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

He didn't need to be seen by some overqualified medic to know what was wrong with him. His shoulder throbbed in a way that felt deep and wrong, like his body had come undone and refused to settle back into place. It was dislocated. The jolt from the impact of the ATV spinning out beneath him before everything went white had told him that. A sling kept his arm immobilized against his chest as he waited for someone to help him pop it back in again.

Sy had been sitting there now for the past four hours. He wasn’t complaining, not really. The stillness gave him time to think and go over his argument with Riley. He was kicking himself for how he’d handled it. Not for the assumption itself-or that's what he told himself- as that was him merely putting the fragments of the facts together and drawing the ‘obvious’ conclusion. No, he was angry that he’d gone in too fast, too sharp, practically blindsiding her with an accusation that now felt heavier with every passing minute. And the worst part? He couldn't undo any of it.

As the fifth hour slipped by, marked only by the slow crawl of the clock and the dull ache in his shoulder, Sy caught the soft shuffle of footsteps outside his cubicle. They were different from the rubber-soled rhythm of the hospital staff he’d grown used to. Carefully, he leaned forward and peered beneath the curtain, the movement drawing a sharp wince as pain flared through his shoulder. A moment later, the unmistakable sound of his sister’s voice drifted through the thin curtain asking one of the nurses if it was ‘okay to go in’.

“Hey, Jake.” Charlotte smiled as the curtain peeled back.

Sy offered a soft ‘Hey’ back.

“I know you took your Uncle duties seriously these past couple of days. But seriously? Injuring yourself just to get yourself back in here, seems a little extreme, don't you think?”

Sy arched an eyebrow at her that screamed, ‘Seriously?!’ But he simply voiced a grumble back at her.

“What happened?” Charlotte sighed as she sat gingerly on the edge of Sy’s bed.

Her tone was soft and non-judgmental. Just a big sister, stopping by to check on her brother with a willingness to listen. Sy knew she wasn't talking about the accident. It wasn’t the first time he’d dislocated a shoulder or landed in hospital. No doubt she'd have heard from Ethan- or worse their Mom - about the fight with Riley. Their last conversation had been about her after all.

“I know about the ranch, Charlotte.” He said stoically.

Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened to argue back,

“Don’t deny it.”

Sy chewed on the inside of his lip and leaned his head back against the pillow propping him up. He stared at the ceiling as if there were something worth focusing on there. Focus on anything but the tightness in his chest.

“I won’t deny it, Jake.” Charlotte replied flatly.

“What is it you think that you know?” Her voice took on a careful vagueness.

Sy told her everything. The brochure he hadn’t been meant to find, the cryptic conversation about him ‘taking over the reins’, and Charlotte’s quiet confirmation that Riley had gone back to Montana. The words came out uneven at first, but once he started, they kept going, spilling over themselves. Probably the way he should have spoken with Riley, before he drove off in the wrong direction that landed his ass back in the hospital. He lifted his gaze to his sister when he’d finished. Almost daring her to contradict what he’d realised too late. Charlotte couldn't argue, not without breaking Riley’s trust. Sy was her brother, but Riley…Riley had become something just as close to her, in all the ways that mattered. Now she was torn between them.

“Okay, so you know….alot.” She said diplomatically.

This caught Sy’s attention, his gaze following as she pushed herself to her feet and began pacing the length of the cubicle. Charlotte stopped at the end of his bed, bracing her hands against the metal railing, her grip tightening slightly before she let out a slow, steady breath. It was only then that it properly registered. She’d given birth just a couple of days ago. The loose pyjamas, the draped bathrobe should have been the first clues. But he’d been too wrapped up in his own head to notice, too consumed by everything else to see what was right in front of him.

“You know a lot, Jake. But you’ve got to believe me when I say this. You have this all wrong.”

Sy narrowed his eyes at her, the look in them making it unmistakably clear, her explanation hadn’t made anything clearer.

“Will you do me a favour?” Her tone left no room for interpretation. It wasn’t a request.

“Just talk to her.”

Sy scoffed lightly, “I think after what I said to her, there’s little chance of that happening.”

“You won’t know unless you try.”

Sy let out a heavy breath, the weight of it lingering in his chest. He knew she was right—with uncomfortable clarity—but that didn’t make it any easier. He’d already made such an ass of himself that the thought of trying to fix things now left him tangled in a mix of fear and embarrassment, unsure how to even begin setting it right.

“Alright.” He said nervously.

“Can you pass me my phone, please? It's in my jacket pocket.” He pointed with his good arm to the chair near the bed.

Charlotte’s face shifted into a guarded, almost cagey expression.

Sy didn’t notice it at first, but on a second glance, he caught it.

“You won’t be needing that.” She said mysteriously.

Without another word, Charlotte crossed to the small gap in the curtain and slipped through, offering her brother a quick, easy smile before stepping out of the cubicle. Sy watched confused at first, then felt his chest tighten as Riley came into view.

“Can I come in?” She asked carefully. Her voice was small and almost timid.

“Yeah, sure. C’mon in.” Sy replied ineloquently.

He could feel his thoughts and his mouth threatening to run away with him again, the words already racing to come out.. This time, though, he caught himself, forcing both into a tight rein. Making himself pause just long enough to breathe and wait.

Riley glanced around the small cubicle, unsure where to settle. Something in her urged her toward the bed, but her instincts held her back. Instead, she pulled the chair a little closer and sat beside it, resting her hands loosely on the covers, as if keeping a careful distance. That hurt Sy more than the awful way he’d pounced on her earlier. The quiet realization that she felt cautious around him now, instead of… safe.

Riley swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat down as she steadied herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what to say, the words were there; but they felt heavier, harder to push out, tangled up in the swell of her own hurt.

“I know I owe you an explanation, Sy and I’m sorry that I’ve kept this from you.” She began.

Sy tried not to let his thoughts spiral, fighting the instinct to chase every possible direction her words might lead.

“When I asked you if you wanted to take back control of the ranch, it wasn’t because I’m leavin’ or even thinkin’ of leavin’.”

She heaved another shaky sigh.

“When my brother came to town the other month, he offered me a job. He wanted me to go back to Montana and run the family ranch.”

Riley pulled from her pocket the now soggy and dogeared brochure front cover. She unfolded the glossy page and attempted distractedly to neaten up the edges.

“But, I love my life here. I love Heartland. I love your family.”

Sy listened and watched her hoping she would say the three words he wanted to hear.

“I never really considered takin’ him up on it.”

“So, why did you go back to Montana?” He voiced quickly. Not accusing but desperate to understand. Then a flicker of guilt crossed his face as he realised he’d interrupted her.

“Charlotte has always wanted to turn Heartland into a full holiday experience. Expand the pavilion, build little cottages for the guests to sleep in, the whole chebang.”

Sy nodded, following her train of thought. It wasn’t exactly a secret—Charlotte had talked everyone’s ears off about her dreams for as long as he could remember—but somehow, she’d never quite managed to get them off the ground.

“I went to Montana to offer my brother…my family, a business proposition. If he invested in Heartland, gave us the money to get the holiday side of things off the ground, he could take a share of the profits until it was paid back.”

Riley's eyes lit up as she explained her plan.

“What did he say?” Sy asked with genuine interest.

“He’s going to invest two million dollars into Heartland.”

Sy’s mouth fell open, shock flickering across his face. Two million dollars was an enormous, almost unreal amount of money. The kind of money that could take Charlotte’s dream and finally turn it into something real. Sy’s brow furrowed for a moment.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because I love you, you idiot!”

Riley burst into tears, her emotions breaking free all at once. Happiness and relief. It felt almost overwhelming, the weight of everything she’d been holding in finally giving way. She didn’t know why she hadn’t said the words sooner, why she’d kept them tucked away for so long. Because she loved him—completely, honestly—and she had for far longer than she’d ever admitted, even to herself.

Sy couldn't bear to watch her cry, and least of all over him. With his good arm he beckoned her towards him and she didn’t hesitate. Riley climbed onto the edge of the bed as best she could as he cradled her into his side. He brushed his nose gently against hers before capturing her lips in a kiss—firm, deep, and unguarded. He poured everything into it: regret, relief, love, all of it rushed out in that single moment.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” he murmured, the words repeating in soft, breathless fragments against her lips.

“I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I love you so much!”

Riley let out a soft, tearful laugh against his mouth and kissed him back with equal fervour, meeting him in every ounce of it.

She stroked the side of his stubbled cheek, her gaze fixed on him as the last of her tears slowly dried against her skin.

“That wasn’t the only reason he agreed.” She said cryptically.

“No?” he laughed, softer this time, relief easing into his voice.

“No. He agreed when I told him that I wasn’t ever goin’ to leave Heartland.”

Sy furrowed his brow, giving a small shake of his head as he gestured for her to go on.

Behind him, Dean and Natalie sat in companionable silence, their hands still loosely linked across the table. The house had settled into its nighttime rhythms. Pipes creaked softly in the walls. Bobby's television murmured faintly from behind his bedroom door before finally clicking off.

Dean glanced toward the hallway. Then at Natalie. He tipped his head slightly toward the stairs. The gesture was so small Sam almost missed it.

Natalie didn't. She looked at him for a second, understanding dawning instantly, then nodded.

Dean rose first.

Sam kept his eyes firmly on the sink. Didn't see a thing. Didn't hear a thing. Would absolutely deny all knowledge later.

"Night, Sammy," Dean said casually.

Sam snorted. "Sure."

Dean shot him a look.

Sam kept scrubbing.

Natalie bit back a smile as she stood. "Good night, Sam."

"Night."

He still didn't turn around. He heard their footsteps retreat instead, crossing the living room and climbing the narrow staircase to the second floor.

Only when the bedroom door closed softly did Sam finally look up. He stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then shook his head, smiling to himself. "About damn time," he murmured.

Upstairs, neither Dean nor Natalie spoke. The silence wasn't awkward exactly. Just... fragile. New.

Dean walked a step ahead of her down the hallway, shoulders slightly tense. At his door he paused, hand resting on the knob for half a heartbeat before pushing it open.

He stepped aside.

Natalie entered first.

Dean's room at Bobby's wasn't really a room. It was a place he'd occupied on and off for years. Temporary made permanent through repetition.

The duffel bag sat open at the foot of the bed, clothes spilling haphazardly from one side. A stack of rock CDs occupied the dresser. A battered paperback rested face-down beside the lamp. There were shotgun shells in a ceramic bowl Bobby had once insisted was decorative and Dean had promptly repurposed.

His jacket hung over the back of a chair.

A knife gleamed dully atop a pile of lore books.

There was no question whose room this was. It was Dean in miniature. Messy. Practical. Comfortable.

Natalie smiled softly. "I forgot you leave your clothes everywhere."

Dean snorted behind her. "I don't."

She pointed at the duffel. "You absolutely do."

"That's organized."

"That's a pile."

"It's an intentional pile."

Natalie laughed quietly. The sound loosened something in the room. But only a little. Because when she turned around, Dean was standing by the door looking... nervous.

The realization stopped her cold.

Dean Winchester. Nervous. Not uneasy before a hunt. Not angry. Not restless. Actually nervous. His hands shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders slightly hunched. Eyes flicking away for half a second before returning to her.

Natalie stared.

Then, slowly, she smiled. "Oh my God."

Dean groaned immediately. "Don't."

"You're nervous."

"I'm not."

"You are!"

He pointed at her accusingly. "This is your fault."

That only made her laugh harder.

Dean rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it. "I have literally fought vampires."

Natalie crossed her arms, grinning now. "And?"

"And this is worse."

That surprised her enough to quiet her laughter.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair "I don't know," he admitted. The words came slowly. "This is different."

Natalie's smile softened.

Dean glanced around the room like maybe the answer was hidden among his belongings. "I know how to be your friend."

The confession was so honest it hurt.

"I know how to call you at three in the morning because Sam's annoying me. I know how to argue with you. I know how to make fun of your terrible taste in movies."

"My taste is excellent."

"It's not."

She smiled.

Dean looked back at her then. More serious now. "But this?" He gestured vaguely between them. "I don't know how to do this."

Natalie's heart squeezed. Because she did know. This was the Dean she'd glimpsed all those years ago after their first kiss. The part of him he showed almost nobody. The boy who loved deeply and feared losing it.

She stepped closer.

Dean immediately stopped talking.

"I don't know either," she admitted softly.

That made him blink. "You don't?"

"No."

She smiled gently. "I've spent years imagining this."

Dean's ears went slightly pink.

Natalie pretended not to notice. "But imagining something and actually having it..." She shrugged. "Turns out those are different things."

Dean huffed a laugh. "Great."

"I know."

The room grew quiet again. But it wasn't frightening anymore. Because for the first time in years, neither of them had to pretend.

Natalie reached for him first. Not dramatic. Just resting her hand lightly against his chest. Dean looked down at it. Then up at her. And some of the nervousness melted from his face.

Because maybe they didn't know exactly what came next. But they had spent almost two decades learning each other. That seemed like a pretty good place to start.

Were they ready to do this?

The question hung between them, unspoken at first, but so present that it might as well have been another person in the room.

Dean leaned back against the dresser, arms folding loosely across his chest, though Natalie could tell it was more to occupy his hands than anything else. She remained where she was beside the bed, one hand trailing absently over the quilt Bobby had bought years ago from some church rummage sale. The lamp cast a soft amber glow across the room, leaving the corners in shadow. Outside, the junkyard stretched quiet beneath the stars.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Because this wasn't a first date. This wasn't strangers discovering attraction. This was twenty years of history suddenly rearranging itself.

Natalie looked at Dean and thought of all the versions of him she'd known. The nine-year-old boy with a split lip pretending he didn't hurt. The fourteen-year-old who had told her about his mother in a voice so quiet she'd barely heard him. The fifteen-year-old who had kissed her and then spent years pretending it hadn't mattered. The seventeen-year-old who had driven like a maniac to comfort her after prom. The twenty-four-year-old who had called her because he'd fallen in love with another woman and needed someone to tell him he wasn't stupid.

And the man standing before her now. Older. More scarred. Still carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Still Dean.

Natalie had wondered about this for years.

Wondered what it would be like if they'd been brave enough back then. Dreamed about it sometimes, usually late at night when she was on the road and loneliness made her reckless with her imagination. She'd pictured holding his hand in diners, stealing kisses before hunts, falling asleep beside him in motel rooms.

Then she'd shove the thoughts away. Because wanting something wasn't the same as being allowed to have it. Especially not in their world.

Dean had done much the same, though his fantasies had been less elaborate and far more aggressively ignored. Every time he found himself lingering too long on the memory of that kiss, or wondering what Natalie was doing in Nova Scotia, or catching himself smiling at one of her voicemails, he'd shove it into a mental vault and lock the door.

Friends. That was safe. Friends lasted. Friends couldn't be ruined by bad timing or grief or fear. Except the vault hadn't held. Not really. Not when Cassie left. Not when Natalie disappeared north.

Certainly not tonight.

Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and laughed softly to himself. "You know what's stupid?"

Natalie smiled faintly. "There's a lot to choose from."

"Funny."

"It's one of my many gifts."

He rolled his eyes, but his expression softened. "I spent years trying not to think about you like this."

Natalie's heart squeezed. "Me too."

Dean looked genuinely surprised. "You did?"

She laughed softly. "Dean Winchester, I spent three years in Nova Scotia trying not to think about you."

"How'd that go?"

She gave him a look. "Terribly."

That earned a grin.

The grin faded slowly, replaced by something gentler.

"I used to wonder," Dean admitted, his voice quieter now, "if bringing up that kiss would screw everything up."

Natalie's breath caught.

"Because what if you didn't remember it the same way I did?" he continued. "Or what if you did and regretted it? I didn't wanna lose..." He trailed off, searching for the words.

"Us?" Natalie supplied softly.

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

The simplicity of it hit her harder than any grand declaration could have.

Not you.

Us.

The friendship. The years. Everything they'd built.

Natalie sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her hands for a moment. "I was afraid too."

Dean moved from the dresser then, crossing the room to sit beside her. Not touching yet.

Just close.

"What were you afraid of?" he asked.

She smiled sadly. "That loving you would ruin me."

The honesty of it startled even her.

Dean didn't laugh. Didn't tell her she was being dramatic. Because he understood.

Hunters loved with one eye on the grave.

Mary and John.

Jessica and Sam.

Ellen and Bill.

Bobby and Karen.

Loss was woven into the fabric of their lives.

Natalie looked up at him. "I saw what happened to my mother after my father died."

Dean nodded slowly. "I know."

"I don't know if I'm brave enough for that."

Dean was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached over and took her hand. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just steady. "I don't know if I am either," he admitted.

Natalie blinked. "You don't?"

He huffed a laugh. "Nat, I've spent my whole life losing people."

The words came out matter-of-factly.

Too matter-of-factly.

"And yeah, that scares me."

His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles. "But I think..."

He stopped.

Started again. "I think I'd regret not trying more."

Natalie stared at him.

Because that was it, wasn't it? Not certainty. Not guarantees. Just a choice. To love anyway. To be afraid and move forward regardless.

Dean squeezed her hand gently. "We don't have to figure out everything tonight."

Natalie smiled faintly. "Good."

"Yeah."

Another quiet moment settled between them. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just new.

Outside, the wind stirred softly through the junkyard. Downstairs, Bobby's bedroom floorboards creaked once and went still. Somewhere in the house Sam coughed in his sleep.

Life.

Ordinary, stubborn life.

And here they were. Not friends. Not yet entirely lovers. But standing on the threshold of something they'd both secretly wanted for years.

Together.

Which, Natalie thought as Dean's shoulder brushed hers and neither of them moved away, might just be enough for tonight.

They sat there for a long while after that.

Not speaking.

Not because there was nothing left to say, but because the evening had been so full already. Confessions layered atop revelations. The Master. Leandro. Fear. Love. The terrifying joy of discovering that the person you'd quietly loved for years had been carrying the same secret.

At some point, Dean became acutely aware of the fact that it was after midnight.

At some point, Natalie yawned.

And at some point after that, both of them glanced toward the bed. Then immediately looked away. Then looked back.

Dean cleared his throat. "So..."

Natalie bit back a smile. "So?"

Dean stared resolutely at the opposite wall.

"What if..." He stopped.

Natalie waited.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "What if we just..." He gestured vaguely toward the bed. "Share it?"

Natalie's eyebrows rose.

Dean rushed on immediately. "No sex."

The words came out so fast she almost laughed.

Dean looked horrified at himself. "Not that I think—I mean, obviously I think—"

"Oh my God."

"But I wasn't suggesting—"

Natalie was laughing now.

Dean dropped his face into his hands. "Kill me."

"I just told you I'm afraid of that."

A muffled groan escaped him.

Natalie laughed harder.

When Dean finally looked up, his ears were red. "I mean," he said stubbornly, "literally just sleep."

Her smile softened. Because beneath the awkwardness was something incredibly sweet.

Dean wasn't trying to rush them. Wasn't assuming. Wasn't trying to capitalize on years of unresolved feelings. He simply... wanted her near.

Natalie looked at the bed. Then back at him. And realized she wanted the exact same thing. Actually, more than that.

The thought of sleeping beside Dean—of hearing his breathing in the dark, of waking up and finding him still there—struck her as profoundly intimate.

More intimate, in some ways, than sex. Sex could be impulsive. Could be passion. This? This was trust. Vulnerability. The quiet promise of presence.

Natalie smiled. "I think that's an excellent idea."

Dean blinked. "Really?"

"Really."

The relief that washed over his face was so immediate she nearly laughed again.

"You know," she said softly, "I think sharing a bed can be more intimate."

Dean tilted his head. "How?"

Natalie thought about it. "Because there's nowhere to hide."

The words surprised both of them.

She shrugged lightly. "You fall asleep beside someone. You wake up beside them. They see you with bedhead and morning breath and drooling on the pillow."

"I do not drool."

"You absolutely drool."

"I don't."

"You snore."

"I do not!"

Natalie grinned.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You are making slanderous accusations."

"I've heard you."

"You have not."

"I have."

"When?"

Natalie paused.

Dean immediately became suspicious. "When?"

She laughed. "You fell asleep during a movie at Bobby's when you were sixteen."

Dean groaned. "Oh no."

"You absolutely snored."

"I was exhausted."

"You drooled too."

"I hate you."

Natalie smiled warmly. "No you don't."

Dean stared at her. Then, slowly, he smiled too.

No.

He really, really didn't.

The practicalities of sharing the bed turned out to be hilariously awkward.

Dean found an old t-shirt for Natalie to sleep in, which she promptly held up.

"This is enormous."

"It's a normal-sized shirt."

"It's a tent."

"It's rock and roll."

"It says Metallica."

"It says class."

"It says you haven't done laundry in three weeks."

Dean gasped in mock offense.

Natalie laughed and disappeared into the tiny bathroom anyway.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed afterward, suddenly nervous all over again. Which was ridiculous. They'd kissed. They'd confessed feelings. They'd faced down soul-eating extradimensional entities. And somehow this was making him anxious.

The bathroom door opened.

Dean looked up.

Natalie stepped back into the room wearing his shirt, sleeves swallowing half her arms.

And Dean's brain promptly stopped. Not because it was sexy. Though she was beautiful.

No.

It was because she looked comfortable. Safe. Like she belonged here.

The realization hit him so hard he had to look away.

Natalie noticed immediately. "You okay?"

Dean coughed. "Yep."

"You look weird."

"Rude."

She smiled softly.

Together, awkwardly, shyly, they climbed beneath the blankets. The bed was smaller than Dean remembered. Or maybe he was just more aware of Natalie lying beside him.

There was a careful distance between them at first. A gulf of maybe eight inches. Both of them staring at the ceiling. Both of them very aware of the other.

Dean cleared his throat. "This is weird."

Natalie smiled into the darkness. "A little."

A pause.

Then: "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you pushed me."

He turned his head.

Moonlight from the window painted soft silver across her face.

"You are?"

"I was scared."

"I know."

"I still am."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted slightly, slowly enough that she could move away if she wanted. She didn't. His hand found hers beneath the blankets. Fingers lacing together. Simple. Steady.

Natalie squeezed back.

Neither said anything else.

Outside, the junkyard slept beneath the South Dakota stars. Somewhere down the hall Bobby snored loud enough to shake the walls. Sam was probably awake downstairs reading lore and pretending he wasn't smiling about tonight.

And in the darkness of Dean's room, two people who had spent years afraid of losing one another finally let themselves be still. Together. Not rushing. Not hiding.

Just learning, one quiet moment at a time, what it meant to finally come home to each other.

The room settled around them.

The lamp had been switched off some time ago, leaving only moonlight filtering through the curtains and painting pale silver bars across the floor. The junkyard outside had gone quiet. Even Bobby’s snores down the hall had softened into the familiar rhythm of a house asleep.

Dean lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling he could barely see.

Natalie lay beside him, equally awake.

The distance between them wasn’t much. A few inches. A few inches that felt impossibly large.

Neither of them wanted to rush.

That had been understood from the start. Tonight wasn’t about proving anything or crossing some invisible finish line. If anything, it was the opposite. After years of circling one another, of wanting and wondering and worrying, they wanted to savor this fragile, miraculous thing they’d finally uncovered.

Dean felt Natalie’s hand tighten around his. He squeezed back. The gesture was small. But in the darkness, it felt enormous.

He could feel her warmth beside him. Hear the soft cadence of her breathing. Every so often, he caught the faint scent of her shampoo mingled with the detergent on his t-shirt.

Natalie stared into the dark, her heart feeling strangely too big for her chest.

This was Dean. Dean, who had snored his way through movies at Bobby’s house as a teenager.

Dean, who’d driven across Sioux Falls in a suit to rescue her from heartbreak.

Dean, who had listened to her story tonight and, instead of telling her she was reckless or foolish, had simply promised he would help carry the burden.

Dean, who loved fiercely. And who loved her. The thought still felt unreal.

Her fingers tightened around his again. This time, Dean turned toward her.

She felt the mattress shift. For a second she froze—not from fear, but from wonder. Then she turned too.

Their eyes met in the darkness. Neither of them was entirely sure who moved first. Maybe they both did.

The distance disappeared gradually. Not in a rush. Not with urgency. Just the slow, instinctive movement of two people who had spent years wanting closeness and finally allowing themselves to reach for it.

Natalie’s hand slid up to rest lightly against Dean’s chest. Dean lifted an arm, hesitated for half a heartbeat, then settled it gently around her waist. She moved closer. He held her.

The simplicity of it nearly undid her. No grand declarations. No fireworks. Just warmth. Steady and real.

Natalie tucked her head beneath his chin, listening to the strong, familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. Dean lowered his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes.

This. This was what she’d been afraid of. And somehow… it wasn’t frightening.

Scary, yes. Because love always carried risk. Because the Master still waited somewhere beyond the edges of their understanding. Because hunters rarely got guarantees. But the fear wasn’t the loudest thing in the room anymore. The loudest thing was peace.

Dean felt her arm drape across his chest, trusting and unguarded. He tightened his hold on her just slightly. Not possessive. Protective. Grateful.

Natalie let out a soft breath. “Hey, Dean?”

His voice rumbled softly above her. “Yeah?”

“I’m still scared.”

He smiled into her hair. “So am I.”

The admission should have unsettled her. Instead, it comforted her. Because he wasn’t promising impossible things. He wasn’t promising forever. He was simply here. Beside her. Choosing her. Tonight. Tomorrow. For as long as they were given.

Natalie smiled faintly in the darkness.

Outside, the wind stirred through Bobby’s junkyard, rattling old metal and whispering through rusted frames that had stood witness to years of laughter and grief and growing up.

Inside, two childhood friends who had spent years pretending not to love each other finally fell asleep in each other’s arms.

And for the first time in a very long time, both of them slept deeply.

Morning came slowly.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains in warm, golden stripes that crept steadily across the floorboards and up the side of the bed. Outside, Bobby’s junkyard was already awake. Somewhere a crow cawed. Metal clanged faintly as the wind nudged an old truck door. Downstairs, Dean could just barely make out the sounds of life beginning—the scrape of a chair, the murmur of a radio, Bobby grumbling at something that had probably existed peacefully until he decided it offended him.

And yet, neither Dean nor Natalie moved.

Dean surfaced from sleep gradually, his first coherent thought not being where am I? but rather warm.

Very warm.

He blinked blearily.

Natalie was still tucked against him.

At some point in the night, she’d curled even closer. Her head rested beneath his chin, her hair spread across his shoulder. One arm remained draped over his chest, and his own arm was securely wrapped around her waist as though even asleep he’d been reluctant to let her go.

Dean lay there for a moment, simply taking it in.

The sunlight.

The quiet.

The weight of her against him.

And the startling realization that he’d slept.

Really slept. No nightmares. No waking up every two hours. No instinctive reach for a weapon.

Just… sleep.

Deep and dreamless.

Dean couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

His chest tightened unexpectedly.

Carefully, not wanting to disturb her, he tipped his head down.

Natalie was still asleep.

Or mostly asleep.

Her brow furrowed faintly as sunlight drifted across her face.

Dean smiled. It was small. Private. The kind of smile he’d deny under torture.

“Morning,” he murmured.

Natalie made an incoherent noise. Then burrowed closer.

Dean huffed a laugh.

A moment later, a muffled voice emerged from somewhere near his collarbone.

“Five more minutes.”

Dean grinned. “You are absolutely not a morning person.”

That earned an indignant sound.

Natalie cracked open one eye. “Excuse you.”

“You heard me.”

“I am,” she informed him with all the dignity someone half-asleep in an oversized Metallica shirt could muster, “an excellent morning person.”

Dean looked around theatrically. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Natalie closed her eyes again. “I’m awake.”

“You are literally trying to negotiate more sleep.”

“No,” she corrected sleepily. “I just don’t want to leave the bed.”

The words slipped out easily.

Honestly.

Dean’s teasing smile faded. Because he knew exactly what she meant.

It wasn’t the mattress. Or the room. Or even the fact that she was warm and comfortable.

It was this. The safety of his arms around her. The absence of fear. The miracle of waking up beside someone you’d spent years afraid to lose.

Dean tightened his hold on her ever so slightly. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

Natalie opened her eyes.

Their gazes met. And suddenly neither of them was talking about the bed anymore.

Dean swallowed. Because he didn’t want to let her go either. Not yet. Maybe not for a long while.

Natalie’s expression softened as she realized he’d understood immediately.

No explanation necessary.

That had always been the thing between them. Even as kids. Dean had understood the things she couldn’t say. And she understood the things he buried.

She smiled sleepily. “So…”

Dean groaned immediately. “What?”

“We have to face Bobby eventually.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “I was having a nice morning.”

Natalie laughed softly. “He’s going to be unbearable.”

“He already is.”

“He knows.”

“He definitely knows.”

Dean cracked one eye open. “You think Sam told him?”

Natalie gave him a look. “You think Bobby Singer needs Sam Winchester to tell him anything?”

Dean sighed. “No.”

Because Bobby had probably taken one look at them downstairs and mentally planned their wedding. The thought horrified him.

Natalie seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion because she groaned softly and buried her face against his chest.

Dean laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised both of them.

Natalie tilted her head to look up at him. There it was again. That lighter version of him she’d glimpsed last night.

Not carefree. Dean Winchester would never be carefree. But happy. Tentatively. Hopefully. The sight of it made something warm bloom in her chest.

Neither of them rushed to get up. Outside, the world could wait another few minutes. The Master could wait. Questions about Leandro and border souls and impossible things could wait.

For now, there was only this quiet morning in Sioux Falls, sunlight warming the bed, and the strange, wonderful realization that after years of wondering whether they could be more than friends—they had woken up together.

And neither one regretted it for a second.

Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007

Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories I’m writing!

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: I’m going through a lot with this story right now because it turned into a much bigger writing challenge than I expected. So if you want to read more about my current spiral over Demon Dean, our girl, and this whole mess, I poured some of it into the chapter note on AO3.

Your chest was still heaving under Dean’s weight when his words sank in.

He wanted to touch you without your magic hurting him.

Even with every lifelong doubt you had ever carried about your body, about how men saw you or didn’t see you, Dean had proved to you over and over that he wanted you, that he found you sexy. He had proved it with his hands, his mouth, his impatience, his complete inability to keep his attention off you most of the time.

It wasn’t impossible to believe that some twisted, demonic version of that desire had stayed.

The part that you couldn't really wrap your mind around was... he could have anyone.

He was still Dean Winchester. Ridiculously attractive, broad, strong, with those soft pouty lips, that deep voice, and that unfair face that made people look twice. Now he had no guilt, no shame, no loving attachment stopping him from taking whatever he wanted from whoever offered it.

You wished you could stop thinking about that. You wished you hadn't thought about it for three weeks.

You were pretty damn sure he had not spent all that time alone. The idea hit the same place every time, deep in your chest, sharp enough to make you want to stop breathing until it passed. You tried hard not to picture it. Your husband's hands and mouth touching someone else while you lay awake in the bunker crying your eyes out.

No. Picturing it didn't solve anything.

And still… for some insane reason, after all that, he had come for you. He had risked Sam, risked your magic, risked whatever lead he had been keeping ahead of all of you just to drag you here and demand that you figure out a way to let him put his hands on you.

Well, first of all, fuck him.

Honestly.

Did he really expect you to just let him? Did he think that after everything he had done, after everything he had become, you would sit down in some rotting place and work out how to make yourself safe for a demon's hands because he was horny and used to getting whatever he wanted?

Or worse, did he think he could simply take it, without asking?

The thought made bile rise in your throat so fast you almost choked on it.

The shapeshifter came back to you in ugly pieces. Dean’s face on something that was not Dean. Hands that looked like his, a mouth that looked like his, touching you. The violation of it, the sick confusion of your own body before your mind fully caught up... That memory still made you want to tear your skin open and climb out of it.

Your fingers curled into the old seat beneath you.

Would he really do that?

Even like this, would Dean be able to hurt you that way?

Whatever I want.

That was what he had said when you asked what he was doing. There had been almost no limit in those words. No line he seemed afraid to cross.

But he had also told you he was not going to hurt you.

And maybe even as a demon, Dean was still a man of his word in some fucked up, deranged way. Maybe there were pieces of him that still understood certain things were off-limits, even if he couldn’t feel love the way he used to.

You didn’t know. And you didn't like not knowing.

And even if he meant it, even if he really had no intention of forcing you, the rest of it made no sense. How the hell did he expect you to do this? The protection was in your blood. There was no light switch. You barely understood how all of it worked, and the last time you had pushed your magic too hard, your mind had slammed into a wall and the life you had built was erased.

Dean would have understood that. Your Dean would have.

This one was thinking with his dick, or his pride, or whatever demons ran on when they decided they wanted something.

You must have been silently glaring at him for too long, because when your focus snapped back into place, some of the impatience had faded from his face. His eyes were green again, and he was watching you in a way that made your pulse race faster than the black ever had.

Dean was still above you, close enough to make breathing difficult, but his hands were carefully braced on either side of your body. Even pinned under him, you could tell he was controlling every inch of himself, placing his weight with care, keeping away from your open shirt and your exposed skin. His shoulders blocked most of the car. His face hovered near yours, full of hunger and interest, and for one second, if you ignored the situation hard enough, you could almost see your husband there.

‘God, I missed that face,’ he said.

His mouth curved. There was no real affection in his voice. It sounded closer to fascination. You knew he was studying your every reaction to him.

His eyes moved over your face slowly.

‘Especially when you’re tryin’ real hard not to want me.’

Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. ‘I don’t want you.’

You tried to make it sound convincing enough that both of you could believe it.

Dean’s smile only deepened.

He leaned in just a little, stopping just short of brushing his nose against yours.

‘Yet.’

Your heart jumped hard enough to make you hate it.

Wait, was he… Did he honestly think you would give yourself to him willingly? Did he think all of this would end with you forgetting what he was because your body still reacted to Dean Winchester?

He had to be out of his fucking mind.

That was never going to happen. Not while he was like this.

You were ready to laugh in his face, or at least try, when Dean took a slow breath. His chest expanded against yours, close enough for you to feel the pressure through the layers between you. Heat built where his body hovered near yours, and for one awful second, you could not tell whether it was your magic reacting or your own body betraying you again.

Dean felt it. You saw it in the tiny pull at the corner of his mouth and in the tension that ran through his shoulders.

‘You even smell the same,’ he said, voice low enough that it moved through your chest. ‘That’s unfair as hell, by the way.’

Your eyes squeezed shut for half a second.

Because he did too.

He still smelled like Dean. Leather, whiskey, some kind of smoky perfume, and something warm and familiar underneath. It made you furious. It made you sick with yourself. You felt so many things at once. Fear. Dread. Anger. Relief. Want. Shame... All of it jammed together and you wanted to scream.

He was finally this close.

He was also the reason you were terrified.

You forced your eyes open and pushed your trapped hand harder against him, trying to create any amount of space. Your voice came out low and rough, much steadier than you felt.

‘Get. Off. Me.’

Dean stayed over you for another second, watching you with that infuriating smirk, then finally pushed himself up. He made sure to take his time, too, just to make it clear he was choosing to let you go.

The absence of his weight should have made you feel better. It did not, for some insane reason.

You scrambled back across the bench at once, your spine hitting the passenger door. Your hands flew to your shirt, pulling the fabric together and fumbling with the buttons that popped free. The tremor in your fingers was obvious and you hated that he could see it.

Dean's eyes stayed on your chest while you tried to cover yourself. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, stretching his burned hands once, acting like the pain was more of an annoyance than anything serious.

‘I’m tellin’ you,’ he said, eyes dragging back to your face, ‘you’re scared of the wrong thing here.’

You held your shirt closed with one hand and glared at him.

‘You’re safer with me than you are out there.’ His mouth twitched. ‘And I sure as hell don’t need to hurt you to keep you.’

Yep, there it was. The power move.

You were his, right? That was how he saw it now. His wife, his possession, his thing to move around and lock away until you did what he wanted.

God, you wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. Yet you still couldn’t make yourself hurt him badly. That made you feel pathetic, and the shame only made the anger worse.

‘Yeah, right,’ you scoffed, voice sharper than was probably smart. ‘Because this all looks like a totally safe situation.’

You had no idea where that much bite came from. It sure as hell wasn't confidence. You were still scared of him, that had not changed just because he was no longer pinning you to the seat. Maybe it was Dean’s face, Dean’s voice, Dean’s everything that made some irrational part of your brain keep insisting that you could push him farther than you would push any other demon.

And the fact that you could burn his skin off probably helped.

Dean rolled his eyes and reached for the keys. He pulled them from the ignition and stepped out.

You straightened immediately, shifting away from the door. He walked in front of the Impala, fingers tapping the hood lightly as he crossed to your side. Your eyes caught on his hands. They were still red in places, irritated and healing, but nowhere near as ruined as they should have been after the burns you gave him.

That was another problem that went on the pile of things you didn’t have time to analyze.

Dean opened your door and stepped back, waiting for you to get out.

The cold air from outside hit your face. Behind him, the cabin waited with its crooked porch and dark windows.

No.

Not a chance.

Why should you go inside? Why should you do what he told you? Why should you let him trap you in some creepy cabin in the woods so you could work on making yourself easier for him to touch?

You should have been more careful. You knew that. He was a fucking demon. Strong, evil, unpredictable, although currently more patient than you expected him to be. You should not have been poking at him.

Still, something inside you refused to move. You sank deeper into the seat and crossed your arms over your chest.

Dean waited all of two seconds.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

‘Get out of the car.’

You stared straight ahead through the windshield at the cabin, refusing to look at him. You were not just being stubborn, even if you knew that was what it looked like. You were trying to think. You needed a plan. A real one. Not another half-panicked move that ended with him on top of you and your shirt half-open.

You were not doing that again.

You despised how much power he had over you. And that the one thing that made you dangerous to demons was the thing making you hesitate now.

Because no matter how much you threatened him, your stupid ass did not want to hurt him badly enough to end this.

‘Sweetheart,’ Dean said, voice dropping into something frighteningly calm, ‘get out of the car.’

Your fingers pressed harder into your arms. You couldn’t go into that cabin. Once you got inside, things would get harder. You knew it. If you were going to do something, you needed to do it before the door closed behind you both.

Your eyes flicked toward the trees.

Running was a terrible idea. You had no phone, no idea where you were. The woods were thick, the light was fading, and if you ran, he would catch you. So you stayed in the seat and held onto the only refusal you had left.

Dean leaned one hand against the open doorframe. You gave him one quick glance and immediately wished you hadn’t.

He was watching you too closely. Of course he could hear your heart, see the fear. Of course he knew you were stalling.

His head tilted a little. ‘You really wanna make this harder than it has to be?’

You took one slow breath.

‘You can’t really expect me to-’

That was all you got out.

One second, you were sitting in the passenger seat about to tell him you were not going anywhere, and the next his hands were on you. He grabbed you without hesitation, one arm hooking under your thighs and the other bracing across your back, and lifted you straight out of the car.

You twisted on instinct.

The burn hit immediately.

His bare forearms pressed against your body, your own hands shoving at his shoulders and chest, and smoke rose between you in sharp little bursts. He hissed through his teeth, jaw flexing, but his grip did not loosen.

That was when you realized he had known. He had known it would hurt and he had done it anyway.

Panic hit harder.

You kicked, twisted, tried to wrench yourself free, but he was too damn strong. His arms locked around you, and every movement only made your body press against more of him. Your magic tore into him through fabric and skin, and still he kept moving.

Because it wasn’t burning fast enough.

He had noticed that too. You knew he had. The realization landed cold in your stomach. He was learning the limits of your protection in real time, finding out exactly how much pain he could push through before you became a real threat.

Dean hauled you up and over his shoulder in one rough movement, like you weighed nothing.

Your stomach lurched as the world flipped. Your hair fell forward, your hands grabbed at the back of his shirt, and your ribs hit his shoulder hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. And even in this situation, some ridiculous part of you noticed the view of his tight ass right there in front of your face.

You immediately wanted to punch yourself for noticing.

Smoke and the smell of burning flesh filled the cold air. Your hands clawed at his shirt, trying to pull it up, trying to find skin. He carried you toward the porch without slowing down.

‘Dean, put me down!’ you demanded.

He ignored you.

The porch boards creaked under his boots, but he didn’t stop to search for a key. He didn’t bother with the handle, either. He kicked the door open hard enough that the whole frame cracked. The sound was brutal in the quiet forest, wood splitting, metal snapping, the door slamming inward against the wall.

Then he carried you inside.

Dust hit your nose. Old wood, stale air, damp fabric, cold ash from a fireplace that had not been used in a long time. You barely got a look at the room before anger overrode everything else.

You had enough.

If he wanted to learn your limits, fine. He could learn them.

You grabbed the back of his flannel with both hands and yanked it up. The black shirt underneath came with it just enough for your fingers to find the bare skin at the small of his back.

You shoved both hands under the fabric.

Then you dragged them upward.

Dean growled, because this time, the pain was real.

The sound rumbled through his body under you, low and rough, and satisfaction shot through the fear so fast it almost made you dizzy. Your palms burned him hard, magic working fully now that there was bare skin under your hands. You felt his back tense, muscles locking under your grip, and you dug your fingers in harder as you dragged your hands up along his spine.

You knew this was a bad idea.

Hurting him like this would not make him gentler. And it would definitely not make him less dangerous. You were trapped in a cabin with him now, far from Sam, and you had just burned a demon badly enough to make him lose control of his breathing.

But you refused to do nothing.

Dean threw you onto the couch.

You hit the old cushions with enough force to bounce once, dust bursting up around you and making you cough. Pain flashed through your hip and shoulder. You scrambled upright anyway, one hand already lifted, ready to burn him again if he came for you.

He didn’t.

Dean stood a few feet away, breathing through his teeth. His flannel hung twisted around his sides, the black shirt shoved up high enough for you to see the damage across his back. Red, raw, blistered skin stretched over tense muscle, already trying to heal, but not fast enough to hide how badly you had hurt him. His eyes were black again. His fists opened and closed at his sides, and every few seconds a low, furious sound dragged out of him.

You braced for the worst.

Because he was angry now. You could see it in every line of him. Yeah, this was where he snapped. This was where the demon finally forgot whatever rule had kept him from hurting you. This was where he grabbed you by the throat or slammed you into a wall and gave you enough reason to stop holding back.

Instead, he paced.

He muttered under his breath, every other word a swear, one hand reaching back to tug his shirt away from the burned skin.

‘Son of a-,’ he hissed, shoulders tight. ‘Goddamnit. Fucking-’

His jaw was clenched so hard it looked painful. He rolled his neck, breathing hard, and you watched him fight the pain down through sheer stubbornness. You had hurt him this time. Really hurt him. Any other demon would have come at you for less.

Dean didn’t.

Your hand stayed raised, although your defiance had limits. Your whole body shook against the couch as you tried hard to ignore the fact that hurting him made you feel sick.

After a long moment, Dean stopped pacing. Finally, his breathing steadied. The worst burns along his back had started to close, leaving angry red patches behind. He pulled his shirt down with a sharp tug, then shoved the flannel back into place.

When he looked at you again, his eyes were green.

‘I’m trying,’ he said, voice strained and very careful, ‘real hard… to be patient with you.’

You pressed yourself harder into the couch, trying to make your own breathing even.

Dean’s jaw flexed. ‘Don’t fucking waste it.’

The words landed heavy in the room.

You didn’t answer, because you didn’t trust your voice.

Dean stared at you for another beat, then dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the ruined door hanging half-open behind him. Cold air slipped through the gap, stirring dust across the floor.

He looked at the splintered frame, the broken lock, the cracked wood scattered near his boots.

‘Awesome,’ he muttered. ‘Now I gotta go get a new door lock for this piece of crap.’

You watched him kick a broken piece of the rusty lock aside, then finally forced yourself to look around.

The cabin was probably bigger than the front room showed, although your brain did not want to imagine any more space than necessary. Every extra room meant another place where Dean could corner you, another place where you would be trapped with him and whatever this version of him wanted.

The main room was crowded with old furniture. Beat-up armchairs with torn fabric. A couple of old cupboards pushed against the plank walls. Wooden storage chests with rusted hinges. A table with mismatched chairs. A small kitchen area with stained counters and a sink that looked as if it had not seen a clean dish in years. There was one open doorway leading into another room, and from where you sat on the couch, you could just make out the edge of a bed. Another door stayed closed near the back wall, and your best guess was a bathroom.

God, you hoped this place had a bathroom.

The thought of safely running was leaving you by the second. The open doorway showed trees, more trees, and the narrow strip of dirt road Dean had driven down, which had twisted through too many turns and too many half-roads for you to trust your memory.

No. You had to think of something else.

That annoyed you more than it should have, because right now your brain wasn’t moving fast enough.

Stalling. That was all you had for now. Let him think you were cooperating, at least enough to keep him entertained. Drag out the time. Use your touch if things got dangerous enough. Hope he really meant it when he said he would not hurt you.

Hope that Sam would find you.

Your jaw tightened.

You were smart. You were a goddamn doctor. A scientist. You had survived too much to sit on a dusty couch and wait for a demon to outsmart you.

Even if the demon in question was the best hunter in the world.

You watched Dean pick up the larger chunks of the broken wood and toss them aside. He kicked smaller splinters out onto the porch with the toe of his boot, muttering under his breath.

The sight of him doing something so stupidly practical in this place made your brain take an awful turn.

Because once, a long time ago, you had imagined something close to this.

You and Dean. A small place with trees all around, remote and private enough to be just for you. A cabin far away from hunting and noise and the world asking too much of him. It had been after you found out the two of you shared a Heaven, after Dean told you that was what he had imagined. Just the two of you, spending forever somewhere tucked away from the rest of the world.

Looking around now, past the dust and rot and broken lock, you could almost see how this place might have been warm with enough work. With fresh wood, clean windows, a repaired porch. With Dean grumbling through every task and secretly enjoying the fact that he was building something he planned to keep.

That thought hit too hard.

You had the lodge by the lake now. That was the place where you and Dean had quietly started building a future. If fate was generous enough to let you grow old, that was where you had imagined ending up.

But still, before the lodge, before the wedding, the first version of that dream had been this. A small cabin in the woods.

Now your heaven turned into this. A nightmare. And you had no idea if the man you married would ever come back to spend any kind of forever with you.

Tears rushed hot into your eyes before you could stop them.

You blinked hard and looked away.

You were so caught in the thought that you didn’t notice Dean had stopped moving until you felt his stare.

When you looked up, his eyes were on you. The amused expression on his face almost made you want to throw up.

A cold draft pushed in through the broken doorway, cutting across the room and slipping under your open shirt. You shivered before you could stop yourself. It was late October, and you were sitting in a cold cabin wearing a thin dress shirt with half the buttons barely fixed.

That didn’t make you freeze as much as the flannel landing over your shoulders.

Dean had shrugged it off and stepped close enough to drop it around you, careful not to touch your skin. The amusement was gone. For one startling second, his face was serious.

You stared at him.

You wanted to throw the flannel off. You wanted to tell him to shove it up his demonic ass.

Instead, your fingers caught the edges and pulled it tighter around you.

Dean's scent hit you so hard you almost made a sound. Your throat closed.

You missed him.

You missed him so fucking much.

For three weeks, you had nothing except his pillow and his side of bed, losing the last traces of him day by day, the smell of cinnamon fading too fast from fabric that had gone cold.

Now he was here.

He was right here.

Dean was standing in front of you and it was him and it was not him, and the contradiction was so exhausting you wanted to scream until your throat gave out.

‘Alright.’

Dean’s voice filled the small space and forced you back into the room. He was watching you again, his expression harder to read now.

‘I need to make a run. Stat. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.’

You looked up at him, frowning. ‘You’re leaving? Now?’

‘Can’t have you catchin’ a cold, can we?’ His eyes moved over the flannel around your shoulders, then back to your face. ‘Unless you do your homework so we can cuddle.’

Jackass.

‘Bite me,’ you snapped, face tight.

Dean raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. He was down to the black T-shirt now. His bare forearms and biceps flexed with the movement, and your eyes dropped for half a second before you dragged them away and reminded yourself to have one single shred of self-respect.

Dean huffed, smug as hell.

‘Whatever you want me to do, baby.’ His voice dropped just enough to make your skin heat under the flannel. ‘Soon as you stop roasting the hell outta me.’

Your eyes snapped back to him, and you gave him the nastiest glare you could manage.

He only smirked and pulled the car keys from his jeans.

The sight of them made your stomach drop. Of course. He was taking the car. The only obvious way out and leaving you with thick trees and a broken door.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he said, tossing the keys once in his hand. ‘Try the woods if you want. I’ll find you anyway. And when I do, I’m probably gonna be in a bad mood.’

The casual threat in his voice brought the unease back fast. Your hand curled into a fist against the dusty cushion.

Dean turned toward the door, then stopped at the smashed threshold and glanced back over his shoulder.

‘I believe you’ve got my gun on you, right?’ he said. ‘I’d take it out if I were you. In case some wild animal decides to visit.’

Then he walked out.

You sat there, frozen, while he crossed the clearing and got into the Impala. The engine started, that familiar rumble moving through the trees, and your chest tightened again because the sound of Baby leaving felt wrong. He backed out of the clearing, turned between the trees, and disappeared down the narrow track.

The engine faded slowly.

Then the quiet settled.

You were alone.

In the middle of the woods, in a ruined cabin, with no phone, no car, no idea where you were.

And still, for a second, relief hit so hard your shoulders almost gave out.

His presence had been too much. Every second near him had forced your body to make choices your mind hated, and now that he was gone, you could finally breathe without worrying he would hear it.

You looked at the broken doorway. Then the trees. And for one reckless second, you considered running anyway.

You could go now. He was gone. The woods were open. You could pick a direction and move until your legs failed. Anything had to be better than sitting here waiting for him to come back, right?

Your hand tightened around the edge of the flannel.

No.

You already decided running was useless. Staying felt insane, yes, but running felt worse.

So you stayed.

Not because he scared you into obedience. Because you realized he made a stupid mistake.

Dean had left a Men of Letters legacy alone in a cabin full of surfaces.

You stood so fast your knees almost buckled.

The room tilted for one second, then steadied. You moved toward the kitchen, stepping over broken wood and dust, scanning counters, drawers, cabinets. Your hands shook as you yanked open the first drawer. Empty. The second stuck halfway before you forced it open with a hard pull. Utensils rattled inside, old and filthy.

Good enough.

You grabbed the first knife you found.

The blade was ugly, spotted with rust, the edge dull and chipped in places. You didn’t care.

You pushed Dean’s flannel off one shoulder, rolled your sleeve up, exposing the shivering skin of your forearm, and pressed the blade down.

Then you cut.

Dean wasn’t too thrilled about leaving her out there alone.

Running didn’t worry him. She was smart enough to know she wouldn’t get far with no phone and no clue where the hell she was. The woods were thick, the road back was a mess of turns and gravel, and even if she picked the right direction, he’d catch her before she got close to anything useful.

She knew that. She also knew who she belonged to.

No, the problem was the broken door.

That part kept digging under his skin while he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the seat beside him where he had her pinned just moments ago. He had left her in the middle of the woods with the front door smashed open, with no real barrier and nothing but a gun. If something wandered inside, some animal, some drifter, or some dumb son of a bitch who saw a cabin and thought it was empty, he was gonna decorate the trees with their guts.

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel.

Yeah.

He hadn’t been kidding when he told her she was safer with him. He didn’t give a damn how that sounded. It was true. Dean didn’t like people touching what was his. His car, his weapons, his records, his wife. There was an order there, sure, and she was sitting pretty damn high on it.

The only person who got a pass was his brother, and even that depended on the day.

Maybe Dean was just a greedy ass. Maybe he had spent too many years owning nothing that couldn’t fit in the trunk of the Impala. Didn’t matter. His wife was his now, and that meant protected.

With him, she was safe. Everybody else could choke.

Dean pushed harder on the gas. The Impala took the narrow road hard, gravel spitting under the tires. He had the lock, the hinges, a couple pieces of cut lumber, screws, nails, a new latch, and the bottle he picked up because this whole damn day had earned him a drink.

Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have left her alone. But she needed to learn. She needed to understand that pulling stunts had consequences. Refusing to get out of the car when he asked so nicely. Acting tough while shaking under him. Burning his back with those damn claws of hers.

Fuck, that had hurt.

He could still feel it across his back, even through the healing. Her hands dragging up under his shirt, her magic digging straight into him, hot and vicious enough to make his vision black out at the edges for a second. He should’ve been mad. He wanted to be mad.

He wasn’t.

Because it had been fun.

Seeing that fire in her, that furious defiance, her hand on his throat and her body over his in the front seat, had been the best damn thing he’d felt in weeks. She had looked scared and angry and alive, and it made him so hard he almost forgot he was being burned.

He still felt her weight in his lap. Still remembered the way she froze when she realized exactly what she was doing to him. Still remembered the little catch in her breathing when embarrassment hit and her body answered before she could shut it down.

That was why he had taken her. That right there.

The silent calls had been good. Watching her chase him had been fun. But nothing came close to having her near enough to smell, near enough to touch if her magic wasn’t being a pain in his ass.

He was going to fix that. She was going to fix that. Then he was going to show her exactly how much fun they could have once she stopped resisting.

Right now, she was scared of him. Fair enough. He enjoyed that more than he probably should have. But she was scared of the wrong thing. He knew what was sitting in that head of hers. She thought he was going to force her to have sex with him.

That put a bitter taste in his mouth.

Dean took what he wanted now. Sure. No point in pretending he cared about morality or some other crap. But that? No. He wasn’t some pathetic piece of trash who needed to force his wife like that.

Where was the fun if she didn’t ask for it?

And she would.

Dean was damn sure of that. He knew every button she had. Knew what made her blush, what made her breath hitch, what made her shake. He knew how to get under her skin. Once that magic stopped getting in the damn way, he was going to push every single one until she stopped lying to both of them.

He was looking forward to that.

One more turn and the trees parted. Dean’s foot eased off the gas. The cabin sat in the clearing ahead, crooked and ugly, with the busted front door hanging open.

And blood on the windows.

Dean’s smile died. ‘Son of a bitch.’

He brought the Impala to a hard stop in front of the porch and stared.

She wasn’t outside. Didn’t come running. Didn’t show herself in the doorway. But the sigils were there, painted clear across the window frames, the doorframe, the visible boards around the threshold. Fresh blood. Her blood. Red lines curling into shapes he knew well enough to hate.

That sneaky little pain in the ass.

For one second, Dean just sat there with his hand on the wheel, jaw tight, anger climbing fast.

He had underestimated her.

He thought she would be scared. Thought she might try the woods, maybe hide behind the couch with his gun and that stubborn look on her face. He hadn’t expected her to turn the damn cabin into a bloody panic room while he was gone.

Which made him look like a fool.

And Dean Winchester didn’t like looking like a fool.

He slammed the car door hard enough to rattle the frame and walked toward the cabin, eyes moving over the sigils as he got closer. The blood was still visible. Wet in places. That was important. He had seen enough of her work to know the real nasty stuff didn’t stay looking like paint once she activated it. It burned in, sank deep, disappeared into wood and stone.

These weren’t set yet.

Which was good. If she had finished the work, this would have gotten real annoying real fast.

Still, the air pushed back when he stepped onto the porch. A pressure shoved against his chest before he even reached the threshold. His lip curled.

Clever girl.

‘I see you’ve been busy,’ he called.

Then he caught a movement inside. Dean’s eyes found her through the open frame.

She stood near one of the side windows, left arm bloody, right hand slick red to the knuckles. The knife in her grip looked nasty as hell, rusted and chipped, the kind of blade that tore more than it cut. Her shirt sleeves were pushed up, his flannel still hanging loose around her shoulders, her face pale and tight with panic and fury. Her fingers were pressed to the glass, dragging blood through the last unfinished curve of a symbol.

She looked pissed. Probably because she hadn’t been fast enough.

Dean stepped toward the doorway.

The ward shoved him back.

His jaw ticked. ‘Seriously?’

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him for more than half a second. Just kept drawing, fast and messy, her blood leaving thick lines over the old glass.

Dean forced his voice level. Barely.

‘You think I won’t break every ward in this place to get to you?’

Still nothing.

The knife flashed in her bloody hand as she cut a fresh line over her forearm and went right back to the window.

Dean turned sharply and headed for the trunk.

He grabbed the hand axe.

By the time he came back to the porch, she had finished the window and moved deeper inside, toward the middle of the room. Her breathing was too fast. He could hear it from outside. Could hear the hitch under the anger. She was burning through strength she didn’t have, riding panic and that crazy stubbornness of hers.

Dean lifted the axe.

‘You’ve got five seconds to stop doing that and break the sigil at the door,’ he said, voice low. ‘Or I’m gonna do it myself, and believe me, you’re not gonna like what happens next.’

She looked at him then. Just one glance. Silent. Shaking. Furious.

Then she lowered her bloody fingers to her palm and started drawing another symbol on her own skin.

Dean’s blood went hot.

‘You’re testing the wrong damn guy.’

She didn’t stop. Of course she didn’t stop.

That was his wife. Smart enough to know better and determined enough to do it anyway.

Dean swung the axe.

The blade slammed into the wood above the doorframe, biting through the blood line and splitting the old plank underneath. The ward snapped against him, hard enough to make his teeth clench. She flinched inside, but her bloody fingers kept moving.

Fine.

Dean swung again.

Another line broke under the blade. Then another. He chopped through the side of the frame, scraped the axe hard across the threshold, tore into the blood lines until the pressure pushing against him started to weaken. The spell fought back in ugly pulses, snapping at his skin every time he broke another piece.

He kept swinging. Wood cracked. Blood smeared. The air around the doorway shuddered once.

Then the force gave.

Dean stepped inside.

She stood in the middle of the room with her bloody palm half-marked and the rusted knife raised in her other hand. The second she saw him cross the threshold, real fear hit her face.

That fear should’ve pleased him, but it didn't.

It made something in his chest go mean and tight, because why the fuck did she still look at him like he was going to bury the axe in her? Why the fuck did she keep making him prove the same thing over and over? He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted his wife, his hands on her, her magic out of the way, all that fight turned into something more pleasant than this.

And now her blood was everywhere.

Fresh. Red. Deadly.

Her touch hurt, yeah. But her blood could do worse. Much worse. They both knew that. The knife was covered in it, held between them with enough warning to make even him slow down.

Dean looked at the blade, then at her face. He threw the axe onto the couch. It landed with a dull thud in the dust.

Then he lifted both hands.

‘That was smart,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ll give you that. Almost impressed.’

Her chest rose and fell too fast. ‘Stay back.’

Dean’s mouth twitched. He stepped closer.

She didn’t step back. The knife stayed up, bloody and shaking, pointed right at his chest.

Her arm was a mess. Long cuts, uneven and ugly, blood slipping down to her wrist and dripping off her fingers. She was exhausted. He could see it now, clear as day. Pale face, trembling hand, knees locked because they probably wanted to give out. She was holding herself together with anger, fear, and not much else.

That made her dangerous. Reckless.

‘Put the knife down,’ Dean said.

She didn’t.

His patience thinned.

‘Sweetheart,’ he warned, voice dropping, ‘put the knife down before I stop finding this cute.’

Her hand shook. Just a little.

Dean moved, fast. He caught her wrist from the outside, avoiding the bloody edge, twisted just enough to break her grip, and knocked the knife out of her hand. It hit the floor and skidded under the table.

For half a second, everything went still.

She looked at her empty hand.

Dean braced.

He was ready for her to slam that bloody palm against his chest. Ready for the burn. Ready for pain bad enough to put him on his knees. He could take it. He’d have to. Because he was done letting her put weapons between them.

But she didn’t touch him.

Her face crumpled. Then she dropped to her knees and started sobbing.

Dean froze.

That was not what he expected. Not even close.

He stared down at her, hands still half-raised, body ready for a fight that had just disappeared out from under him. She folded over herself on the dusty floor, bloody hands covering her face, shoulders shaking so hard the flannel slipped down one arm. The sound of it filled the cabin, raw and broken and wrong.

Dean couldn’t move.

For one stupid second, all he could do was stare.

He had done it.

He had finally broken her.

That should’ve been good. Should’ve felt like winning. He had pushed her hard enough, scared her long enough, cornered her until the fight finally went out.

Except looking at her like that made something ugly crawl under his skin.

He didn’t want this.

No, this pissed him off.

He wanted the fire. The glare. The smart mouth. He wanted her angry enough to forget fear and brave enough to make him work for it.

This? This wasn’t fun. This was just a mess on the floor crying into bloody hands.

Dean’s jaw clenched.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered, mostly to himself. ‘Awesome.’

She didn’t look up.

He stood there another second, hating the sound, hating the blood, hating the way his own body wanted to go down there and pull her hands away from her face. Human Dean would’ve done it. Human Dean would’ve hit the floor beside her, whispered her name, apologized until his throat gave out.

Screw that.

Dean turned away and went back outside to deal with the busted lock.

The door still needed fixing. The cabin still needed to be safe. She still belonged to him, and the whole damn place was open to the woods.

So he left her on the floor and got to work.

It took her a while to stop.

Dean didn’t count the minutes on purpose, but he heard every one of them. Worked through most of it with his jaw clenched. The sobs slowed. Her breathing caught and settled, then broke again, then settled for real. He hauled the supplies in from the car, set the brown paper bag on the table, and started fixing what he had broken. Planks first. New latch after. He worked with his back half-turned to her, hammer in hand, because looking at her too long made him feel that same crawling anger again.

By the time she moved, Dean had the first board nailed over the worst part of the broken frame.

She stood slowly. No words, no smart comment this time.

That was worse.

She crossed to the sink, face blank, and turned the faucet. Pipes groaned somewhere in the walls before brownish water coughed out, then cleared enough for her to shove her hands underneath. Blood thinned and spiraled down the drain. She washed quietly, shoulders tight, his flannel still hanging around her.

Dean kept hammering. She kept washing. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the cabin were water, nails, and the old wood groaning every time he hit it.

When she shut the faucet off, Dean set the hammer down and walked toward her.

She heard him coming and went stiff.

He stepped close. She immediately moved back, hips bumping the counter behind her. Her eyes flicked to his hands.

Dean lifted them, palms out. ‘Relax. Just wanna see what you did to yourself.’

Her eyes snapped up to his. Her mouth tightened. ‘Don’t act like you care.’

Dean’s face stayed flat.

He reached for her arm. She tried to pull back, but he caught the edge of her sleeve and used the fabric to draw her closer. He lifted her forearm and looked.

The cuts were deep, ragged, and ugly. The kind of damage a dull knife made when someone used it in a hurry. His fingers flexed once in the fabric of her sleeve.

For a second, he didn’t say anything.

Dean stared at the torn skin, at the blood still welling slow and red along the uneven lines, and something mean twisted under his ribs. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like seeing her cut up like that. Didn’t like knowing she had done it to herself because he had left her alone long enough to get desperate. And he didn’t need her desperate. He needed her useful, breathing, and in one damn piece.

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

She tried to yank her arm away. ‘Let go.’

Dean held the sleeve tighter. ‘If you’re gonna go to town on yourself with a knife, at least make it a sharp one. I thought you knew that.’

Her eyes flashed, and for a second, it looked like she might snap something back at him. She didn’t. Her mouth pressed shut, tight and shaking, and that bothered him more than any smartass answer would have.

Dean looked at the cuts again.

They were still bleeding, enough to make a mess. He had to watch where he put his hands because her blood was right there, warm and dangerous, coming out of her.

‘Goddamn,’ he muttered.

He let go of her sleeve before he could tighten his grip hard enough to hurt her. Then he turned and walked for the door.

She tensed behind him. He heard the quick shift of her feet and her shallow breath, but he didn’t look back. He crossed the porch, went straight to the Impala, and popped the trunk. The first aid kit was right where it always was, shoved in with the rest of the crap he kept for hunts and roadside emergencies. Dean grabbed it, slammed the trunk shut, and headed back inside.

She hadn’t moved.

Dean dropped the kit on the table, flipped it open, and dug through it with more force than necessary. Gauze. Tape. Antiseptic wipes. Bandage wrap. Good enough.

He glanced at her. ‘Sit.’

Her face tightened.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. ‘That wasn’t a request.’

She stayed standing for one more second. Then she sat at the edge of one of the chairs, stiff-backed, watching him with suspicion.

‘Don’t get all warm and fuzzy,’ he said, pulling out the antiseptic. His eyes dropped to the blood on her arm again, and his voice roughened all of a sudden. ‘I need you functional.’

That anger flickered again. Yeah, good.

Dean caught the edge of her sleeve and pulled her arm toward him through the fabric. She resisted on instinct, but there wasn’t much strength behind it anymore. Her hand was cold. Her pulse was racing. Her whole body was running on fumes.

He set her forearm on the table and worked without making a big production out of it.

The antiseptic came first. She hissed when he cleaned around the cuts, her fingers curling against the wood. Dean ignored the sound because he had to. Looking at her face every time she made a noise like that was a real bad idea, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with whatever crap that dragged up.

‘Hold still.’

She did, mostly.

The cuts were real nasty up close. Jagged edges, uneven depth, skin torn to all hell. Dean tore open another batch of the antiseptic wipes, folded them over a thick wad of gauze, and used that to clean around the wounds. The wipes did the job. The gauze kept his fingers away from the blood. He wasn’t stupid enough to get any of it on him. He had learned plenty today.

Still, his jaw kept tightening.

He should’ve been pissed that she tried it. And yeah, he was. But damn if part of him didn’t like seeing her fight that hard. The rest of him wanted to throw that rusty piece of crap knife through a wall, because fighting him was one thing. Cutting herself open to do it was something else.

He found himself reaching with his other hand, slowly this time, and tracing one fingertip along the inside of her forearm, just beside one of the cuts. Close enough to feel the heat of her skin.

The sting came immediately. A low hiss rose from the contact, and pain bit into his fingertip.

Dean ignored it.

Goosebumps rushed over her skin.

He saw them. Of course he saw them.

He let himself look for a moment, enjoying the way her heartbeat quickened under his smallest touch. She could glare all she wanted. Her body still knew him.

Dean finally wrapped the gauze around her forearm and taped it down. He pulled it tight enough to hold, checked the edge with his thumb, then tore the tape with his teeth and pressed it flat.

When he finished, he didn’t let go right away.

Her arm stayed in his hand, covered now. Even under the gauze, her skin still had a warning heat to it, just enough to remind him what she could do.

His eyes lifted to hers. She looked wrecked. Tired past the point of hiding it. Red eyes, pale face, jaw still clenched because she hated that he had seen any of it. Yeah, she needed sleep. Food too, probably. Maybe a drink. A damn minute where nobody pushed her.

Well. Too bad.

Dean wasn’t done for today.

‘Alright,’ he said, voice low and careful, ‘now you’re gonna take those bloody masterpieces down while I finish fixing the door.’

She stared at him. He jerked his chin toward the brown paper bag on the table.

‘Then we’re gonna crack that bad boy open, and you and me are finally gonna talk.’

A/N: And now I’m curious... what are your feelings about Demon Dean at this point? Is it love, love/hate, or just pure hate?

Also:

- There’s a reference in here to one of my giant movie guilty pleasures. Whoever catches it gets a gold star.

- There’s also a scene that mirrors a moment from a completely different setting in one of the other sequels. I didn’t spell out the reference, but let me know if you caught it.

Tag list:

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

You slow, glance at the empty stretch ahead, then flick the wheel sharply. The Charger pivots cleanly in a tight U-turn, tires hissing against damp pavement. Gravel spits lightly as you correct and head back toward town.

“Idiot,” you mutter under your breath.

Not because of the horn.

Because you left the map.

Rain thickens slightly as you pull into the motel lot. The world smells different now—wet earth, soaked wood, ozone humming faintly in the air. Your senses sharpen automatically, cataloging everything before you consciously mean to.

You’re already out of the car and moving, keys spinning once around your finger before you catch them. The motel door opens with a dull scrape and shuts behind you.

The room is exactly as you left it. Papers spread wide. Map centered like a heart waiting to be cut open.

You step inside, shut the door, and lock it.

Rain taps steadily now against the window.

You lean over the bed first, eyes sweeping the map. Your finger traces the red marks again. Miller’s Creek. The bar. The private logging road.

It’s there. It has to be.

You grab the first case file and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on your knees. The paper is already soft from handling. Your eyes skim quickly, efficiently. Time of death. Location found. Witness statements. Animal attack speculation.

Your gaze flicks back to the map.

Distance. Timing.

You go back to the file.

Nothing.

You toss it aside and reach for the second.

Rain grows heavier, tapping against the glass in a steady rhythm now. Your focus narrows again—not as distant as at the stop sign, but close. Controlled.

You read slower this time.

Line by line.

Your eyes drift once more to the map, then back down.

And then—

You freeze.

It’s small.

So small you almost miss it again.

The one detail both files share. The one thread tying the victims together in a way the reports never meant to highlight.

Your stomach drops.

“How did I miss that?” you breathe.

It’s obvious now. Painfully obvious. Sitting there in black and white like it’s been waiting for you to catch up.

You toss the second file down harder than you mean to and stand in one smooth motion.

Your hand drops automatically to your belt, fingers brushing the hilt of the silver blade there. You pull it free just enough to check the edge. Clean. Sharp. Ready. You slide it back into place.

Your other hand lifts without thinking, thumb rubbing over the silver band on your right ring finger. The metal is cool beneath your skin. Grounding.

For a split second, you consider the gun in your bag. The silver rounds you loaded not long after arriving in town.

Your jaw tightens.

No. Too loud.

You don’t need loud. Not with where you’re heading.

You grab your keys instead.

Rain is steady now when you step back outside, mist clinging to your hair and darkening your flannel almost immediately.

The thread isn’t loose anymore.

Now it’s a line.

And you’re going to follow it.

Sam knocks. A moment later, the door opens to a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept properly in days. Red-rimmed eyes. Shoulders pulled tight, like she’s bracing against something that isn’t there anymore.

They show badges. Soft voices. Condolences.

The living room smells faintly of candle wax and something floral that’s trying too hard to cover grief. A Bible rests open on the coffee table, pages thin and worn. Another sits on a side table near an armchair that no one is sitting in.

The widow folds her hands together in her lap. “He was a good man,” she says automatically, as if she’s repeated it so many times the words have lost shape. “He went to church every Sunday. Never missed. Even when he was sick.”

Dean nods once, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Calm. Professional. “Anyone he had trouble with? Arguments? Business disputes?”

She shakes her head. “No. He kept to himself mostly. Work, church, home.” Her gaze flickers toward the hallway, then back. “He read his Bible every night. Kept one by the bed. Said it helped him sleep.”

Sam’s eyes move, cataloging the room. Framed family photos. Smiling faces. A fifteen-year-old girl perched stiffly on the edge of the recliner, knees drawn together, hands tucked under her thighs.

She hasn’t said a word.

Her eyes keep darting to Dean, then away again.

Sam softens his posture slightly. “What about you?” he asks gently. “Did you notice anything different about your dad lately? Anything that seemed off?”

The girl swallows.

Her mother turns to her. “Sweetheart?”

The silence stretches thin.

Dean watches the girl carefully. Not pushing. Just waiting.

She presses her lips together. Her fingers curl tighter against the fabric of her jeans.

“He…” Her voice cracks. She tries again. “He wasn’t always… good.”

The widow’s face tightens in confusion. “Honey—”

“He hurt me,” the girl blurts, words tumbling out before she can lose them. “Sometimes. When Mom was working late. He said it was discipline. That God said children needed correction.”

The room goes very still.

Dean’s jaw locks.

Sam’s eyes close for half a second—just enough to steady himself—before he opens them again, voice careful and steady. “Did you ever tell anyone?”

The girl shakes her head. Tears spill over, but she doesn’t wipe them away. “He said no one would believe me.”

The widow stares at her daughter like the ground has split open beneath her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared.”

Dean exhales slowly through his nose. His fingers curl once against his knee. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Doesn’t let it show. But the air around him feels heavier.

He’s always believed the worst monsters were human.

Sam gently shifts the conversation, asking the necessary questions—when it started, if anyone else might have known, if her father had been meeting anyone outside the house besides church and work. The girl shakes her head at most of it.

Church.

Always church.

Eventually, there’s nothing more to ask. Just condolences again. A quiet promise to stay in touch.

They step back outside. The drizzle has started, thin and cold.

Dean walks around to the driver’s side but doesn’t start it right away. He stares through the windshield for a long moment, rain dotting the glass.

Sam slides into the passenger seat, closing the door softly.

Dean grips the steering wheel. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath.

Sam glances over. “Yeah.”

A beat passes.

Then Sam says, quieter, thoughtful, “Didn’t the other victim go to church too?”

Dean’s eyes flick toward him.

The engine turns over.

And for the first time since they pulled up, something about this case shifts.

It paints the town in a muted sheen, streetlights reflecting gold against wet pavement. The church sits exactly where you remember it—just off the main road, white siding clean, steeple rising modestly into the gray sky. Not grand. Not crumbling. Just… present.

You’d driven past it two days ago without a second glance.

Now your instincts won’t let you look away.

That thread in your mind tightens the closer you get. Not enough to pull. Just enough to remind you it’s there.

You park along the curb instead of the small side lot. Old habit. Always give yourself options.

The air smells like rain and damp wood as you step out. The church doors are unlocked.

Inside, the scent shifts—old hymnals, polished pews, faint incense long settled into the grain of the wood. Soft lighting. Quiet. Peaceful in a way that almost makes your shoulders loosen.

Almost.

There’s movement near the front.

A man straightens from arranging something near the altar. Mid to late forties. Brown hair touched with gray at the temples. A well-kept beard and mustache, more silver threaded through than the rest. Brown eyes that settle on you without suspicion.

And when he smiles, it reaches them.

“Good evening,” he says, voice warm and even. “Can I help you?”

You soften your posture automatically, letting your shoulders drop, expression open but cautious. “I hope so. I’m… thinking about relocating. Smaller town. Quieter life.” You give a faint shrug. “I’ve learned the hard way that where you plant yourself matters. Especially when it comes to church.”

He nods slowly, stepping down from the platform. “That it does.”

You move a little farther down the aisle, letting your gaze sweep the room as if assessing architecture instead of exits. “I’ve seen churches that… weren’t what they claimed to be. Leaders who took advantage of people looking for hope.”

There’s no accusation in your tone—just careful honesty.

He doesn’t bristle.

If anything, something thoughtful flickers behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry that’s been your experience,” he says gently. “Faith is meant to protect people. Not exploit them.”

The thread in your mind tightens again.

You tilt your head slightly. “I heard about the two men who were killed recently.” You let concern color your voice. “Both attended church, didn’t they? I suppose it makes a person wonder if someone’s targeting believers.”

His expression shifts—not to fear. Not to anger.

To something steadier.

“Tragic,” he says quietly. “But no. I don’t believe anyone is targeting this congregation.”

You watch him carefully.

He holds your gaze without wavering.

“Nothing bad happens to good people,” he continues, tone calm but firm. “Not here. And sometimes what looks like tragedy…” A faint, almost wistful smile touches his mouth. “Can be a blessing in disguise. We rarely see the whole picture.”

Your claws press faintly against the inside of your fingertips, instinct threatening to surface.

You force your hands to stay relaxed at your sides.

“And you’re certain your church is…” You let the sentence hang delicately. “Safe.”

He steps a little closer, not invading, just reassuring.

“I give everything I have to this place,” he says. No arrogance. No defensiveness. Just quiet conviction. “My door is always open. My sermons are transparent. My flock is cared for.”

Flock.

The word lands heavier than it should.

Your senses reach for something—wrongness, rot, hunger.

There’s nothing obvious.

Just rain tapping softly against stained glass. Just a man with kind eyes and steady breathing. Just a church that feels exactly like a church should.

And that, somehow, unsettles you more than if it didn’t.

You offer him a polite smile. “Thank you for your time, Pastor.”

And then you reach out your right hand—the one with the silver band resting cool against your skin. It’s subtle. Casual. The kind of handshake anyone would expect.

His eyes flick down for the briefest fraction of a second.

Then he takes your hand. His grip is firm. Steady. Warm. If it hurts, he doesn’t show it.

Not in his expression. Not in his posture. Not in the way his voice remains smooth when he says, “You’re very welcome. I hope we’ll see you again.”

But you smell it.

Not blood.

Not fear.

Burn.

Faint. Sharp. Beneath the clean scent of soap and old wood and rain.

Silver against skin that shouldn’t touch it.

Your pulse doesn’t spike. Your face doesn’t change. You don’t tighten your grip. You just let the handshake linger half a beat longer than necessary.

Testing.

He doesn’t flinch.

Impressive.

You withdraw first.

“Well,” you say lightly, as if nothing at all just happened. “I did have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

His smile never wavers. “Of course.”

And now you know.

Now you just need him to keep talking.

Sam flips open the notebook balanced on his knee, scanning the lines they’ve scribbled.

“Both victims went to the same church,” he says. “Both were described as respectable. Community-oriented. Quiet.”

Dean exhales through his nose. “And both had skeletons in the closet.”

Sam nods slowly. “Which means either we’ve got a werewolf with a moral compass…”

“Or someone doing recon from the inside,” Dean finishes.

They fall into a thoughtful silence. The drizzle thickens slightly, the wipers swiping rhythmically.

Dean’s jaw shifts as he thinks it through. “No signs of forced entry at either house. No struggle reported before the attacks. That means the vic knew their killer. Or trusted them.”

“Or was caught off guard,” Sam adds. “Somewhere neutral.”

Dean’s eyes flick to him. “Like a place people feel safe.”

The town’s main street comes into view. Storefronts closed early. Streetlights glowing against wet asphalt.

Then Dean’s gaze catches on something parked along the curb just ahead.

The Charger.

Not in the small church lot.

On the street.

His grip on the wheel tightens slightly.

“You seeing that?” he asks, voice low.

Sam looks up.

The Charger sits quiet and familiar against the rain-slick curb, engine off, windows dark.

“Same one from earlier,” Sam says.

Dean slows as they approach the church, easing the Impala past before pulling into a space just down from the lot entrance. Close enough. Not obvious.

The engine cuts. For a second, neither of them moves. This is getting harder to chalk up to coincidence.

Sam meets Dean’s eyes.

Dean doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought is there—either she’s hunting the same thing… or she is the thing.

He reaches under his jacket, checking the weight of the silver knife at his hip—the familiar reassurance of it. Then the Colt—loaded, but not something he plans to use lightly.

Sam does the same, subtle and efficient. Silver tucked away. Gun secure. Nothing visible.

By the time they step out into the drizzle, they look like two ordinary men heading into an evening service.

Rain taps softly against the hood of the Impala as they shut the doors. Dean’s gaze drifts once more to the Charger. Then to the church.

“Let’s go to church,” he mutters.

And together, they head for the doors.

Chapter 1 ----- Chapter 3 - coming soon Doppelganger Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

Images, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC You can also find me on Patreon

Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007

@hobby27 @megs-gadom @cheekygirl2309 @mxtansy @ladysparkles78

@ambiguous-avery @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @my-stories-vault

@maddie0101 @bettystonewell @whimsyfinny @muhahaha303 @barewithme02

@nancymcl @thewinchesterwench @krazykelly @biancalinkas @abbacadabara

@sepho @princessjas1-11 @mightypocketcow @spideyfan1800

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.”

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 /

@imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library /

@stoneyggirl2 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox /

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

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

A/B/O Master List Main Master List Series Master List

Images, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC You can also find me on Patreon

Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007

@hobby27 @megs-gadom @cheekygirl2309 @mxtansy @ladysparkles78

@ambiguous-avery @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @my-stories-vault

@maddie0101 @bettystonewell @whimsyfinny @muhahaha303 @barewithme02

@nancymcl @thewinchesterwench @krazykelly @biancalinkas @abbacadabara

@sepho @princessjas1-11 @mightypocketcow @spideyfan1800

Tag List: @nancymcl @lovelydisc @luahmeeks @alternativeprincess94 @kailalaland

@ladykitana90 @muhahaha303 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @suckitands33 @stoneyggirl2

“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.

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 /

@imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library /

@stoneyggirl2 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox /

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

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.