Jackalack

• Opening your door and going around, you pull the backdoor open and reach to catch them when they sag your way, your knees nearly buckling with their weight. Their optics are wide as they push back, looking around before staring at your hand on their shoulder. Drawing back, you slowly move out of the way and hope they aren’t going to run. Hope the mech you’ve brought them to can help. He’s the only one of them you actually trust. Also, the only one you really know at all. “It’s okay,” you whisper as they rumble at you, tensing. “I have a friend here and he’ll be able to help you.” The kid has to be a runaway. Or lost. But as they stare at the police station, you suspect they can at least read your language. Possibly can speak it even if they’ve refused to so far. Holding out your hand, their optics flick from it to your face. “Trust me?”

• Looking up when someone knocks on his office door, he can see a shape moving around on the other side of the blinds. “Come in,” he growls, trying to neaten up the chaotic piles of paperwork strewn across his modified desk as he flexes his door wings. More than ready for his shift to be over so he can mass shift back to full size. And he frowns slightly when he realizes it’s you, a flustered warmth spreading through him as you let yourself in. Before his attention shifts to the Cybertronian youngling right behind you, staring at him with yellow optics and clinging to your hand. Pushing up from behind his oversized desk, the youngling shifts to stand behind you. But not before he notices how thin the youngling’s frame is, how underdeveloped their plating is under the baggy human coverings they’re wearing. “I found them,” you say, expression worried. Can’t remember any missing persons reports coming across his desk. Not for Cybertronians anyway. ‘I’m Prowl,’ he says, hand on his desk when he wants to move closer. To bombard you with questions. Except this youngling looks like they might spook if he gets too close. ‘Are you hungry?’ He guesses and their optics brighten slightly, their servos flexing against your wrist. Making himself relax, he tries to study them without putting them on edge. Leaning to pull a wrapped energon treat from his desk drawer, he slides it over.

• Feel the kid’s shoulder bump yours as they stare at the treat, you slowly reach to pick it up and offer it to them. And they tear into the packaging with a low, almost animal sound of hunger. Head turning, you meet Prowl’s optics, a shoulder barely lifting in answer to the question on his face. “Did you get separated from your sire and carrier?” He asks and the kid tenses. ‘I’m not sure he understands anything but Cybertronian,’ you tell him and he rumbles thoughtfully, before growling nonsense at the kid. Who shuffles slightly behind you with a low growl in answer. Hopefully he’s not just growling, but talking. You have no idea, though.

• “Are you lost?” He asks in Cybertronian and the youngling huffs out an aggressive no. Those optics defiant as they stare at him around you. But the youngling is wolfing down the treat like he’s starving. Or like they’ve never had one before. “Who’s your sire?” He asks and their optics narrow. Making him suspect they ran away. Combine that with how malnourished the youngling looks? How poorly formed their plating is? He’s guessing they had a reason to run and it leaves him furious. “I’m not going to drag you back home, kid. Just trying to understand,” he adds. And wishing they’d let you go. Clinging to you like a safety blanket. ‘That wasn’t a home,’ the youngling mutters sounding so vulnerable and angry that his own spark aches. Making him want to hunt down their parents, because no youngling should feel unsafe in their own home.

Anyone who was smart ran for their lives and didn’t look back. When hailfire sailed down upon Eternia and sent the royal family asunder, the watchmen at the walls scurrying to their posts—you were too busy trying to help the helpless to safety. 

And what ample reward you were given for it: in the closest estimation to hell that you can possibly give application for. In this fortress wreathed by lake and moat of fire, with soldiers that leer and chuckle throatily at you whenever you pass. 

In the clothes of a servant, little more than a scullery maid—little more than slave. With gleaming bronzed collar that spans the width of your throat, settles into the hollow with heavy gravity.

You’ve become used to the weight, though you can never ignore it. After all, it demarcates where you are, and whose house you have become tied to. 

And you try your best to avoid the pressing stare of the overlord who rules it. Though you are often required to take residence in his throne room, cupbearer being one of your many tasks you must undertake. 

You don’t understand why you must be the one to do it—he has captured several from Eternia in his initial conquest, though you have yet to see them.

They work in distant mines, in stable, near the hot hellish fires. You don’t know if you've stepped foot outside these castle walls since you first arrived innumerable months ago. 

This does little to ease your thoughts. All it means is that the slim-fitting dress that you’re made to wear to denote your status is far too thin up here—where the heat does not seem to linger. 

All that, it seems, save your master’s eyes. And how his stare penetrates, with pupils that seem to carry wicked incandescent glow through the dimmed lights of the throne room. You’ve only had one chance to hazard sidelong stare at him, from the bottom of the steps to his throne. 

It’s hard to decipher his face; best delineated through tone. And he has not spoken once since this general had arrived, with news most unbecoming. 

“We have not located the rebels on this new moon,” this general has the bravery at least to look upwards to the throne, “It looks like our intel we were given was false.” 

Skeletor does not speak. All he does is bask in that excruciating silence that you watch general begin to break out in pitiful sweat under. When he continues to speak again, his voice carries daunted stammer. 

“Though we have other leads that we will follow up on, my lord,” the general continues with haste, “And we will be starting on the hunt right away.” 

Still no response; you are not the subject of this ire. But you feel it all the same, your hands working around the tray which holds wine. You watch the general look upwards, his eyes bulging with fear he knows best to keep to himself. 

And you, perhaps, against better judgement, find yourself curious enough as well. At least, to direct your gaze in protracted, angled manner behind you. 

Your lord and master sits in repose, the definition of royal apathy as he looks to his subject who genuflects. You cannot muster anything from the implacable quality of his face—but the lack of response from him says all. 

Skeletor’s eyes moves in fraction from his general to you; you feel the instantaneous jolt of adrenaline course through your veins. It takes all your willpower to turn back, though the sear of that stare upon your back is unmistakable. 

Your expression in the meniscus of wine in the cup you bear, the slant of your eyes—it betrays all. But you will yourself to stay silent. When the general leaves, you shall be dismissed as well. 

Skeletor speaks, and his voice is cold, frigid with his disappointment. “And the sword?” 

The general sags, with the demeanor of someone placing the hangman’s noose around his own neck. “We…have not found it.” 

When your lord and master speaks, his voice is dismissive. “Get out of my sight.” 

The general appears grateful for the extension of life and limb and scurried out; you incline your head as you feel relief course over you. Your term has been served and you may retire to safety as he does. 

Your name sounds so brutal, so foreign when Skeletor speaks it. The dictation of syllable curdles, makes something instinctively tighten in the depths of your stomach. 

“Not you,” Skeletor says in low, pitched drawl. “Bring me my wine, my dear.” 

You turn, affording yourself a glance that you can spare, to the steps that yawn up in frightening interval. Up to the ruler who has stayed your hand, with his piercing eyes that have taken rivet upon you. 

You bow your head, feeling as though he looks right through you, offering acceptable curtsy. “Yes, your grace.” 

“Come up,” he crooks his fingers, the darkened light casting definition on the brutal symmetry of it, “So I may drink it.” 

It’s a slow, careful journey—you don’t want to have a single drop spilled. The hem of your dress catches on the curve of your toes as you take deliberate ascent, your breath lodged in apex of your throat.

Your heart, the blood pulsing in your ears, seem to deafen all else save the flicker of torchlight—and the sounds of your climb. 

And all the while, he watches you in deadly silence. Not so dangerous as the one his last guest experienced; though, perhaps this is not so accurate. It’s a different flavor of danger, as you feel exposed in this dress. As goosebumps prickle up the length of your arms, as the roil of his stare grows hotter the closer you come. 

When you reach the zenith, the penultimate step: you pause, looking up to the ruler of this land. Watching the minute cock of his head as he perceives you in passage, the fluttering, restrained breath you take to regain air. 

“Up here, my dear,” he gestures with that splayed hand to the platform you have yet to reach—the one he stands on. “Join me.” 

You don’t want to. You wish you could flee down the stairs, away from the proximity he forces between you both. But you can’t disobey. 

“Yes, your grace,” you reply in quiet monotone—and take the final, careful step. So that you are face-to-face with the destroyer of your world. 

He towers over you; in frightening clarity so close. You can see the plateau of those shoulders, the definition of that intimidating muscle—the staff he wields with such unquestionable authority. Those eyes that have not moved from you. 

“Very good,” he purrs in arterial, velvet fashion. His hand reaches out for the goblet you bear—your arms tremble with the exertion of holding it for such sustained time. When the weight is lifted, you feel some small modicum of relief that you may hold it at rest. 

It is short-lived. Your master speaks to you in that same enigmatic dictation. 

“Are you afraid of me, my dear?” He asks, and something seems to sour as he gives you the affectionate nickname bastardized in his usage. You feel as though you are mesmerized by the brilliant glow of his gaze. 

But it is not a rhetorical question. He expects an answer; and you will not disappoint him. 

“I would be foolish not to,” you return back to the floor, small relief it is, “Your grace.” 

“Look at me,” He commands with authority injected even in such lilting tone. Your eyes dart back up with such immediacy that you feel as though your pulse has stilled in the marrow of your bones. 

He takes a step towards you, a stride carrying power unquestioned. With space consumed it feels as though the room encroaches in upon you with startling suffocative demeanor. 

“Are you so frightened of me that you cannot look at me?” He asks, and there is undercurrent—droll amusement, you think. And another that defies your understanding. 

“I do not wished to be punished, your grace,” you say, fighting the nascent desire to look away. He makes a rumbling chord—belatedly, you realize it is a laugh. The noise does not fit him, cruel and cold. 

“Punished for looking at your ruler who has liberated you?” He inquires in wry bearings. The goblet sits in picturesque display in his hand as he gestures to you. 

“Where is the crime to be held in that?” He asks—and again you must flounder for response. 

“I—”—You wet your lips; you’re certain that his eyes drink in the movement—“—I’m not sure.” 

You have never felt more bare before his sight, as he takes another step that closes the elapsing of space between you. If he towered before: now he looms as harbinger of yet-undescribed doom. 

“I would wish,” He directs silkily, “You to look at me and find appreciation in the sight.” 

You are scarcely aware of the hand that rises to graze up the cliff of your jaw, until it settles upon you. And how the touch scalds more than his eyes do. 

“Much as I do when I look upon you.” Skeletor states. 

Your heart stalls as you feel the encroach of his fingers, as you search for response in the empty landscape of your thoughts. 

“I—”—You stall—“—I don’t know what to say, your grace. I am flattered.” 

“Is that so?” He asks, and you know what he does. He can taste your fear, palpably poignant in the thrum of your pulse. The same that he must feel in the sinew of your skin. 

His voice pitches corrugated, huskier—his thumb worries up and down your cheek. “Then how will you thank me for the compliment I’ve paid you?”

He is so close that you can feel the radiance of his body in such near scorch. 

“You are too kind to me, your grace.” You say with what little wit you’ve accumulated in such brief time. “I am grateful that the ruler of this land thinks so highly of me.” 

Fingers clutch in tighter grasp, something possessive in that glare, in the pitch of that breath he takes in. 

“Such capable speech,” he intones sleekly. “What other talents do you possess, I wonder?” 

The idea makes heat flicker and consume under your skin, gathering under the pool of your cheeks, in the junction of your legs. But his touch retreats, and he straightens away from the intimacy he has forced between you both. 

“When you return,” he commands with such casual deliberation, “You will serve beside me at the throne, so that I might have something pleasing to look at.” 

The order fills you with plummeting dread. But you know to play the part, watching as he returns to the throne he had claimed. 

“As you wish, your grace.” You muster out. 

“And perhaps you might enhance my mood,” He turns to set one final look upon you, “With the skills you possess.” 

You have no response you can supply. When he makes dismissive gesture for you to leave, you do so at once, clutching your tray as only bastion of defense. 

But you cannot ignore the eyes that follow your departure. Especially as you know they will be upon you again—soon. 

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~*~*~

ONE

"What the hell is that guy's problem?"

You don't recognize the voice at first, but you do recognize the face of the cop who's still not done rolling his eyes when you and Spencer turn the corner of the hallway at the local precinct. He's the one who spent more time glaring at Spencer than he did actually working when you were all at the crime scene earlier, as if Spencer not shaking his hand was some kind of personal insult and Reid hadn't evaded everyone's handshakes.

His fellow uniform, whose back is to you, shrugs, completely oblivious to the first guy's panicked expression when he sees you approaching. "It's the BAU. You probably have to be just a little crazy to do that job. Maybe he's just crazier than the rest of them."

"It's not strictly speaking a requirement, but it definitely helps," you say brightly, stopping several feet away from them. "We talk to so many assholes everywhere we go, a little bit of craziness helps us power through."

Next to you, you can tell that Spencer has gone rigid; you're not sure if he stopped walking because you did or if he actually froze.

There's really no way to pretend it isn't obvious that the two street cops are talking about him. Especially with the way they glance awkwardly at him and scurry off down the hallway without even acknowledging your comment. Probably lucky that this didn't turn into a full-blown discussion, Hotch wouldn't be impressed if he heard you talked to the locals like that. He'd do his whole Disappointed Dad routine of not shouting but looking very disappointed as he told you he expected better.

You turn to look at Spencer, pulling a face that makes it clear exactly what you think of those guys, but Spencer shakes his head at you.

"I'm not crazy," he says. "Actually my Mysophobia is quite mild. I just don't trust other people to keep their hands clean, and neither should anyone else."

You don't say anything about the disinfectant wipes in his desk drawer back at Quantico, or the way his shoes are lined up neatly in his hallway at home. (The temptation to nudge one of his chucks out of alignment had been almost too great to resist, but you had honestly been worried he'd retaliate by doing something to your car and it'd smell of rotten eggs for six months. He'd do the calculations and decide that revenge was worth having to take a taxi to work until the metro was running again. Or he'd get a ride from Emily.)

"Fuck them," you say dismissively.

"I'd rather not." He pulls a face and it takes you a second to realize he's joking. When you snort with laughter, he smiles at you, looking just a little smug.

"No, that'd probably be even more unhygienic," you agree. He opens his mouth to speak and you hold up a hand to stop him. "Nope. You will not give me any stats on that, you will not ruin sex for me forever."

Spencer closes his mouth like a fish.

"Thank you," you say, nodding.

"Perhaps it'd be easier, though," he says, making no moves to start walking again.

"Never having sex again?" Is he about to give you some honest feedback on your dating life?

"No." He shakes his head, too caught up in his own train of thought to really notice what you asked. "If I just shook people's hands."

"I mean, maybe," you agree, because it probably would make some things simpler. Just, none of those things are important. "But don't make yourself do something you don't want to do because that guy's a douche canoe."

"I'm not," he insists, looking down at his hands.

"Give me your hand sanitizer," you say, reaching out, palm up.

"What?" He frowns at you but immediately digs into his pocket for the small bottle. He squeezes a blob of the cool gel into your cupped palm and you rub your hands together, carefully spreading it on both of them before the alcohol evaporates and it dries out. Spencer is still watching you as he pockets the hand sanitizer.

When you're done, you hold up both hands to him, showing off just how clean they are and he raises his eyebrows in what you assume is approval. So you reach out and take his hand, not to shake but to hold.

"What are you doing?" His hand is stiff but he doesn't pull away.

"Exposure therapy," you say, squeezing.

The muscles in his hand relax slightly, but you can feel his palm getting sweaty. His hand is warmer than you thought it'd be, his skin softer. Somehow you expected calluses and dry skin, but his hands are as soft as the rest of him.

He wraps his fingers around your hand, submitting himself to the project.

"Spencer?" you ask a few seconds later.

"Hmm?"

"Are you counting?"

He looks like he's going to deny it but then he smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Yes."

"One minute, okay?" you tell him.

"Okay," he agrees, nodding, looking both ways as if he's worried someone will see the two of you standing in the middle of a police station hallway at 1 in the morning holding hands.

Some fears are more rational than others, you think to yourself as Spencer mouths, "59, 60," and then quickly lets go of your hand and shoves his own in his pocket.

TWO

You're in Garcia's office, sitting behind her as she types away, making things appear and disappear on her many monitors. Next to you Spencer is leaning against the desk you're perched on, his hands at his sides.

You indicate his pocket with your index finger and he pulls a "what?" face. When you mime rubbing something into your hands he looks at Garcia and then at you before he slowly pulls the hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirts some of it into your hand.

Garcia doesn't notice at all, still typing away, and you reach for Spencer's hand. He lets you take it, but you can see his eyes going slightly wide with panic.

"There are still more than a thousand hits," she says, taking a break from typing and starting to turn around in her chair.

"Can you limit it to just women who were divorced in the last six months?" he asks quickly, moving your joined hands behind your back where hopefully Garcia won't be able to see them.

"I never knew that was your thing, Doctor Reid," she jokes, turning back to her screens. "But I can indeed."

"It's not my thing," Spencer argues, "but it looks like it might be the UnSub's."

"No, I think Penelope's onto something there," you joke. Next to you Spencer is tense, but you're pretty sure it's more to do with the fact that you've got a firm grip on his hand than the joking. So you keep talking as a way to distract him. You're doing him a solid, basically. "How long after the ink is dry on the divorce papers do you make your move, Spencer? Do you hang around outside Family Court, scouting for future girlfriends?"

Penelope lets a giggle slip out, clearly appreciating the absurdness of the joke. Spencer Reid scouting for girlfriends anywhere. You're honestly hilarious.

Spencer on the other hand doesn't even dignify your joke with an answer. You think he might let go of your hand, but no. It hasn't been 60 seconds yet and you're pretty sure he's counting.

"Catching them on the rebound," you go on, smirking. You're going to keep it up until he reacts. "Clever to get them at their most vulnerable."

"Are you projecting?" he asks, head tilted innocently as he looks at you. "It sounds like you've thought about this a lot."

Touché, Doc.

"Ooooh," Garcia hums, sounding impressed.

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back and then lets go.

If nothing else, this project is going to give you a very good idea of just how long 60 seconds is.

THREE

The case was exhausting, both physically and mentally, and practically everyone is asleep in their seats, with the exception of Hotch who is reviewing paperwork in the seat behind you while JJ snores quietly across from him, her own file abandoned on the table between them.

Next to you Spencer is sleeping with a pillow against the window, forced to make do after Morgan beat him to the bench where he's sleeping soundly under a blanket.

You shift, trying to get comfortable, accidentally hitting Spencer with your elbow.

"Sorry," you whisper when he opens one eye to look at you.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks, opening his other eye.

You shrug, because you don't really want to admit that he was right and you were wrong, you shouldn't have packed your jacket in your hold bag, and you shouldn't have turned down a blanket when Rossi offered you one, and now you're too cold to sleep while Rossi is curled up across the aisle from Hotch, warm and comfortable under the blanket you refused.

Spencer doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at you with a faint smile, and then rearranges his blanket until it's covering you both. You lean closer to him so he can wrap it all the way over you.

"Thanks," you mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder, relaxing in the delicious warmth of the pre-heated blanket.

"Mhmm," he says, pushing his pillow back in place and tilting his head against it once more. When he settles, his hand brushes yours, knuckles moving against your fingers, and you chase him, pushing your hand into his. You might as well make the most of this time and do another therapy session.

Not acknowledging what you're doing in any other way at all, he turns his wrist so he can wrap his hand around yours properly, both of your hands falling into your lap. When you squeeze, he squeezes back, and then you feel his shoulder relax as he settles.

You wait with your eyes closed for the minute to pass, but when the 60 seconds are up he doesn't let go, so you don't either. Maybe he's ready to go for two minutes. You're nodding off when you finally feel his hand move, but instead of pulling it back, he's intertwining his fingers with yours.

His breathing is slow and even, you're pretty sure he's sleeping. Somehow it feels wrong to still be holding his hand when he's not aware of it, like you're… overstepping some boundary, tricking him. You try to pull away your hand, loosening your grip on him so you can push his hand back in his own lap, but he tightens his grip. It's not exactly firm, but definitely determined.

You smile, closing your eyes and burrowing closer to him until you're comfortable.

You're woken up a few hours later by him gently nudging you with his shoulder and then saying dryly, "You drooled on me."

His fingers are still braided through yours under the blanket and you use your other hand to wipe your chin and then the knit of his cardigan. "Sorry."

When you look at him his face is so close you can't really interpret his expression, but you don't think he looks disgusted.

Also, he hasn't let go of your hand.

"We're landing," you say, looking out the window at the Quantico air strip coming into view.

"That's why I woke you up," he replies.

"Oh." You honestly thought it was to complain about the drooling.

His thumb brushes a soothing circle on the back of your hand, and then he carefully releases you, pulling his hand away just in time to be able to give the blanket to JJ so she can stow it away.

You smile at him, impressed, and he smiles back.

FOUR

The bar is crowded but Emily and JJ managed to secure a table big enough for the whole team. There's a constant shuffling of seats, people drifting to the dance floor and back again, going to buy rounds of drinks, using the restrooms; and somehow you end up nursing your second piña colada pressed into Spencer's side while he's discussing interrogation techniques with Hotch and you're trying to understand what Penelope is telling you about the changes she made to her computer setup in excruciating detail.

Spencer shifts, moving even closer to you when Morgan pushes onto the rounded bench on Hotch's other side, and his hand ends up trapped between your thighs somehow. You move closer to Garcia, giving him space to pull his hand free, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hand strokes your leg when he removes it.

Because he's not stroking your leg, he's just… moving his hand.

You clear your throat and nod, because Penelope looks like that's the reaction she's expecting, and she grins. "You weren't listening, were you?"

Spencer's hand is resting on his thigh now, but you're sitting so close to him that his pinky finger is still brushing your leg every time one of you moves. You're maybe moving a lot, not particularly comfortable on the bench seat.

You grimace in apology, your own hand settling on your thigh, so close to his that you could probably just stretch out your pinky and touch his.

"Well if you don't want to talk about my computer you can just tell me all about the date you went on last week," Penelope says and you realize this was her plan all along. Sneaky bitch, oh how you love her.

Next to you Spencer shifts again, his whole body going rigid when his pinky touches yours. You can feel him turn to look at you and when your eyes meet, he's frowning. You can guess what's bothering him, of course. Your hands touching under the table and you haven't been anywhere near hand sanitizer for well over an hour. What you have been doing is touching all sorts of unclean things, like the bar and the bench and money, the ultimate culprit in the exchange of germs, or so you've been told once.

Well, good. Time for him to lose the training wheels, you decide, and take his hand in yours, smiling with what you hope looks like encouragement.

His frown deepens, like he's thinking through a complicated game of chess, or maybe trying to talk himself off a ledge, and then he curls his fingers around yours, turning back to Hotch, his focus clearly going back to the conversation he and Morgan are having.

"Oh, it was great," you tell Penelope, feeling a little spark of excitement at how well Spencer's doing with his whole desensitization. You're kind of a genius for coming up with this, you tell yourself, pleased little butterflies fluttering around your stomach while Spencer's thumb rubs against your hand. "Yeah, he told me after dinner that he forgot his credit card so I had to pay, then suggested we both go back to his place because then we could share the taxi I'd also be paying for."

Penelope snorts. "And did you?"

You scoff. "No! I gave him three bucks and told him to take the metro, then I took a taxi home. By myself."

She laughs, delighted and you launch into the whole sorry tale about this absolute turd of a man you had to spend nearly two hours sitting across from at a restaurant because you hadn't organized a fake emergency call.

Next to you, Spencer's back goes less rigid as he clearly gets used to holding another person's unsanitized hand in this uncontrolled environment.

You squeeze his fingers, trying to convey how impressed you are by his progress.

He squeezes back, moving in his seat so his arm isn't bent at an odd angle under the table, making sure you're sitting so close that your joined hands aren't noticeable to anyone else. Your hands are resting on your thigh, his long fingers brushing against your tights. Or, well, not so much 'brushing' as, sort of, kind of stroking your leg, maybe? Not deliberately, of course, you know that, it's just what happens when you're both forever being jostled around as other people move around you.

Penelope gets up to go to the bar and really, there's plenty of space on your other side now, you could move away from Spencer's side, but then you'd have to let go of his hand, so you stay where you are, reluctant to let go before he does. He's doing so well, you want to see just how long he's able to do this for.

The room isn't cold, but somehow you still have goosebumps.

"Sorry about your date," he says suddenly, head tilted towards you, voice so low that no-one else can hear him.

You turn to look at him. "Don't be. My friend Katie set me up, she has terrible taste in men. The only surprising thing about that date is that she didn't want him for herself."

"Still. It sounded like you had a pretty bad time."

You shrug, one arm moving against his. "It's fine. Not the end of the world. There will be other dates, and maybe they'll be less terrible."

Spencer frowns, then nods. "Yeah, definitely."

"Why do you look so unconvinced? You think I'm doomed to a life of terrible dates?"

"No." He's shaking his head, but that frown isn't going anywhere. "That's not it."

"Then what?"

Under the table, Spencer's grip on your hand tightens and he looks uncomfortable. You wonder if he managed to forget he was holding your hand and now he realized it and wants to let go.

"It's fine," you tell him, because it is. He's been holding your hand for almost half an hour, your shoulder is actually getting a little stiff by this point. "You did really well."

"What?"

You squeeze his hand, since you can't exactly blurt out 'you're doing a very good job holding my hand' in front of all your teammates. Who knows what they'd read into that?

Spencer blinks. "Oh. Right. Thanks."

When you let go of his hand, it takes a few seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip, but when he does, you catch him surreptitiously rubbing his hand against his knee, not quite like he's trying to wipe you off, but still. Kind of like that.

When he gets up to leave half an hour later, he looks kind of uncomfortable when he says goodnight to you, raising his arms, and for a mad second you think he's going to hug you, but then he adjusts his satchel and you realize it was just falling off his shoulder.

FIVE

One of your favorite things about Spencer is, although his head can get kind of deep in the work clouds, once the case is over, if there's time before the jet takes you back home, you can pretty much always tempt him to go book shopping with you.

Sometimes you don't even really have to tempt him, because he has that eidetic memory, and he remembers you once telling him how you spent an entire day in your favorite bookshop in the world when you were in high school and now here you are in Portland and JJ has dismissed you both since you weren't on the team that did any actual apprehending of anyone, so there's less paperwork for you to do.

Spencer glances at his watch and then at JJ and then he tilts his head towards the exit while looking at you. And half an hour later, you're in heaven.

Book heaven.

You get distracted in the used books section, browsing biographies, and lose track of Spencer. When you resurface in Poetry it's been almost an hour and you realize you should probably find him. If you make everyone wait for you at the jet, they're not going to look the other way when you sneak off ever again.

You go through the aisles, looking for him, fairly certain he's in the used books section as well. There's enough to look at here, he wouldn't have made it to the new books, soulless historyless paperbacks.

You're not sure how you know that he's close, you just do. He's in the next aisle, definitely, and you're trying to decide if you should sneak up on him or that'd be a mistake considering what you both spent the last four days doing.

But then you hear it: "We have the paperback version as well, if you prefer."

You don't actually have to look to know this woman is flirting with Spencer. Her voice is so loaded with it, it's amazing the fire alarms aren't going off.

"Oh, that's fine. I prefer hardbacks." Spencer is polite but friendly in a way that's definitely not a rejection and you give in to temptation and remove a few books from the shelf so you can peer into their aisle.

18th century philosophy. Because of course.

And of course that woman is pretty with her nose piercing and purple-tinted hair and t-shirt that's just a little tighter than it's probably supposed to be, but in the most flattering way. A t-shirt that says, very loudly, "I can get you all the books you want, anytime, just come to bed with me."

Not literally, that would have been super weird to put on a work uniform, but it's definitely what the shop logo stretched out across her chest is implying.

"Well, if you need anything, just let me know. I'm Frankie, by the way." You wonder if the fire alarms are silent but fire trucks are actually on their way.

"Oh. Thanks," Spencer says and you can see his cheeks going all splotchy and red like he's too warm.

You stand up on tiptoes, which changes your view, and you realize why he looks like he's boiling.

She's touching his hand.

How unprofessional!

For just a second you think you've turned into your grandmother, who also cares way too much how people in the service industry behave even if their behavior has zero impact on her, and you think you might ask to speak to the manager, but then Spencer shakes his head no to something this absolute trollop just said, and which you didn't hear because your ears were ringing with righteous indignation, and she releases him.

And you realize something. You try not to, but you can't help it.

Because you're relieved. You don't care that this woman talks to customers like she wants to lick honey off of them, just so long as those customers aren't Spencer.

And you'd feel bad that clearly your exposure therapy hasn't really worked yet, because he couldn't have looked less comfortable and you know he gets shy sometimes, and it seemed clear that he liked her, and maybe if you had done a better job preparing him for this he would have been okay with her touching him.

Maybe you should also feel bad about the fact that there's a little part of you that's delighted that he'll let you hold his hand and not that woman.

No, you should definitely feel bad about that. Except you don't want any woman holding his hand other than you.

Once the aspiring honey-licker is gone, you walk into Spencer's aisle, trying to look like you didn't know he was there. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just holds up the book he definitely already read most of and tells you he's going to buy it.

"You wouldn't prefer the paperback?" you ask innocently. He doesn't know you know, after all.

He looks at you, then at the gap in the bookshelf you forgot to refill, then back at you. "No." He says it like it's simple and your whole world didn't just spin on its axis.

Oh.

Your stomach does a little flip as you try not to read anything into that completely innocuous answer. Then he starts walking towards the cash registers, moving the book to the hand that's further from you, the one closest to you hanging loosely at his side.

You take it, carefully wrapping your hand around his, and he does the same, his fingers curling themselves around you.

You pass the woman he didn't want touching him earlier, and you think he might let go of you, but instead he just smiles politely at her, his grip on you not changing at all.

She smiles back, and then she smiles at you, looking all friendly and maybe a little bit apologetic and not at all like she wants to claw your eyes out.

You hope you smile back, but you honestly aren't sure what your face is doing at all.

You just know you're holding Spencer's hand and you don't want to let go.

Terrifying.

ONE

This was your idea. Spencer has reminded himself of that fact 27 times on his way from his apartment to the cinema.

He had asked Emily to go to the Eisenstein festival with him, she had made up some transparent excuse like he wasn't a professional lie detector, and you had said, "I'll go with you, Spencer. It sounds like fun."

And his lie detector just short circuited right then and there.

There's no part of him that thinks you're going to enjoy sitting through any one of the three movies that are playing back to back today, but he didn't question it. He did rewind mentally to make sure you had heard enough of the conversation to understand what he had been suggesting, and yes. You were there the whole time, actually sitting next to Emily when he had first brought it up.

But if you only said it sounded like fun because you felt sorry for him that no-one wanted to go with him to his black and white, Soviet era movie marathon, then he was going to just pretend he didn't notice.

And then he'd sit next to you in that cinema for at least 278 minutes, depending on the versions they were screening which the poster had been frustratingly vague about. Plus commercials. All in all, he'd estimate at least five hours. Sitting next to you. In a dark cinema.

Spencer doesn't believe in prayers or wishing on shooting stars, but he would have done both yesterday if he thought it might have done anything to lower the risk of a case coming up and cancelling your plans together. But he didn't need to, because here he is.

You're already there when he arrives, standing under the awning outside looking at your phone, and for just a second he's worried there's a text from JJ and you're being called into work, but his own phone hasn't said anything at all, and when you look up and spot him you smile, not apologetically or with anything like regret (real or pretend), but like you're genuinely happy to see him.

"Perfect timing," you say when he stops in front of you.

Spencer is seven minutes early. He smiles.

"Katie has been texting me non-stop." You hold up your phone as if to show him, and it actually beeps and lights up as if you planned it.

"Your friend with terrible taste in men?" There could be other Katies, obviously, but he's pretty sure this is the only one you've mentioned knowing.

"Uhhuh. She found another gem. She started dating a guy who's—and I could not be more certain of this—involved in some Ponzi scheme. He's got a friend who's single and she's convinced we'd hit it off." You open the text and read it, rolling your eyes, and then you shove your phone at him.

'Come on just give him a chance. What do you have to lose?' Spencer hands the phone back to you. "Does she mean, other than your money?"

You snort. "Who cares about money, Spencer? What about my dignity?"

He smiles, blowing an amused huff of air out through his nose. "I suppose there's that as well," he agrees. How much dignity does he have left considering the fact that he's about to spend his Sunday with you watching movies he knows you won't enjoy, when he could have explained to you that you wouldn't enjoy them and why, but he chose not to, because he didn't want you to back out?

Considering the fact that you spending time with him out of pity doesn't stop him looking forward to it? Considering the fact that he spent the entire morning wondering if you're going to take his hand in the cinema and actually getting excited at the prospect of sitting in a dark cinema screen holding his colleague's hand because she thinks she's curing him of… caring about hygiene?

Spencer isn't sure how dignity is measured, but he is pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot of it left to measure.

"We're getting popcorn, right?" you ask, walking ahead of him into the cinema.

Spencer had planned on getting a coffee, maybe some pretzels. It's barely 11AM. "Of course."

At the concession stand you start picking up bags of candy at what he assumes is random, but then you show him two bags of pretzels, holding them up in turn. There's a third option, but he's never eaten that one in the office and you haven't touched it. He shrugs because he's fine with either and you throw both on the counter. "And a large popcorn with butter and a diet coke and a coffee with more sugar than you think should be legal. Actually, once you hit that point, just add a little more."

The teenager behind the counter looks at you, wide-eyed and a little scared.

"Three sugars," Spencer corrects you and you smirk.

He shakes his head at you, nudging you away from the counter before you can do any more damage. Doing some quick calculations based on what you've picked up, he throws some money on the counter before you can get your purse open.

"I was going to pay," you say, eyebrows furrowed. "You got the tickets."

Spencer, who can see the remainder of his dignity escaping out the door as he goes through the rites of an actual date, just shrugs. "You're doing me a favor, coming with me. The least I can do is feed you."

You look up at him. "Oh. I figured we'd go out for food after?"

He looks at the mountain of snacks you picked up, the tub of popcorn in your arm, bigger than your head. There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, not when you basically said you want to go out for dinner. With him. "And what's this? Appetizers?"

"No." You hug the popcorn closer like he threatened to take them away from you. "But aren't these movies seven years long? I feel like Russian movies are going to be long."

"They're not that long." He holds the door open and you walk into the screen ahead of him. The room is about half full, with people mostly centered in the middle rows. The front and back rows are both empty.

You stop, turning to look at him. "Where do you want to sit?"

Normally he'd prefer the front row, for his eyesight, but he nods his head towards the back row instead. You look just a little surprised, but walk in ahead of him, settling in one of the seats in the middle of the row.

He deposits your appetizers on the little table attached to his seat and sits down next to you. And then he waits.

You spend the first half hour eating popcorn, offering the tub to him at regular intervals, and then you open the bag of twizzlers, slowly chewing your way through one of them as you squirm in your seat.

"Are you scared you'll fall asleep if you sit still for too long?" he leans in and whispers.

You jump, startled. "No. I'm just hoping I can find the right angle and then this will make sense to me."

"It won't," he whispers. "Sit still."

Then he very casually and not at all deliberately puts his lower arm on the armrest between your seats, his hand within easy reach. It has worked well in the past, after all, there is previous evidence that his method is sound. If he makes his hand available, maybe allows his fingers to touch yours, more often than not you will take his hand.

It's a pretty devious thing to do, he's aware of that, and he's not really sure when your supposed exposure therapy stopped being something he allowed you to do because you seemed so determined to help him, and instead changed into something he didn't really mind before finally becoming something he actually wants you to do.

He wants to hold your hand, he wants to touch you, and he does not want your friend Katie to set you up on any more dates. Because you're right: statistically, eventually one of them will be a nice guy, and you'll like him.

But he won't - and this is the real problem here - be Spencer.

The first movie ends and you still haven't made any moves to touch his hand. You haven't actually moved much at all, and for a while he thought you had fallen asleep, but no. You were staring at the screen, your nose scrunched up adorably as you tried to follow the narrative.

Maybe Spencer should have double-checked that there would be subtitles…

When the lights come on for the 15 minute break between screenings, you get out of your seat. "I've just gotta—" you trail off, pointing at the exit to the lobby and the other people making their way out.

"You forgot your purse," he says, grabbing it from your seat and holding it out to you after you've passed him.

You turn and stare at him. "What?"

"If you're going to sneak off." He's mostly joking. Mostly. He's also a little bit worried you do want to leave.

But then you smile, shaking your head at him like he's being silly, and he feels like maybe he was.

"We can do something else," he offers all the same. Maybe you don't want to get away from him, but you could still want to get away from Eisenstein.

You take a step back towards him, almost but not quite knocking your knee against his. "Spencer, we're not leaving. There are two movies left, I'm coming back."

"You just want me to feed you," he says. Mainly to remind himself that's something you said you expected to happen.

Dinner and a movie. Would it be possible for you to do anything more date-like? In a completely platonic way, of course. Two more movies left for you to platonically take his hand.

"Exactly," you say, and this time you do actually nudge him with your leg. Luckily you aren't looking at him, so you don't see the way he has to suck a pleased smile all the way into his mouth.

This time, he lets you walk away, and when you return nine minutes later, you're holding another coffee for him. "You take it black, right?" you joke, handing it to him.

He takes a sip and you ordered it just the way he likes it, which he knew you would. "Thanks."

When he puts the coffee back in the cup holder between your seats, he brushes against your arm, sitting on the edge of the armrest. Strictly speaking the thing isn't wide enough for two, it's very much a territory to negotiate over, but you're taking up less than half of it.

Spencer spends about ten minutes wringing his hands in his lap, trying to decipher the situation. You shift, twice, but your hand doesn't move. It's still there, half on, half off the armrest.

Like it's undecided, or like it's trying to run away and you aren't letting it, or like it wants to be there and you don't want it to.

How is he supposed to know what to do?

The answer is probably that he isn't supposed to do anything. This isn't a date, it only looks like one from a distance, and just because he can't focus on the movie because all he can think about is holding your hand, that doesn't mean you want him to. You haven't technically told him that his exposure therapy is over, but you haven't held his hand since Portland, two weeks ago.

Like maybe doing it in public was some kind of graduation ceremony and didn't make him want to stay in that bookshop forever, never mind catching the jet back to Quantico.

He shifts, sighing deeply, only realizing how loud it was when you turn to look at him. "Sorry."

"You okay?" you whisper, leaning a little closer to him.

He's not, not at all. He's spiraling just a little bit. "Yeah, of course."

You look at him carefully, like maybe you don't believe him, and he turns back to face the screen so he doesn't have to look you in the eye. Then he takes a deep breath and places his arm on the armrest, taking up most of the remaining space on it.

His pinky finger is maybe an eighth of an inch away from yours and he digs it into the velvet of the armrest to stop it from twitching and accidentally touching you, although he's not quite sure why.

Maybe because it feels too much like begging to be touched, suddenly, after not being touched at all for so long?

But then, while the score crescendos dramatically, he suddenly feels it: Your pinky finger feathering along his and then away. At first he thinks he imagined it, but then it happens again, and again. And this time, it actually settles against his.

When Spencer turns to look at you, you're staring intently at the screen, looking for all the world like you're completely engrossed in the movie.

He moves his pinky so it's covering yours.

You don't move. At all.

He moves his pinky a little more, until it's settling on your ring finger.

You still aren't moving.

He feels his heart rate increase, the way it might do ahead of a myocardial infarction, or possibly a panic attack. But there's no pain in his left arm, no cold sweats, no shortness of breath.

He swallows, then he places his hand over yours, covering it completely.

Your thumb twitches but you don't pull away, so Spencer decides he might as well go for broke and wrap his fingers around your hand.

That's it, he's done it. He's holding your hand.

And then you move, your hand shifting. He's about to release you, worried he overstepped, but all you do is turn your hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling his hand off the armrest and into your lap.

Spencer double-checks the signals his body is sending him, just to make completely sure this isn't a heart attack.

He turns to look at you, and he's pretty sure you're smiling, your eyes still on the screen. "Okay?" he asks.

You turn your head and now he's sure you're smiling. "Of course."

When the second movie ends, you don't get up. Your hand is still intertwined with his, resting in your lap, and Spencer hopes you'll never move.

"This, um, this exposure therapy has really worked well," you say and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you.

"I guess," he says, because he's not convinced it has, really. He's pretty sure he won't be shaking anyone's hand unless it's yours.

You lift up your joined hands to show him. "I mean, we've been holding hands for like an hour."

He blinks.

"It's nice." Your voice is soft and you aren't looking at him, so he lets himself smile at your words.

'Nice' doesn't really cover it at all. "Yeah."

The longest you’ve been on the road was when you left Sioux Falls, seven years ago. Two days on the road, no idea what would be waiting for you at the end of your journey. No money, no family, just you and your desperate wish for something better, something more. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. 

It’s different now. There’s low music on the radio and you’re in the driver’s seat, Sam’s next to you scanning the map. The air is hot and dry and like a rough caress on your skin. You can check into a motel or drive through the afternoon and the night. It’s up to you, or mostly up to you. You’ve never felt like this.

You were made to feel like you were wrong for most of your childhood. Leaving and getting a job and staying out of trouble - that was your way of being good. But feeling the responsibilities slough off you like overcooked meat off a bone as the miles pass along behind you…

Maybe this is freedom. Maybe in being good, you’ve denied yourself a lot of joy.

“He’s waving us over,” Sam says, and you blink, look. He’s nodding at the side mirror, and you look into the one on your side. Your hand goes up, pushes your sunglasses onto your head. 

The Impala is behind you, headlights flashing twice. You look ahead. There’s a gas station coming up in a mile. You stretch your hand out of the window, thumb up. Then back on the steering wheel.

“If he wants more jerky…” Sam says, but doesn’t finish. You chuckle, look over at him. He grins at you, extends his hand and lays it over your thigh, your legs naked where you’re wearing denim shorts. His palm is rough and perfect.

You pull into the gas station, up to one of the pumps. You get out, stretch with a groan. Roll your shoulders and neck. You look to the side when the Impala pulls up next to you. Dean gets out, stretches too, then walks around to where you and Sam are standing.

“We’ve got a stretch of desert coming up,” he says, squinting in the bright light of the day. He leans his hand against the side of the car, looks down at you, then up at Sam. “We can turn around or we can drive through. We just need to stock up on water before we do.” You wiggle your leg, purse your lips. Then look up at Sam. He shrugs.

“Let’s make it to the other side,” you say, and Dean nods.

“Alright.”

The bell dings over the door when the three of you walk into the station after filling up the cars. The AC inside is strong, and you wrap your arms around you at the goose bumps breaking out on your skin. Dean, as expected, beelines for the beef jerky. Sam raises his eyebrows at you and you grin.

You stock up on water, some food. You look at some cheap jewelry hanging off a shelf, then the cowboy boots standing next to it, chuckle. You see Sam approach, and see the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Thinking of a drastic style change?” he asks and you grin, put the pair you were looking at back.

“I don’t know if I’m that girl,” you say, and Sam huffs. He leans down, presses a kiss to your head just over your ear. You lean into it.

“I don’t know what girl you’re talking about,” he says, voice low. “I only care about one.” You giggle, bite your lip. Look up into Sam’s eyes and only stop because you hear Dean sauntering up. He’s wearing his leather jacket, even in the warmth of the day.

“Those are hot,” he says, picking up the pair you just put down, studies them. “You’re not buying them?” You pull up your shoulders.

“I don’t think they have them in my size,” you lie, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Dean frowns.

“These are your size,” he says, and you blink at him. Dean looks at you when you don’t reply, widens his arms. “What?” 

“Nothing.” You shake your head. What good would it do telling Dean that you’d be surprised if he remembered your middle name, much less your shoe size? There’s no point. You turn to Sam.

“Let’s get going,” you say. 

“You two go ahead,” Dean says, “I’m gonna check out the magazines.” Sam gives his brother a look.

“You mean the porn?” he asks, and Dean does a pretend shocked expression, even puts his hand on his chest.

“It’s erotica, Sam,” he says. “Have some goddamn respect.”

Sam and you pay, then walk back to the car, get in. You’re fanning yourself while Sam has his head leaned back, his lids low. Both of you flinch when Dean slaps his hand against the side of the car.

“Let’s go, kids, we’re losin’ daylight!” he calls, then cackles at Sam’s annoyed expression. He walks past the driver’s window, reaches into his jacket, and pulls something out, drops it in your lap, not slowing on the way back to the Impala. You stare at your lap.

Cowboy boots. Your size.

The heat in the desert is punishing. The car’s AC does what it can, but at some point, you simply accept that you’re going to be dripping with sweat. You blow some air through your lips into your face, wipe the back of your hand over your forehead. You feel a drop travel down between your breasts.

Two hours in, you take a break. You watch Dean get out of the car, walk a stone’s throw before his hands go to his belt and he undoes it. He turns just a little before he takes himself out and pees. You give him a thirty second head start, then get out of the car as well.

“I’m gonna–” Sam says, then takes off in a slow jog, away from the cars. There’s nowhere to hide, and you’re not entirely sure why he would want to, and you can’t help but laugh at his behavior.

“Don’t let the rattle snakes get ya, Sammy!” Dean calls after him. He’s put himself away and is walking toward you, laughing. He looks at you, then down your body. “Need a lookout?”

You scoff, then walk around the car so it’s between you and Dean. You open your shorts, push them down and squat. It takes you a self-conscious second, but finally you start peeing.

“You like the boots?” Dean’s disembodied voice asks. You nod to yourself.

“I do,” you say. “Just not sure if I can drive in them.”

“Let Sam drive,” Dean replies. “I don’t know why he isn’t, you don’t like driving.”

You look down, chew at your lip for a moment, then stand, pull your underwear and shorts up with you at the same time. You close them as you walk around the car, Dean turning to look at you.

“I do like driving, actually,” you say, squinting at him. “I like it a lot.” You see the realization on Dean’s face. That the reason he was always driving when the two of you were together isn’t because you didn’t want to, but because you would have enjoyed to and didn’t ask.

“Oh,” he says, looks down. “That’s…”

“Not a big deal,” you finish the sentence for him. Dean looks up, lips pursed. You walk back towards the driver side, push yourself up so you can sit, your legs dangling out. You take off your shoes, throw them in the footwell on the passenger side, then reach for the boots and slip them on. They fit well. Look sexy, if you do say so yourself.

“Thank you,” you say when you’re done. “For stealing them for me, I mean.” Dean chuckles, then nods.

“Yeah, no problem,” he answers. You hear footsteps, and both of you turn, watch as Sam approaches. He grins when he sees the boots.

“You wanna drive for a bit?” you ask, raise one leg. “I think I gotta wear these in first.” 

“Sure,” Sam says, then looks between you and Dean. “Ready?”

The two cars pull back onto the road. You look out the back window of the Ford, watch the Impala, then turn to Sam.

He’s looking straight ahead. His left wrist is resting on the top of the steering wheel, his right hand on his thigh. Those long, perfect fingers. You scoot closer, the leather of the seats squeaking under you. Sam turns his head, looks at you. You let your hand wander up his arm, finger tracing a vein, then up to his biceps. 

Sam smells that way he does after a workout or a long jog, except sharper, warmer, but that doesn’t stop you from kissing his shoulder, or from your fingers roaming over his chest. Then down, to between his legs. You grab yourself a handful and squeeze gently.

Sam’s looking between the road and your face, but he shifts how he sits, fidgets. You grin, and he huffs.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asks. You run your finger in a circular motion over the bulge in his jeans.

“Must be the boots,” you say, and Sam laughs. He moves again, almost as if he’s pressing himself up into your hold. You take that as a sign, move your other hand to his crotch and start undoing his belt.

“I’m–” Sam says, shifts again. You look at his face. He grimaces. “I’m kinda… sweaty.” You purse your lips.

“I don’t mind,” you say. Sam’s smile stutters. You watch him for a second longer, then let go of him. Drop your back against the door. You bring your left leg up, boot on the seat. Sam shoots a look at you, his eyes following your hands when you bring them to your own belt. You undo it slowly, keeping Sam’s gaze the entire time, and he looks like he needs to physically force himself to glance back at the road. He looks back at you immediately.

Once you’re done with the belt, you move to the button, slowly undo it. You see Sam’s breathing stutter when you pop it open. You begin pressing one of your hands in. Your fingers find their way into your underwear - you’ve been sweating too, but you won’t let that deter you - and then you’re touching yourself.

It feels nice, but more than that, you love the expression on Sam’s face, the mix of awe and hunger. And you want more of it, want him to lose it. You wonder if you can get him wound up enough to pull over, fuck you right out here. Have Dean needing to wait until you’re both done. You don’t hate the thought.

You drop your head back against the glass, moan, as your fingers keep moving. You bring your other hand to your breast, squeeze it. Arch your back and Sam’s upper lip pulls up.

“Fuck,” he groans. “We gotta–”

There’s a loud honk, and both of you flinch. You raise your head, look out Sam’s window and he turns too. Dean’s pulled up next to the car, his window down, and you can hear his voice.

“You’re swerving!” he calls out. “How about you horn dogs save it and try not to kill us!”

You just see him shake his head before the Impala drops back. Sam whips his head around towards you, and then you both start laughing at the same time.

You make it to a motel just before sundown. You’re tired, your back hurts. Your eyes burn. All of you stumble into the room, a small twin that smells faintly of cigarette smoke, but you would sleep on a bed of needles if that’s what it took to get some rest.

The boys let you have the shower first. You wash, put on shorts and a t-shirt, and slouch back into the room. Dean throws a look at your legs before scooting past you into the bathroom. You walk over to the twin on the left, drop down on it. You stretch and moan, your muscles groaning at the comfort. You hear Sam chuckle and turn, your lids already feeling leaden. 

“Shame we’re sharing,” he says with a one-sided grin. You huff.

“Mister,” you say, voice slurring from sleepiness. “Don’t start something you’re not willing to finish.” 

You hear Sam’s sweet laugh, then the bathroom door open. Dean says something, but you’re already out like a light.

The next morning, you’re sucking down air as Sam fucks you within an inch of your life.

You woke up the moment Dean let the door to the motel room drop closed behind him - off for a drive or a lead or maybe to chase tail, you don’t really care. You turned to Sam, hands traveling under the thin t-shirt he wears to sleep immediately, fingers running over the expanse of his skin, your hips already rolling, your entire body in a thick cloud of arousal. He blinked his eyes open with a small grunt, first confused, then immediately intrigued.

You estimate it’s ten minutes later that Sam is inside you. His fingers wandered between your legs and his eyes widened at how wet you were. As he slid into you, he kissed you.

“You been thinking about this?” he grinned against your mouth. You reached down, grabbed his ass cheeks, full and taut, pulled him in closer, felt an almost animalistic snarl on your face.

“Always,” you replied and nipped at his lips.

And now here you are, your insides already twitching desperately. Sam has one of your legs slung over his elbow, is loving you deep and quick while his sweet words of adoration spill against your neck and cheek. 

“I love you, I love you,” he moans against you. “I love you so much. Fuck, you feel so good.”

And you’re close, so close, close enough that you don’t actually hear Dean come in over your own desperate moans, the sounds of Sam’s kisses and the way he drives into you. What you do hear though is his voice.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he drawls, and Sam flinches hard. You blink open your eyes just in time to watch him push himself up on his arms, bright scarlet splotches breaking out on his cheeks and high on his naked chest.

“Dude!” he yelps, hand going down and fumbling as he pulls himself out of you, reaches for the blanket the two of you kicked aside in your urgency. He drags it up, covers most of you and some of himself. “I, we, uh, thought we’d be… quicker.”

You look over at Dean but keep lying where you are - on your back, legs spread, only covered by the thin fabric. Dean’s standing a few steps into the room, two cups of coffee stacked on top of each other in his left hand, a third one in his right, raised, like he just took a sip. His chin is lowered, there’s a smirk on his lips, and if you didn’t know better, you’d almost say he looks proud.

“A guy can dream,” he only mumbles, throws a quick look at your face, and then walks over to the small table, sets the cups down. Sam is still tugging at the blanket, readjusting it. He looks boyish in his embarrassment, and you can’t help but grin at him. You realize you could be embarrassed too, but you don’t find it in yourself.

“I, uh, I think I might grab a shower,” Sam says, still fidgety and stuttering, and then he looks at you, and you’re not sure if he means for you to join him to get out of this situation, or to continue what you were doing with some more privacy. You wouldn’t mind, but the truth is, the smell of coffee is wafting in the air, tempting and warm.

“You go ahead,” you say, sitting up and leaning your head to the side to land a kiss on his shoulder. “I’ll be right there. I want some of this coffee first.”

Sam blinks, then swallows. Keeps looking at you, then throws Dean a look. Maybe confused by your decision, but not enough to stay, make it a point. He looks down his body, at the blanket covering you both, then instead reaches over and grabs a pillow. You grin as you watch him shuffle out of the bed, the pillow moved before his crotch, and you almost tell him not to poke a hole into it. You might lose your deposit.

Sam throws you one more questioning look, then hurries into the bathroom, can’t help the fact that it reveals his ass to the room. You look after him, let your eyes roam over him. Don’t hide the appreciation and renewed heat you feel at the view. 

You sigh when Sam closes the door behind him, but you turn back to Dean when you hear him move. He’s holding one of the coffee cups in his hand and is walking over to you, all swagger. Only when he holds the cup out to you you realize it’s meant for you.

“Thanks,” you say, reach your hand out. It moves the blanket around over your chest, and you’re not entirely sure how much of your breasts it reveals, if Dean can see the sheen of sweat that built there form how hard Sam was fucking you, or if he can smell you, the wetness his brother drew from you permeating the room along with the smell of coffee.

You grin into your cup. 

“So,” Dean says, dropping his hand, but stepping away from the bed. “Is this how it’s gonna be now?”

“How it’s gonna be?” you ask after taking another sip. “Mmh, this is good.”

“Still remember how you take it,” Dean replies, and the way he lets his eyes roam along your body amplifies the double meaning. “I mean, do I risk walking in on you and Sammy playing hide the salami every time I go out?” You take another sip, slow, unhurried. Lick your lips when you’re done.

“Not every time,” you say, tilting your head like you’re clueless. “We could put a sock on the door.” You meet Dean’s gaze, and for a second he doesn’t react. Then he huffs, finally turns and walks toward the table again.

“Funny,” he says as he drops into the chair, picks up his own cup again. “I mean it, though.”

“You and I weren’t real careful about Sam catching us,” you reply, which isn’t an answer, but still a point you think worth making. “Didn’t seem to bother you.”

“That’s different,” Dean replies, a little too quick for your liking, and when you raise your eyebrows at him, he shrugs. “Besides, Sam loved it. He’s into that stuff.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Thoughts swirling for a brief moment. Dean’s complaint seems half-hearted, like it’s really hiding something else, so you decide to put it to the test.

“Well,” you continue, “we can be more careful. If it bothers you.”

Dean’s hand is on the table, and you see his finger twitch. He blinks, then brings his hand to his face, runs it over his cheeks and chin, the way you remember him doing when he was trying to determine if he needed a shave or not. You’ve known him for so long, long before he could even dream of having a single hair on his face. Know him so well. And you know, even without him saying it, that right then, he wants something he can’t ask for.

“Nah,” he says instead. “You’re good. You don’t need to sneak around.”

Dean’s looking off at everything and nothing, but you keep looking at him. Finally put the coffee down on the bedside table, then grab the blanket and throw it off yourself. 

Dean’s eyes shoot to you as he watches you climb out of bed. You stand, one hip cocked, and look at him. Dean’s eyes are wide, and he’s staring at your face. You watch him, watch the way his chest rises and falls, the way his lips move just a little before he finally can’t hold back and lets his gaze wander over you. Over your neck and your tits. He must see how hard your nipples still are, and then lower, and you wonder if he can see the mess Sam made between your legs, the one you could feel from the way he seemed to almost stick to you, like your bodies were planning to never be apart again.

“Just let me know if you change your mind,” you reply, voice as neutral as you can manage. You let your eyes wander over him once, and although it’s too quick to see if Dean has any physical reaction to what he’s seeing, the way he shifts around like he’s trying to hide something tells you enough. 

With another quick look at his face, while he’s blinking too fast and too hard, you turn and walk towards the bathroom door. Don’t look back to see if Dean’s eyes are glued to your ass like yours were to Sam’s, but you have a feeling they are.

You pull the shower curtain to the side, step in. Sam turns, grins, and you flatten your hands against his stomach, press him back until his back meets the tiles. You kiss him, long and deep, and then sink to your knees, your hands still on him.

By the time you’ve got him on the edge, Sam’s head is thrown back, and he can barely suppress the deep, loud noises leaving him. Your own hand is between your legs, fingers working fast. Sam’s are tangled in your hair, trembling.

You end up coming before he does. Finish him off with your eyes closed and your head in the clouds.

The house is big. Maybe formerly beautiful, but now decrepit. Mrs. Morrison is a nervous, slight woman. She keeps apologizing for things as she shows you around - for a creaking door, an unwashed glass. Keeps brushing her hair behind her ear.

“Sorry about the state of the place,” she says. “Everything’s just been so busy, and we haven’t really…” She stops. Sam’s just adjusting his tie, gives her a friendly smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“Great bones,” Dean adds, and all of you turn to him. He stutters. “The… the house.” He knocks on a wall for effect. You turn back to Mrs. Morrison. Plaster on a friendly smile. It’s your first time pretending to be a realtor. You’re planning to play the role to perfection.

“So I understand you inherited the house from your mother not long ago?” you ask, and Mrs. Morrison nods. “And you’re looking to sell as soon as possible?” She nods.

“We can’t afford the upkeep,” she says. “My husband lost his job recently. And it’s just… it’s been stressful.” She gives a quick, forced smile. Brings her hand up to brush her hair back again. Long-sleeved shirt in 90 degree weather. The bruise on her wrist you see peek out tells you why.

“So, Mrs. Morrison, we gotta ask,” Sam says. He has his hands pushed into his pockets. It’s fascinating to see him like this, how easily he slips into a different role. Meanwhile, Dean is all Dean, except for the suit. 

“Ask what?” Mrs. Morrison asks, her polite smile stuttering.

“About the… sightings?” Sam continues. “We know we’re not the first real estate company you’re working with.” Mrs. Morrison’s eyes widen. 

“Realtors love gossiping,” Dean throws in with an apologetic shrug. 

A source Bobby connected the boys with has a cousin who works for a local realtor. She reported seeing a ghostly presence in the house, cold spots. Says someone from a different office she sometimes meets for happy hour saw the same. It spooked them enough that neither was willing to come back to the house. Which is why you’re in a pencil skirt you picked up at a thrift store and the boys are in cheap suits. 

You look up when you see movement out of the corner of your eyes. Up there, face poking through the large stair’s banister, is a little boy. Not a ghost boy. Just a regular, little boy.

“Mrs. Morrison,” you say, “would you mind if I take a look at the second floor? You can lead my colleagues around down here?” Mrs. Morrison nods, and the boys both throw you questioning looks. But you just smile and walk towards the stairs. 

The wood creaks under you. Once you’ve made it to the gallery, you peer into the rooms as you pass them. The boy’s room is the third one. The door is open, toys scattered on the floor. A pillow fort built between the bed and the wardrobe. You squat down in front of it, look in.

“This is cool,” you say. “Can I come in?”

The boy gives you a suspicious glance. 

“Are you gonna sell our house?” he asks. You purse your lips.

“That’s the plan,” you reply. “Are you looking forward to that? Or do you want to stay?” He doesn’t answer. Instead he scoots to the side, making room for you. You get on all fours and crawl in. Sit on one ass cheek, look around.

“No one’s gonna want to buy it,” he says. You look at him.

“Why?” you ask. “It’s a nice house. Could use some dusting, though.” The boy gives a small smile and you grin back.

“It’s old,” he says. You nod.

“Drafty?” you ask. “Weird sounds?” The boy nods, then frowns.

“How did you know?” he asks. You run your hand over one of the blankets. Worn thin, but strangely comforting.

“I used to live in one like this,” you reply. “Well, very close to it, anyway.” The boy is quiet for a minute.

“Did it have a ghost too?” he asks. You perk up, trying to hide it. 

“Kind of felt like it did sometimes,” you answer. You tilt your head to the side. “So, who’s this ghost?” The boy shifts, eyes going back and forth.

“My grandma,” he answers. You nod.

“The one who used to own the place?” you ask. He nods. “Is she scary?”

“Not really,” he says. “She’s kinda pale.” You chuckle, and the boy does too. You tap your fingers against your knee.

“You know,” you say, “when I lived in that house, the one that was kinda like this? I wasn’t scared of the ghosts. Or not really. But there were some people I was afraid of. Are there any scary people in this house?” He blinks, looks away.

“My dad,” he answers after a few seconds. “He gets really mad sometimes.” You swallow, nod. 

“At your mom?” you ask, and the boy nods. “And at you too?” He nods again.

“It’s okay, though,” he answers, looking up. You frown.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because of my grandma,” he replies. “She says I’m gonna be living with her soon.”

“Mrs. Morrison said her mother and husband didn't get along,” Sam says with a grunt as he pushes the shovel into dirt again. 

The sun is going down, twilight turning the graveyard into a strangely eerie but beautiful valley of shadows. Cicadas are loud in the air. 

It would almost be romantic if you weren’t digging up a corpse.

“So kill the kid to piss off the son-in-law?” Dean asks, briefly stopping his digging to drag the back of his hand over his forehead. “Talk about drastic measures.” 

Both boys are in t-shirts, thick gloves to not break skin while digging up Mrs. Morrison’s mother. You’re perched at the edge of the hole they have already dug, flashlight in hand. Lookout, or so they called in, not wanting you to dig. At the beginning you complained, but now, looking at the two big men huffing and sweating, you’re almost glad about the well-meant condescension.

“I don’t think that’s what she’s doing,” you say. Both brothers stop digging, turn to you. You press your lips together. “I think maybe she’s, you know. Trying to protect her grandson? In her own way?” Sam sniffs, throws Dean a look.

“By killing him?” Dean asks, tone challenging. You sigh.

“By getting him away from his father,” you reply. Dean frowns, shakes his head, and you shrug. “What? I’m not saying it makes sense.”

“Good, cause it doesn’t,” Dean says, and turns back to digging. You shift your weight.

“Not like anyone else’s gonna do anything about it,” you mutter. Dean stops, and Sam looks up at you. You clench your jaw, look between the two.

“Dad’s human,” Dean points out, tone sharp. “What exactly are we supposed to do?” You open your mouth, then close it. Suck in your cheeks, and Sam raises his hand. 

Calming the tide, smoothing the waves. 

“Look,” he says, gaze flicking between you and his brother, but finally landing on you. “So long as this kid’s alive, he’s got a chance of getting out of there. Making something of himself. And that part we can at least try to guarantee.”

You bite down on your next comment. Something about damage, and it already being done. Something about how a child might be able to explain away a ghost when he grows up, but not a father that made his mother’s wrists green and blue. You chew on your thought, think about unpacking and repackaging it so it doesn’t hit too close to home.

Which is when Sam’s gaze wanders up, over you, and his eyes widen.

“Get d–” he just manages, and then you’re flung back.

You land on your side, ribs screaming at the impact, wind knocked out of you. You push yourself up immediately, but the world’s a blur for a second, the low light you found so beautiful just a minute ago now disorienting. You hear Sam and Dean’s voices, look for them. Sam is scrambling out of the grave, a panicked look on his face, and then he’s climbing out, rushing over to you.

You see the movement to your left. Like an old TV, the buzz, the flicker. The feeling when you would hold your hand close to the screen.

“Sam!” you try to call out, but your voice is cracked from your fall, your lungs refusing to take in the air you need to make the right sounds. You see Sam rushing towards you, and then he’s lifted off his feet, tossed to the side, like he’s attached to an invisible wire.

His back hits a nearby gravestone with a sickening sound, and he crumples at its base. You rip your eyes open, your hands flying over the ground to look for purchase, and then you’re pushing yourself up, stumble more than run towards Sam.

You fall to your knees next to him, fingers going out to touch his face, but he’s already coming to. You hear a yelp behind you, turn your head. Dean swinging wide with an iron crowbar.

You whip back towards Sam. His hand is going up to his head, and when you turn around again, Dean is going flying as well. You take two sharp breaths, then push up on your feet, and run.

The fire accelerant is in the small duffel lying next to the grave. You dive for it, grab it, squirt it blindly into the grave. The ghost appears in a flicker of static in front of you - dusty, pale, and pissed off. She starts moving, hands reaching out. The accelerant drops from your grasp, and you reach into the back pocket of your pants, take out the zippo lighter you’re carrying, because the boys taught you that no hunter worth their salt would ever walk around without one on them.

It takes two horrible tries. Two flicks of your thumb before the flame lights, and when it does, she rushes towards you. Screeches too, for good effect, and all you can do is blindly drop the lighter in the grave. Pray it catches.

She goes up in a shower of fire and sparks and you flinch, bring your hands up. There’s no actual heat, but the fear is real.

When you lower your hands, your chest heaving, you look around. The sun is just disappearing behind the horizon. You see Dean roll onto his front, groan. Then look to your left. Sam at the bottom of that gravestone.

You start running, call his name. When you get closer, a deep shudder goes through you -  the stone is cracked, a long line running through it from the impact.

“Sam?” you say, voice loud and shaking. “Sam, baby, are you okay?” Sam groans in response, and it’s the best sound you've ever heard.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyelids fluttering open. “Is it gone?” You have no idea what he’s talking about - your brain is screaming at you at a frequency that is entirely new to you. You’ve been scared in your life, panicked. Never like this. 

“It’s done, Sammy,” you hear Dean behind you, didn’t even hear him come up. He drops down too, reaches for Sam’s shoulders and helps his little brother sit up. Sam groans again, closes his eyes briefly.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” you ask, your hand going to the side of Sam’s face. He looks at you, then at Dean, looks down like he’s assessing his own state.

“Nah, he’s fine,” Dean says, and you turn to him to stare him down, but you see the way his gaze is wandering over Sam, like he’s giving him an x-ray. After a second, he slaps Sam’s shoulder, like he’s assured himself that Sam is, in fact, fine. He looks at you. “All that hair. Protects his thick skull.”

You turn back to Sam, and he seems more back to himself. He looks at you, even manages a twitching smile.

“I’m fine,” he says, swallows. “I really am.”

Dean looks up, then around. He reaches for Sam’s arm, and without questioning it, you do the same on his other side. 

“Let’s get you out of here,” Dean mutters.

By the time the three of you make it back to the motel, Sam’s mostly back to himself. He complains of a headache, says he can feel a bump forming. You squeeze his hand.

Dean slings Sam’s arm over his shoulders on the walk to the room, and you unlock the door. He sits him down on the bed, then turns to you.

“You wanna get some ice for his head?” Dean asks, and you nod, throw another look at Sam as you walk towards the door. He looks up at the last second, gives you a tired, lopsided grin.

“Hey,” he says. “Nice job on ghost grandma.” You smile, throat feeling too tight for words.

You walk along the quiet halls of the building. He’s okay, repeated to yourself over and over. The closest you’ve gotten to this feeling is when Dean would go on a hunt on his own. You’d stay back, secretly hoping you’d be reason enough for him not to go, pacing the apartment, chewing your nails, feeling like you were standing too close to a cliff on a stormy day.

This is the same, but worse, because you weren’t just imagining what could happen - slashing claws, knives, a broken neck. You saw it. You nearly saw it. And Dean and Sam acted like it wasn’t a big deal. And maybe it wasn’t. Not to them.

You get the ice, walk back to the room, anxiety making you clench and unclench your hands. When you slip in, only the bedside lamp turned on, you hear Dean’s low voice. See his back where he’s sitting, the mess of Sam’s hair, except it’s not a mess, not anymore, but for a moment, it could be the way he wore it when he was younger.

“It’s alright, Sammy,” Dean says, and even though it’s his deep, adult voice, it almost sounds like it isn’t, for a second, there in the half dark. It sounds like he’s a kid again. “It’s not so bad.”

You swallow, don’t move. Don’t blink, because you know what you’re imagining isn’t real.

“Just don’t make him mad again, okay?”

And it’s Dean saying it, young Dean, but also, it’s not. Your mother’s face appears before your eyes like you’re snapped into the past. She’s grasping your arm, too hard. She’s whisper-hissing the way she does, but there is also something imploring in her voice. Something pleading.

“You hear me?” she says. “I told you not to make him mad.”

You blink, and it’s all gone. It’s Sam and Dean, their adult versions, Dean leaned over the bed and inspecting Sam’s head. You move forward, the ice bucket clasped in your arms, walk around Dean to the other side of the bed.

Dean’s already got a towel from the bathroom, and you put some ice into it, wrap it up. When you turn to Sam again, there are tears in your eyes. You can’t look at him, his face. Just hold the bundle up towards him.

You flinch when his fingers land on your wrist.

“Hey,” he says, and you finally look at him. He doesn’t seem drowsy or slow. He strokes his thumb along your skin. “I’m fine.”

You just nod. Don’t open your mouth because you don’t know what will come out.

“Here you go,” Dean says when he hands you the beer, then drops down in the chair next to you with a sigh. You nod, set the beer on the table, your hand wrapped around it, the cold making your skin feel numb. Eyes still on Sam.

He fell asleep about twenty minutes ago. Complained about being watched, that you and Dean were creeps, but you said you were too keyed up from the hunt. Dean said he might still go out. He hasn’t made any move to yet.

“He’s gonna be fine, you know,” Dean says into the silence. You nod, then raise the beer bottle to your mouth, more to do anything than because you want to drink. You take a small sip, set it down again.

Silence. 

“It’s good you were there today,” you say. You don’t look at Dean, but you hear the soft rustle of his shirt when he turns to you. “I just want you to know that.” Dean doesn’t answer for a few seconds, then you hear him raise his bottle, take a long sip. He puts the bottle down, slight smack of his lips.

“You two woulda been fine,” he says. For what feels like the first time tonight, you take your eyes off Sam. Turn your head, look at Dean in the almost-dark of the room. Watch him, and you wonder if he’s not returning the look on purpose.

“Why, Dean?” you ask. He blinks, looks at you. Frowns.

“Why what?” 

“What happened?” you ask. “I mean, how did it get so messy? Why’d you…” You go quiet, unsure how to say what you want to say. Why’d he leave you? Why’d he betray you? Why’d he make you feel like you were wrong, wrong deep down in a way that couldn’t be undone?

“You fucked up so bad,” you finally land on. Dean’s throat moves, but his face betrays no reaction. “The way you left, I mean… how could you do that? Both to me and Sam? How?”

You see Dean’s tongue move behind his lips, the glimmer of his eyes. He swallows again.

“Cause you fell in love with my brother.”

It feels like a fist squeezing your entire body. The tension, anger, fear. Shame. You take a slow breath, watch as Dean’s expression hardens.

“You fell in love with him,” he says, “while I lived with you. While I was sleeping in your bed. While I was there, every day.” His eyebrows twitch, and his stoic mask briefly becomes one of pain before he corrects himself. You feel tears burn in your eyes.

“Yes,” you say, the word feeling surprisingly light on your tongue. “But that didn’t mean I stopped loving you.”

Dean keeps looking at you, but you see the way the tension around his eyes changes. He looks down, quickly, once, then again, before he can meet your gaze again.

“Why did you do it?” you ask. “Ask Sam to join us that night, I mean.” Dean opens his mouth, and you can see the lie coming a mile away.

“I thought if you got it out of your system–” he says, but you interrupt him.

“Bullshit,” you say, the word feeling hot and self-righteous. “And don’t tell me it was all just for me. You wouldn’t do that. Let someone else in like that. You wanted Sam there as much as I did.” Dean frowns, deep and disturbed.

“I don’t–” he starts, but you are quicker again.

“You don’t want to fuck your brother,” you say. “I know. That’s not what I mean.” Dean blinks. His gaze shoots back to Sam. He looks like he is on the precipice of something, and tonight, for the first time ever, you’re willing to push him. 

Still, you wait. Until he can find the words for it. Be fucking honest. He owes you that.

“It’s hard to explain,” Dean says, and his voice is lower, more careful, like he’s worried you’ll actually hear him. You nod, show him you are listening. He takes a slow breath, lets it out just as slow.

“I saw how well you and he got along,” he says eventually, the words leaving him haltingly, like he’s just now forming them inside his head. “How he got all sappy on you. I don’t know. It didn’t feel right to keep that to myself.” 

“What do you mean?” you ask, your voice softer. Dean looks back and forth again, thinking.

“You took care of me,” he says, and it tugs at something deep inside of you. “I thought maybe you could take care of Sam, too. You know?” His eyes shoot up to your face again.

Take care of them. Two grown men. But it doesn’t sound strange or wrong to you. In a way, you know what he means. That’s what you’ve always wanted. You and your boys, taking care of each other.

“But you got angry when I did,” you point out. Dean tilts his head to the side.

“I didn’t,” he says, “not really. I thought I was angry because you wanted to fuck him. But then I wasn’t. And I got freaked out, okay? The thing with you and Sam, it’s like… I should hate that, right? I should want to tear Sam a new one. But I didn’t. Not really. And it freaked me out that I didn’t because… because I didn’t know what that meant.” 

“Then you stay and talk about that,” you reply, teeth gritted. “You don’t just run away.” Dean looks down at the table, doesn’t answer. You take a sip of your beer and finally, so does he. More silence. Sam’s gentle breathing in the bed, hand resting on his chest, rising and falling with it.

“You know this might sound, uh, kinda sad,” Dean says, and you keep looking at Sam, watching him sleep strangely calming. “When Sam first moved in? Those months he lived with us? Probably the happiest of my entire life.” 

You look to the side, back at Dean. He’s looking at Sam too, and there’s something soft in his expression now. You raise your chin.

“Really?” you ask. He nods, looks at you, his gaze immediately gliding off your face, like he can’t bear to look at you, to let you see him so genuine. Even after all this time.

“Yeah,” he says, and then he finally looks at you. “And the good thing? Now it’s kinda even better. Cause I don’t have to worry anymore, about whether you love him or not. About whether you’re gonna leave me for him.” His gaze finally settles on your face, stays there, just long enough for it to become almost painful.

“Course, I’m getting laid a lot less,” he says, looks away again, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. You huff, feel your shoulders relaxing. Raise your bottle.

“I’m sure you’re able to take care of that,” you reply, and Dean gives a brief chuckle. All show again.

Or you think he is. A minute passes there in the dark, both of you standing vigil over Sam. When Dean’s hand moves, you clock it out of the corner of your eye. It goes to yours, wraps around it. Squeezes once, and then he lets go.

You don’t know if it’s an apology, or a promise, or nothing at all.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

“So,” Dean says, poking at the fire again with the long branch he found god knows where. “Is it everything you thought it would be?”

You lower your can, no longer your first, and not even your second, and look at Dean across the fire. He’s studying you, sitting leaned back, legs extended. 

“Is what like I thought it would be?” you ask. Dean raises his chin.

“Hunting.”