when she'd admitted she wasn't strong enough. "What does it want?" he asked quietly.

Natalie looked at him.

For a moment, Dean saw the memory of Nova Scotia flash across her face.

Then she answered. "Power." A pause. "But not the way demons want power."

Sam frowned. "Then what kind?"

Natalie's gaze drifted toward the dark window over the sink. "The kind that comes from controlling what everyone else ignores."

Nobody spoke.

She continued softly. "The lost." Another pause. "The forgotten." Her voice dropped lower. "The souls that slip through the cracks."

The room grew very quiet indeed. Because every hunter at that table knew one terrible truth: There were always cracks.

The silence lingered after her last words. Dean could feel everyone thinking. Turning over possibilities. Trying to understand something that sat completely outside the lore they knew.

Natalie stared at the label on her beer bottle for a moment before speaking again. "The Master called them border souls."

Sam's attention sharpened immediately. "Border souls?"

Natalie nodded. "Souls caught between destinations."

Dean frowned. "I thought when people die, they either go to Heaven, Hell, become ghosts, or move on."

"So did I," Natalie replied.

The answer was quiet. Too quiet.

Bobby's jaw tightened. "What'd Missouri tell you?"

Natalie looked up. The question seemed to pull her backward through time. "When I finally got her to talk..." she said softly, "she told me my father wasn't at peace."

The room went still. Dean remembered her saying as much earlier. But hearing it again somehow landed harder.

"She said Leandro hadn't crossed cleanly." Natalie swallowed. "That he wasn't suffering."

A flicker of relief crossed Bobby's face. Then vanished.

"But he wasn't free either."

The relief died completely.

Dean watched Bobby's expression close.

Natalie continued. "Missouri said that when my father died, he wasn't killed by the master."

"He was killed by the monster," Sam said, recalling the story.

Natalie nodded. "That's when she started talking about border souls." Her fingers tightened around the bottle. "She said sometimes a death creates... interference."

Dean frowned. "Interference how?"

"I don't know." The admission frustrated her. "I kept asking. She kept refusing to explain." A sad smile touched her lips. "She spent half the conversation trying to convince me to leave it alone."

Bobby snorted. "Smart woman."

Natalie shot him a look.

Dean almost smiled. Almost. Because he already knew where this was going.

"She told me my father was one of them." The room quieted again. "A border soul." Natalie's voice softened. "Not in Heaven." A pause. "Not in Hell." Another. "Just... trapped."

Dean felt her pain then. Not the physical kind. The grief. The years of it. Because until that moment, Leandro had been dead. Gone. Mourned. Now he occupied a far crueler place. Not gone. Waiting.

Lost.

"And Missouri knew?" Sam asked.

Natalie nodded. "I think she knew more than she ever told me."

"Probably." Bobby's voice was rough.

Natalie looked toward him. "I think she was trying to protect me."

"She was." The certainty in Bobby's answer surprised everyone. He stared into his beer. "Missouri wasn't the kind to hide things unless there was a reason."

Dean watched him closely. Bobby looked older suddenly. Tired. Like he was remembering old conversations he'd hoped would stay buried.

Natalie noticed it too. "You knew something."

It wasn't an accusation. Just a realization.

Bobby was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "I knew there were questions."

Dean immediately looked at him. "Bobby—"

"I never had answers." His voice carried genuine frustration. "I knew the hunt didn't sit right. Knew things about it never lined up." He rubbed a hand over his face. "But not enough to go chasin' ghosts."

Natalie looked down. "Well." Her laugh was small and humorless. "I did."

Nobody argued with that. Because the scar on her stomach was proof enough. Dean's hand found hers beneath the table again. This time he didn't bother pretending it was accidental.

Natalie looked over. His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand. A simple gesture. But the message was clear: You're not carrying this alone anymore.

For the first time since she'd started talking, some of the tension left her shoulders. And Bobby noticed. Of course he did. He watched them for a second. Then looked away.

Not because he disapproved. Quite the opposite. Because after everything Natalie had just told them, Bobby found himself grateful that when she finally decided to stop carrying the burden alone: Dean Winchester had been waiting to catch it with her.

Dean sat with his beer untouched, Natalie's hand still beneath his, his thumb occasionally brushing across her knuckles as the conversation settled into an uneasy silence.

The house seemed smaller somehow.

Maybe because the thing they were discussing wasn't a ghost. Wasn't a vampire nest. Wasn't even a demon.

It was something that existed beyond the categories that had shaped Dean's entire life.

The old clock on Bobby's wall ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, the South Dakota wind rattled loose sheet metal in the junkyard.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. "How do we kill it?"

The question landed with the weight of a dropped stone. Natalie closed her eyes briefly. Sam looked thoughtful. Bobby immediately looked irritated.

"That's your first question?" Bobby demanded.

Dean turned toward him. "It nearly killed her."

"That wasn't my question."

"It is now."

Bobby pushed his chair back slightly, the wood scraping against the floor. "You don't even know if it can be killed."

Dean's jaw tightened. "Everything can be killed."

Natalie made a small sound under her breath.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean—"

"No," Dean said, leaning forward. "We're talking about a thing that's collecting souls and using monsters as tools. So yeah. I want to know how we put it in the ground."

Bobby barked out a humorless laugh. "And then what?"

Dean frowned. "What do you mean, then what?"

"What happens to all those souls if this thing is holdin' them together?" Bobby shot back. "What happens if it's part of the structure?"

The room fell quiet again. That possibility hadn't occurred to Dean. It clearly had occurred to Bobby.

"You don't know that," Dean argued.

"No," Bobby agreed. "Neither do you."

The older hunter stood and began pacing again, his beer forgotten on the table. Dean could see the gears turning behind his eyes, could see decades of experience trying to wrestle with something completely outside the normal rules.

"We're making assumptions," Bobby continued. "Big ones."

Natalie watched him carefully. "We know it's dangerous."

"Damn right it's dangerous."

"We know it's trapping souls."

"Maybe."

That made her blink. "Maybe?"

Bobby stopped pacing and pointed at her. "You know what it told you."

Natalie's expression hardened. "I saw the records."

"You saw what it wanted you to see."

The room went still. Dean felt something shift. Because Bobby had a point. A frustrating point. But a point.

The Master had controlled the battlefield from the beginning. It had expected Natalie. Expected her questions. Expected her grief. For all they knew, the entire encounter had been staged.

Sam sat forward, elbows on the table. "Actually," he said slowly, "that's the real problem."

Everyone looked at him.

"We don't know what's true."

Natalie frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sam spread his hands. "Think about it. Everything we know comes from three sources. Missouri. The Master. And assumptions."

Dean hated when Sam got that look. The one that meant he was right.

"Missouri said Leandro wasn't at rest," Sam continued. "The Master confirmed it. But neither one actually explained the mechanics."

Natalie's shoulders tensed. "You're saying my father might not be trapped."

"I'm saying we don't know."

The distinction mattered. Dean could see it hit her. Not relief. Not hope. Something more complicated. The possibility that she had spent three years chasing a story whose ending she still didn't understand.

"I met it," Natalie said quietly.

"No one is saying you didn't."

"It nearly killed me."

Dean's hand tightened around hers instinctively.

Sam nodded. "I know. But that's different than understanding what it actually is."

The silence stretched. Then Bobby sighed heavily and dropped back into his chair. "What I'm hearin'," he said, rubbing a hand through his beard, "is that everybody's already talkin' about killin' somethin' we don't understand."

Dean opened his mouth.

Bobby cut him off. "And before you start, boy, if this thing really exists outside Heaven and Hell..." He pointed toward the ceiling. "Then we are officially operating outside our pay grade."

That earned the smallest snort from Sam. Even Natalie smiled faintly. Dean did not. Because he kept returning to one image. Natalie bleeding out on a cold floor in Nova Scotia. The scar. The fear in her voice when she'd admitted she almost hadn't come home.

"You know what?" Dean said finally.

Everyone looked at him. His voice was calm. Too calm.

"I don't care."

Bobby groaned immediately. "Of course you don't."

Dean ignored him. "I don't care if it's part of the structure. I don't care if it exists outside Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Oz, Narnia, wherever the hell."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Natalie actually laughed.

Dean pointed at her. "That thing hurt you." The room quieted instantly. His gaze didn't leave hers. "And maybe we don't know how to kill it."

A beat.

"Yet."

Something fierce settled across the table. Because Dean Winchester had never been particularly impressed by impossible.

Bobby stared at him for several long seconds before shaking his head. "God help me."

"No argument there," Sam muttered.

Bobby pointed at all three younger hunters. "You are not marchin' back to Nova Scotia tomorrow."

"We weren't—"

"You were thinkin' it."

Dean had, in fact, been thinking it.

Bobby's glare sharpened. "We do this right." The words carried the force of command. "We research. We investigate. We figure out what this thing actually is."

His gaze moved to Natalie. "Then." To Dean. "And only then." To Sam. "We decide whether killin' it is even the right answer."

No one immediately argued. Which, for this group, was as close to agreement as anyone was likely to get.

Dean sat back in his chair, but only physically. The rest of him remained wound tight as piano wire. The revelation that Natalie had nearly died, that she had spent three years chasing whispers across the continent, and that some impossible thing had marked her and let her live, had settled beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn't remove. Every instinct he possessed kept returning to the same place: the scar across her stomach. He could still see it every time he closed his eyes.

The room itself felt deceptively normal. Dinner sat half-finished on plates. Bobby's old kitchen light cast a warm yellow glow across scarred wood and mismatched chairs. The refrigerator hummed softly in the background. It should have felt like every other evening they'd spent at Bobby's over the years.

Instead, it felt like they were sitting around the edge of a cliff.

Dean finally broke the silence. "So how do we kill it?"

The question landed heavily in the room.

Natalie looked up from her plate. Sam's attention sharpened immediately. Bobby, however, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as though Dean had just confirmed every frustration he'd ever had about raising Winchester boys.

"Of course that's where your mind goes," Bobby muttered.

Dean frowned. "Something trapping souls isn't exactly getting a free pass from me."

Bobby's chair creaked as he leaned back. "And what exactly makes you think killing it's the right answer?"

The challenge caught Dean off guard. Not because Bobby disagreed—Bobby disagreed with him all the time—but because the older hunter seemed genuinely troubled by the question itself.

Dean gestured toward Natalie. "It nearly killed her."

"It nearly killed her because she went after it."

"And?"

"And that's not the same thing."

Dean stared at him in disbelief.

Across the table, Sam folded his hands together, his expression thoughtful in the way Dean knew usually meant his brother was about to become annoyingly reasonable. "Bobby might have a point."

Dean let out a sharp breath. "You too?"

Sam didn't flinch. "Think about what we actually know."

The words hung in the air.

Natalie had gone very still. Dean could see her listening carefully, her fingers wrapped around her beer bottle, her expression caught somewhere between hope and dread.

"We know the Master exists," Sam continued. "We know it had records. We know it knew about Leandro. We know it injured Natalie and let her leave. But beyond that?"

He spread his hands. "We're taking a lot on faith."

Bobby nodded immediately. "Exactly."

Dean hated when they agreed.

"What, you think she's lying?" he asked sharply.

"No." Sam's answer came immediately. "I think she believes what she saw."

Natalie's gaze dropped to the table.

The distinction mattered.

Dean could tell from the way her shoulders tightened.

Bobby rose from his chair and began pacing again, unable to stay seated when he was worried. It was a habit Dean had watched for years. Whenever Bobby started wearing a path into the floorboards, it meant something had gotten under his skin.

"This thing knew exactly what buttons to push," Bobby said. "It knew about her father. Knew she'd come looking. Knew she'd keep digging."

The older hunter stopped near the sink and turned back toward them. "For all we know, the whole damn encounter was orchestrated."

Natalie looked up sharply. "You think it lied?"

"I think powerful things rarely tell the whole truth."

The room fell quiet again.

Dean found himself watching Natalie's face. He could practically see the argument playing out behind her eyes. The certainty she'd carried home from Nova Scotia was being challenged now, not because Bobby thought she was wrong, but because Bobby had spent decades surviving by questioning everything.

Even his own conclusions.

Especially his own conclusions.

Natalie finally leaned forward, resting her forearms against the table. "When I was there," she said slowly, choosing each word with care, "it felt real."

Nobody interrupted her.

"The records were real. The souls were real. The fear was real." She swallowed. "And my father's name was there."

Something flickered across Bobby's expression then. Pain. Old pain. The kind that had never entirely healed.

Dean realized suddenly that Bobby wasn't just worried about Natalie. He was reliving Leandro's death all over again. Every new revelation peeled open another layer of guilt the older hunter had spent decades trying to bury.

Bobby lowered himself back into his chair, looking older than he had an hour ago.

"Kid," he said quietly, "I've spent twenty years wishing I'd had answers."

Natalie's eyes softened. "I know."

"No." Bobby shook his head. "I don't think you do."

His voice had lost all its irritation now. What remained was exhaustion and regret.

"When your father died, I tore that hunt apart. Every witness. Every scrap of lore. Every lead I could find. I wanted there to be a reason. I wanted there to be something I missed because that would've been easier than accepting what happened."

The room was utterly silent.

Dean glanced at Sam. Sam had gone still too.

"You know what I found?" Bobby continued.

Natalie slowly shook her head.

"Nothing."

The word landed heavily.

"Just a dead friend and a little girl who deserved her father."

Natalie's eyes glistened.

Dean felt her hand find his beneath the table. This time it wasn't subtle. It wasn't accidental. She simply reached for him.

He laced their fingers together immediately.

Neither of them commented on it.

Bobby noticed anyway.

Of course he did.

His gaze lingered briefly on their joined hands before moving away again. "Maybe this Master is exactly what you think it is," he said. "Maybe it really is holding souls. Maybe Leandro's one of them."

A pause followed.

"But if we're going after it, we're doing it because we know what we're dealing with."

Dean's jaw tightened. "And if we find out she's right?"

Bobby looked directly at him. "Then we'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

A reluctant smile tugged at Sam's mouth.

Natalie actually laughed softly.

Dean shook his head. "That's not the expression."

"It is now."

For the first time all evening, the tension eased slightly. Only slightly. Because everyone in the room knew the truth. The Master was still out there. Leandro's fate remained unresolved.

And somewhere beyond Heaven and Hell, something had noticed Natalie Guimet—and had allowed her to walk away alive.

The question hanging over all of them wasn't whether they would go after it.

The question was what they would discover when they finally did.

The conversation eventually ran out of steam. Not because they had reached any answers. If anything, they had accumulated more questions than when they started.

But there came a point where exhaustion settled over the room like a blanket. The beer bottles were mostly empty. The dinner plates sat abandoned. The clock on the wall had crawled steadily toward midnight, then beyond it.

Bobby was the first to surrender.

The older hunter pushed himself upright with a groan and reached for another beer from the refrigerator. He twisted the cap off with practiced ease and stood there for a moment, looking at the three younger hunters around his table.

His gaze settled on Natalie. Then Dean. Then back to Natalie.

The look alone was enough to make Dean suspicious. "What?"

Bobby sighed heavily. "Lord help me."

Dean frowned. "What?"

Bobby pointed vaguely between the two of them. "I don't wanna know."

Natalie blinked. "Don't wanna know what?"

"How the hell you two are gonna handle sleepin' arrangements tonight."

The silence that followed was immediate. Natalie's eyes widened. To Dean's absolute horror, he felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Across the table, Sam immediately buried his face behind his beer bottle.

Bobby looked vindicated. "Yep."

"Bobby!" Natalie exclaimed.

"What?"

"You cannot just—"

"I absolutely can."

Dean opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Which somehow made everything worse. Natalie looked equally horrified. And embarrassed. And if Dean wasn't mistaken, actually blushing. That realization nearly finished him off.

Bobby took one look at both of them and barked out a laugh. "Oh, that's priceless."

"Bobby," Dean managed.

"Nope."

The older hunter pointed his beer at them. "Not hearin' it."

Then he pointed toward the hallway. "You two can figure out whatever awkward nonsense you're gonna figure out."

Dean wished the floor would open beneath him.

Natalie appeared to share the sentiment.

"I don't want details."

"Bobby!"

"I don't want explanations."

Dean groaned.

"I definitely don't want visual aids."

"Oh my God."

"Which means," Bobby concluded, taking a victorious swallow of beer, "you can both shut up, idjits."

With that, he turned and headed toward the hallway. Halfway there he paused. Without turning around, he added, "And if either one of you wakes me up, I'm changin' my will."

Then he disappeared. The sound of his bedroom door closing echoed through the house.

Silence followed.

Long.

Painful.

Silence.

Sam was the first to break. A slow grin spread across his face.

Dean pointed at him immediately. "Don't."

Sam lifted both hands. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"Maybe."

Dean groaned.

Natalie dropped her face into her hands.

Sam's grin only widened. "You know," he said mildly, gathering plates, "I think I'll do the dishes."

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

Dean muttered something rude under his breath.

Sam laughed quietly and carried the dishes toward the sink, giving them what privacy he could without actually leaving the room.

Which left Dean and Natalie sitting alone at the table.

Or at least as alone as two people could be while Sam Winchester deliberately made more noise than necessary with plates in the background.

For a few moments neither spoke. The enormity of the evening finally seemed to catch up with them. The confessions. The kiss. The Master. Leandro. Everything.

Dean found himself looking at Natalie. Natalie looked back. And suddenly the reality of it hit. They weren't wondering whether they had feelings anymore. That question had been answered. Decisively.

Instead they found themselves facing an entirely different uncertainty.

What happened now?

For years their friendship had been built on familiar ground. They knew how to be friends. Knew how to call each other in the middle of the night. Knew how to tease, argue, comfort, and trust one another.

But this?

This was new territory.

Natalie laughed softly, the sound carrying equal parts joy and nervousness. "This is weird."

Dean immediately nodded. "Yeah."

Another pause.

Then, unexpectedly, they both laughed. The tension loosened. Not entirely. But enough. Dean reached across the table and took her hand again. The gesture felt natural now. Easy. Natalie squeezed his fingers.

Outside, the junkyard settled beneath the South Dakota night. Inside, Bobby was pretending not to listen from his bedroom, Sam was washing dishes with entirely too much interest, and somewhere beyond the safety of the house waited questions neither of them could yet answer.

But for the moment, none of that mattered.

For the first time in years, Dean and Natalie simply sat together in the quiet, looking at one another and realizing that after all the waiting, all the fear, and all the years spent circling around what they felt—the story between them had finally begun.

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Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.

Hard.

Not impossible.

You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.

It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.

You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.

In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.

In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.

From a single fucking touch.

You think you might be close to losing your mind.

It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.

Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.

“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”

You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”

“I know. Makes it funnier.”

Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.

Which has you on it. Basically around you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”

That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.

“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”

You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”

“I like you and respect you-“

“You poked me.”

“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”

You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.

The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.

“It’s fine- I’m fine-“

“Sweetheart.”

“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.

The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.

It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.

And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.

You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.

“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.

Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.

And neither of you speak about it again.

This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.

She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?

Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.

She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”

You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”

You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No. I’m single, El.”

Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.

“Why?”

“Because. Adult reasons.”

Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.

“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”

“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.

“That kid adores you.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I know you are.”

You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.

He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”

“At the thing I get paid for.”

“At, uh- Kids.”

“At kids?”

“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.

Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.

You might need help.

“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”

“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”

You snort, kicking her leg under the table.

Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.

Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.

That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.

You told her she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”

You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.

But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-

“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.

You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”

Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”

“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”

“Uh huh. Write it down.”

You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.

You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.

Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“

She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-

“Kind and sweet are the same-“

“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”

Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.

“You have to add two more cons.”

“I don’t have any more cons-“

“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”

That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.

Pro. He listens to you.

By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.

“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.

“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“

“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”

Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”

“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad!”

“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“

“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”

“Was he playing chubby bunny?”

“Yeah, but-“

“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”

Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.

You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.

“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”

Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.

It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.

✦Chapter Seven✦

✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦

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