𓃦 JOLLY's𓃥

“What the hell is that?” 

He shakes the foot that felt the tickle. Up top, he’s trying his best to keep himself from flailing. 

It’s hard to keep calm when your hand’s patting him square between his shoulders. It’s uncalled for as you pull yourself to his side. Wading as one with the ocean. 

“It’s just kelp,” you say. The ripples your fingers make against the sun-kissed current cling to your shape as your hair does to your scalp. 

At least your bra is covering your nipples. 

He’s in his boxers, and sure, your panties cover less thigh, but you still have two pieces of clothing protecting you from the elements. The size and cut of the fabric have nothing to do with it. Dean has more dangly bits. Excuse him for not caring for whatever’s feeling him up when he’s sporting bait without the tackle on account of the shrinkage he’s got going on.

Of course, you make it worse. Dean hears each word clip your teeth as you mutter “Or a shark.”

He spins around, nudging you into the surf with his newfound momentum, so it’s your arms doing the flailing. No longer his. 

You pay him back by pulling him down with you into the brilliant green and blue depths. To Bruce’s lair. Though it’s gonna be someone’s locker or his own soon if he’s not careful. He’s gotta keep his head above the water and just keep swimming. Damn, Dory never worried ‘bout great whites. Least not with her memory. Dean’s works way too well for his liking. 

Lake Manitoc. A B&B in Connecticut, even though he didn’t end up wet. There are too many things that can go wrong when you can’t see past the legs of your underwear. His bowed ones are there somewhere. He kicks them. His feet tread through the brine. 

“Hey,” he splutters. Gargles the surf. Saltwater sluices his chin as he bobs back up and wipes his face. He skims the foam off the top of the sea to splash you some more with the other hand, but you cling to it. The smile on your face has him giving in. 

His arm pulls you closer, palm squeezing your slippery side as tight as he can as another wave washes through you both. 

He lets it. Goes with the tide because he can still touch the bottom if he needs to. Can still pull him and you out and back to the shore with little effort if he has to, but he doesn’t. He sinks down to his shoulders instead, pulling you further into him bridal style, like he’s stepping over a different threshold. One that’s just as scary and looming over him.

“Told you it’d be fine.” Your arm swings around his neck. Your free hand rests across his tattoo, smoothing the salt and seawater further into his pores. If only you could trace the mischief bubbling under his skin. 

“Oh, I knew I’d be fine.” He grins. His hand reaches for yours, still draping over his shoulder, and grips your wrist, raising it above his head like he’s removing a tie or his flannel. Even dips himself further again into the water, asking slow and deliberate, "Question is—are you?”

Before you can react, he’s let you go into the next wave. You’re slippery enough, you slide back in. 

Your head goes under; hands peek out above the white tips of the swell. Until he pulls you back into the safety of his frame before you can drift too far out to sea and away from him again.

“Asshole.” There’s no bite to it, ‘cause you’re the one sputtering this time. Wiping your face, you follow down the smooth ends of your hair.

“You’re the one who mentioned sharks.” He can’t hide his grin.

“It was a joke.” You dip your head back into the water. Run both hands over the mop on your head, only to perk back up, skin flushed beneath that bra of yours, jiggling for him. You stare him down when you use the next wave to your advantage. “Are you afraid of sharks?” you say, serious now. Concern flickers in your eyes like you’ve decided it must be so.

“No.” He kicks his foot off the seabed. Tiptoes, quick. Barely there in the sand, but enough to piston himself to rise with the next wave. 

Dean could do this all day. The sea is a spell. The way it cleanses his body and lifts him like he’s weightless. Takes the worry out of his spine and the tension out of his joints. Lets him relax—almost. If it weren’t for the constant gauge of your abilities to keep your own head up.

You swim after him, though. The tide gives you a lift. It’s as if it wants you in his arms, too, even though he’ll continue to pretend you’ve usurped him in some way. 

The ocean may be pretty, but so are you and Baby. The sand tints the sea like the sun’s rays tint her dash, or your eyes when they stream through the windshield. The depths, deep and transverse, like the night sky, blanket the open highway. The stars that scatter across that very sky are as lovely as the ripples you still make in the vast body of water before him. 

It’s different from what he knows, that’s all. S’not that he’s afraid. Just uncertain with the unknowing. To come here and do this with you without forethought or a plan or a towel waiting with your discarded clothes. 

It’s exhilarating, yet he’s shut it away and out of his mind. Like the seabed below, it will drop off. So will Dean when he allows himself, but for now the ocean keeps him upright as it continues to surround him. 

You surround him, too. He stills and waits as your arms loop back around his shoulders. Head tilting opposite to yours as he nips at the silt on your lips.

He takes a second taste in search of what makes you, you. Your fingers, now twirling through the hair at the base of his neck, give a gentle tug, drawing him back to look into your eyes.

“So what’s got you so antsy?” Drops of seawater cling to your forehead. Dean thumps his own against them and yours. 

“Nothing.” He swipes at those clinging to your cheek with his thumb. He’s earnest until he adds, “just swimming with fish gunk.”

You snicker. The question’s in your gaze. Seeming unsure how to take what he’s said when the idea of them floundering through your feet doesn’t bother you one bit.

“They’re crapping in here.”

You bite your lip. Your cheeks, now higher, fuel him on.

“Getting their rocks off!”

That continuous snicker you’re now containing bursts through a raspberry that has even Dean beaming at himself and his own antics. He could’ve said worse. He does. “Those drops on your face. Got fish-spunk in ‘em.”

Your “What?” is half-humoured. Your face; your smile; those lips. You detach your hold on his shoulders, but don’t bother wiping the remaining patches of ocean off you. Dean does.

He halts you. Runs his palms and thumbs through said spunk, and keeps you from moving any further. 

He pulls on your jaw and captures your lips again before you can call him out on his contradiction or the next wave rolls over you. 

He leans back into it. Lets the ocean lift you both. Your weight, a mass of slippery flesh, covers him with a heartbeat that presses against his chest.

It’s hard to stay still once the current smooths and flattens across the ever churning surface. The waves rise and fall. Only when they fall is he ever truly free. You’re still in his arms, but your legs, splaying out behind you, turn you into a raft, making him the dead weight hanging off of you. 

He lets you go for air. The wet smack sounds over the rolling tide, bracketing your words on one end. “So you’re not afraid of the ocean?” you chuckle.

“The ocean?” 

You chuckle again, repeating those three syllables so he hears it a third time with another roll of a wave.

But your eyes widen. Your laughter turns into a cackle. It’s like he’s fallen flat on his face or been upturned and flipped by the foamy edges crashing and now tumbles below the bubbles and rips of the undertow. 

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You are.”

He’s what now? Last he checked, he was drifting in this mess with you. Swimming with the fishes, just not dead yet.

“Am not.” He’s defiant. His fingertips still tease your skin beneath the surface, and your chin. He’s clinging to you, sure. Keeping his feet well off the ocean floor, aware of the depths below you both, and how far away the beach meets the shore.

“What is it then?”

He pulls his legs up and under him. Paddles himself ‘round, just not all the way so his eyes can stick to the sheen of the beach, even as your arm snakes over his shoulder, splaying your hand on his chest once more. 

You squeeze him as he’s done you, not just here, but whenever either of you needs grounding. It’s not that he fears anything. He’s just never been in it before. 

The water is deep, and the waves can be rough, but it’s beautiful and exciting. He wants to stay right here next to you for as long as he can float because he knows you’re enjoying yourself. He wants to enjoy it, too.

“S’nothing,” he says when he feels your gaze on his salt-crusted cheeks. He grips your wrists tight, raises your arms—again. Lets you slip back into the swell, because you haven’t learned your lesson, it would seem.

You can swim. So can he. It’s if you sink to the bottom or not that’s the worry. He sees your tangle of hair and your arms moving to bring you back to him. Though that shiny ring on your left hand is gonna pull one or both of you down if he lets the weight of it get the better of him. 

He doesn’t want that.

No, he wants to keep your head above the water like he does his own. Be your raft and keep you swimming and living for as long as he can by his side. 

You’re back by his side now, where you belong. He pulls you in, and this time he doesn’t let you go; only holds you closer. Feels how carefree life can be, even in uncertainty. Reminds himself how far he’ll go to stay near you. How far he’ll chase.

“Have you had enough yet?” he mumbles as he looks into your eyes. He has, but he’ll let you decide. 

“Never.” Your irises flicker. You draw him in, and you don’t let him go. “The fish-spunk suits you.”

You lick your lips.

He samples yours again.

Salt and sugar don’t just look the same.

Thank you for reading ❤️ Please consider dropping a like, comment or reblogging if you enjoyed this. You can find my other works here.

they’ve been drastically different situations, and yet, not very different in terms of the ‘pile’ itself: you sandwiched between both sam and dean, their heads resting on you, their arms slung over some part of you. they’re both breathing deep, both relaxed as much as they could be. they’re still wound so tight somewhere you can’t reach, somewhere no one can seem to penetrate—but yet, they let their guard down around you. and you hold that fact close in your heart.

⁰¹ AFTER A NIGHTMARE.

the first time, it’s from a place of sheer desperate need. dean comes into your room first, his chest heaving from another nightmare of the pit. he’s shaking when he approaches your bedside, like a leaf in the wind. you look up at him not with pity, but with every intention to just help him. to hold him. and that’s what makes him cave like a house of cards.

you don’t ask questions. you just hold him under your blankets, like you want to shield him from everything in the world. he’s grateful you don’t say anything. you’ve always been able to figure out exactly what dean needs, without him telling you a thing. it’s made him seek you out—because half the time, he doesn’t know what he needs.

dean ends up buried in your chest, holding onto you for dear life as he fights to keep from drowning. his breathing is just starting to even out against you when you hear a creak of the floorboard and see sam standing in your door. he, like dean, is also shaking. or a brief second, you wonder if they had the same nightmare. is that even a thing? but you sit up a little more, dean still in your arms. he’s tensed up completely again—and after seeing who’s there, every cell in his body is telling him to run. sam can’t see him like this: his big brother, curled up into you like a scared little kid. but he is.

sam ends up on the other side of you, not saying anything, either. it’s quiet, the only sounds the fan and dean and sam’s uneven breathing. dean’s arm is wrapped high on your torso, close to your diaphragm, his head on your shoulder. sam’s arm is wrapped more by your hips, his head resting on the side of your chest. your own arms are wrapped each of the brothers’ shoulders.

technically, sam and dean are facing each other as they lay on either side of you, but they’re not looking at each other—probably as to not psych themselves out. they’re aware of the other’s presence, but don’t necessarily acknowledge it. after all, they’re both seeking comfort from you, not each other. you can’t see much of them through their tufts of hair, but you don’t need to. you can feel them both relaxing into your body, their once unbelievably tense shoulders now just a tad tense. you’re sure something inside both of them will never let them fully relax, but you take this moment. you take this win.

⁰² AFTER A DAY OF SWIMMING.

it’s a sunny day at bobby’s—and for once, you and the boys have a day to yourselves. no case, no leads to chase down, no research to do. sam suggests going to the lake nearby bobby’s house, and you all agree. soon enough, you’re on the road in baby, cooler sitting next to you in the backseat.

dean, of course, cannonballs into the lake. you and sam are walking side by side on the dock, chairs that bobby digged out for you in hand—and a whoosh of air flows past you both as dean jumps in, the splash starting a ripple spreading through the entire lake. his head pops up after a few beats, grinning wide. you shake your head as dean goads you to come join him, but you hold off for now.

sam’s next to go in the water—well, dean may have triple dog dared him to—and you pretend to be annoyed that he splashed you upon jumping in. you think at this moment, they kind of remind you of dogs. their hair’s wet, and you can almost imagine a pair of floppy ears on sam.

you find the frisbee one of you packed, wiggle it at the boys wading in the water. you promise whoever gets the frisbee the most times gets first pick on the lunch you all brought. it’s not much of a prize at all—but sam and dean take it seriously. you’re not sure who wins, anyway. sam and dean push at each other every time you threw it, splashing at the other to deter them. they’re laughing—and you haven’t heard that sound in a while. a long while.

after the lunch is eaten and the sun is dipping into the horizon, you decide to head back. droplets make their way down, soaking into the soft fabric of your shirt as you sit in the backseat once more, looking at the sunburned necks of the winchester brothers. it’s silent, but not uncomfortable. it’s probably the most comfortable you’ve been in a while, you think.

after you showered, you realize your day the sun has taken most of your energy away. you lay down on the bed bobby brought into the living room for you, sighing once your head hits the pillow.

sam’s not sure why he lays down next to you after his own shower. his entire face hurts from the sunburn, and his back isn’t doing so hot, either. it’s cold in the room, but he doesn’t reach for the bigger blanket, just the sheet that’s covering you. he doesn’t reach for you or anything—he doesn’t know if he’s allowed—but you seem to find him in your sleep, regardless.

dean, still wincing from the shower’s stream hitting his own sunburned skin, also finds himself laying on the opposite side of you, the cold pillow a contrast to the red on his face, giving his freckles a chance in the spotlight again. you and sam are both asleep already—and dean falls under quickly too, his head resting close to the crook of your shoulder. sam’s slumped on your other side haphazardly—but still touching you. you’re all dead to the world as you lay there.

it’s strange, how these boys are just that: boys. even though they are well above 6 feet and could hunt and kill anyone and anything, they’re still boys. they’re still full of energy, like when they were young—although, it may be a little depleted now. but they had a good day today.

a good day in the sun.

📨 many a time have i discussed this concept with @aseafullofstars… now it has come to life. also still wishing we got a beach episode. guys let them play frisbee.

You open one of your eyes to see Sanji in his flowery print shirt sitting in front of you, the usual enamored look on his face as he gently fans you with a huge banana leaf that he must have picked up at the last port. With how he's ogling you, you're suddenly very aware of the fact that you're barely wearing any clothes, and that your body must be glistening from the sweat the tropical heat has been causing.

For a split-second, you want to scold him. Tell him to roll his tongue back up, the way you've learned to do from Nami. But you don't. For some reason, you don't want to. Instead, you bite your lip, and when you speak, your voice sounds a little raspier than you meant it to.

“Sanji, dear, would you mind getting us something to drink? The heat is becoming unbearable.”

Sanji is up on his feet before you even finish your sentence, already disappearing into the galley. You look after him, sighing, your mouth acting faster than your brain.

“He really is a cute little pookie, isn't he?”

You have to giggle when Nami nudges you with her elbow, immediately making you regret your words. “Oh is he, now? Maybe you should tell him, I'm pretty sure that's something he'd like to know. Just be prepared, he'll never let off you once you cross that line!”

You keep your eye on Sanji after he comes back with options of lemon-infused water, Margaritas and a smoothie. You've slipped on your sunglasses to be less obvious, but you have to remind yourself not to drool. Sanji keeps pampering you and the other girls, serving you snacks, fresh fruit, granting you any wish your minds can come up with. Fanning you and giving you foot rubs, only getting one single nose-bleed when you ask him to hose you down. And it's driving you crazy.

It's obvious that his attention isn't focused solely on you. Sanji loves to serve Nami and Robin just as much as he does you. But you don't care. The fact that he's so willing to do your every bidding, the unadulterated devotion he has for you, and maybe you having one drink too many makes things stir deep inside you. Very deep inside you.

He keeps flaunting that lean body of his in front of you all evening, shirt unbuttoned way too low, handsome face crowned by that perfectly charming smile without even noticing what he's doing to you. And when he finally disappears into the ship again and everyone else seems busy enough, you get up and sneak away from the party.

It's almost dark outside already and the ship's interior is lit only by a candle here and there. You're confident enough to know your way around the Thousand Sunny with your eyes closed and you're not even that tipsy anymore, what you didn't account for is someone standing right behind the corner to the kitchen.

You groan as you bump into him, almost losing your balance, but a quick arm snakes around your waist to catch you.

“Careful, love.”

You've been close to Sanji before. Many times. But in this state of arousal, it's almost painful to bear. The way he's pulling you against him, how he smells of freshly cut herbs and cloves. You know you're supposed to say something witty, but all you manage is a pathetic mewl with a cracked voice.

“Are you okay, dear? Do you need anything? And... Why are you breathing so hard?”

Sanji examines you, brushing the hair out of your face, landing his hand at the base of your neck. His brows furrow.

“Your heart is racing, what's going on? Do you need to go see Chopper? Come on, I'm taking you to…”

Sanji tries to pull you along by your hand, but you resist. He turns back to look at you, brows furrowed.

“This isn't something Chopper can help me with, Sanji. I… I'm famished.”

“Why didn't you say so? I'll whip you something up, you know I'll always turn on the stove for you if you just—”

While he's still speaking, you pull Sanji back to you, turn him around, press him against the wall. You run a hand down his chest and whisper, “no. Not that kind of hungry.”

“You– wha– what do you… oh.”

And then, after a couple of seconds, his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open.

“Oh.”

Sanji's eyes follow the movement of your hand, incredulously, as you run it over his chest to finally find purchase on his lapel. You stand on your tiptoes and press yourself against him, eyes involuntarily fluttering shut at his delicious scent, the soothing warmth radiating off him.

One of your hands leaves his shirt to run over his cheek, the slightest stubble tickling your palm as you bring your lips so close to his that you can almost taste him. Then you give him a firm squeeze and with the last ounce of reason your brain can muster up, you say, “breathe a word of this to anyone and I'll kill you.”

Sanji's arm shoots up as soon as you let go of his face, firmly pressing the back of his hand against his nose, and you know it'll come back bloodstained whenever it's safe to release the pressure.

You can't really see, because the second he moves again he's already swept you up, holding you close to his chest as he carries you down the stairs to your quarters.

When he kicks the door shut behind him, you still in his arms, you look at each other. Sanji raises the arm holding your back a little, prompting you to sit in a more upright position, your face coming closer to his. You hesitate for a moment, unsure whether this really is such a great idea as you thought moments ago, and then Sanji's voice sends a renewed wave of heat straight to your core.

“How do you want me?”

He looks you deep in the eyes, seriousness and excitement equally present on his face. At the ready, waiting, hoping for you to command him. You press your thighs together. Firmly.

“Uh— just… take your pants off, I just need to get off real quick,” you say, clearing your throat, not daring to express what you actually want. You're not sure you could ever again look him in the eyes if you told him you really want him to ravage you, to eat you up leaving no crumbs. Your cracking voice might have betrayed you, though.

Sanji looks at you. Studies your face as you try to play it cool when, really, you're all riled up. He lets you slide down from his arms, making sure you're steady on your feet before letting go completely, then cups your cheeks with his big working hands. You're awfully aware of how close you are, and that growing bulge that's pressing into your stomach.

“Désolé, mon amour, but I don't do quick. Not when it comes to making love.”

And with that, both of you hastily start undressing each other.

Sanji tilts your head as he presses his lips against your pulse point, your hands fumble as you try to undo the few buttons left on his shirt. A jolt of electricity zaps through your body as your fingers brush against the treasure trail starting just under his bellybutton. Incredible how wanting he already got you before even really getting started.

Sanji has it easier since you're already down to your bikini top. He pulls on the lower string, loosening it, and then the upper one, causing the skimpy piece of clothing to drop to the floor unceremoniously. If you didn't know any better, you'd think the staggered groan spilling from his lips was caused by pain, but the way his eyes become almost heart-shaped while looking at your exposed tits speaks for itself.

Both his hands drop to your chest, carefully running over them, fingers splayed so he can touch as much of you as possible. His thumbs graze over your nipples, the sensitive buds immediately hardening under his touch as he starts to rub small circles over them. You sigh blissfully, the coil in your core winding even tighter with every touch, every squeeze, but you're impatient.

You let him adore you for only a moment longer, then you start peeling him out of his shirt, seizing the opportunity to feel him up properly. Sanji is every bit as firm as you had expected, muscles rippling under the skin wherever your fingers touch him. You mutter under your breath.

“Fuck, you're fit. Do you have any idea what you've been doing to me all day? Parading all of this in front of me? Damn tease.”

Sanji's mouth curls into the cheekiest little smile as you gesture towards his naked torso.

“Sorry, love. Didn't mean to make you suffer.”

He pulls you in close, runs his hand over your hair, shoulder, down your arm. He lets his nose ghost over your cheekbone, hungrily breathing in your scent. You press yourself up against his chest, seeking out every inch of his you can reach, skin on skin feeling warm, fuzzy.

“You smell amazing,” he whispers into the shell of your ear.

Your open mouths dance around each other, mewls and sighs alternating, and when your lips finally meet, the heat that's been building up in your chest explodes into every cell of your body.

His lips are plush, warm, soft, and he's tiptoeing right on the line between cautious and passionate as he kisses you in a way you've never been kissed before. It makes your head spin and your heartbeat flounder. You can feel Sanji gradually losing his restraint as his kisses become wilder and wilder, tongue darting out, seeking to explore you.

You sling your arms around his shoulders while he slowly ushers you in the direction of the closest bed, hips and a rapidly growing erection pushing you back while his hands, splayed over your waist, pull you into him at the same time.

When the back of your knees finally meet a mattress, he gently lowers you onto the sheets, making sure not an inch of your bodies is further apart than it absolutely needs to be.

You let yourself be guided by Sanji's firm grip, moan into his open mouth as you're devouring each other, the last trace of that cautiousness finally gone as he covers you with his body.

You can feel your hips bucking up, seeking out the friction of the massive hard-on Sanji's sporting by now, but instead of bringing you closer to him – which, even if you desperately want it, seems physically impossible – he suddenly pulls back.

You whimper at the loss of his mouth on yours, open your eyes to a scene that makes you even wetter than you already are.

Sanji's chest is heaving, his hair is disheveled from the way you've been running your hands through it, his cheeks are flushed. Lips puffy and red from kissing you.

As you prop yourself up on your elbows, he climbs down from the bed to drop to his knees, ocean eyes asking you for permission as he starts to fidget with the buttons on your shorts.

“You deserve to be worshipped like the goddess that you are.”

You take in a sharp breath, nod, lift your ass so he can make quick work of the rest of your clothing. When you're finally fully unclothed, you see Sanji mesmerized, staring down at your naked form in front of him. His movements look like they're warped as his hand reaches up to his face to firmly press against his nose again. You know you didn't actively do it, but you've definitely got him hypnotized.

You have to smile at the reverence, give him a couple of seconds to wrap his mind around the fact that this is actually happening, and when he doesn't you coo him with the softest voice you manage even though you're already feral for him.

“Sanji,” you say, and his gaze immediately snaps up to your face. “I'm dripping.”

“Fuck, sorry,” he pants, and you have to giggle at how quickly he suddenly moves. Gently, he spreads your legs, angles them up. Runs his lips up your thigh, planting little kisses here and there until he finally reaches your heat.

You sigh contently as he kisses your pussy with the same fervor he had kissed your mouth moments earlier, and when he runs his tongue through your folds you let yourself drop back down on the mattress again. Sanji moans as he sticks his tongue deep inside you, mumbling little curses and something that might have been French in the short moments he comes up for air. For a second, after a particularly dramatic gasp from him, you worry he might suffocate going down on you, but you know that would be his way of choice to go, so you let him continue his ministrations.

When Sanji finally decides to move up, to focus his attention onto the little bundle of nerves sitting on top of your entrance, you know you're not far from reaching your climax. You arch your back, rake your fingers through Sanji's hair, hear him moan again when you find a good grip and press him into you.

You curse loudly when you feel him slipping two fingers into you without your body giving even a hint of resistance, a filthy squelching sound indicating how ready you are for him to be inside you.

You whimper in pleasure as he curves his fingers, pumping into you without his tongue slowing down ever so slightly, and, torn between wanting to make the feeling last and desperately needing release, you barely manage to get the words out.

“Sanji, I'm gonna…”

“Wait–”

The disappointment of him stopping with you being so close is almost unbearable, but fortunately, he's quick.

“I want to see what you look like when I make you come for the very first time,” he says, and the words almost make you come on the spot without him even touching you. You groan, close your eyes, concentrate on getting absolutely everything you can out of this moment. Commit it to memory.

You hear the clinking of his belt buckle, and then a soft thud when his pants hit the floor. You can feel him towering over you when his thumb brushes over your cheek.

“Will you open those beautiful eyes for me, love?”

You swallow, then comply. You only have a second to admire how gorgeous he looks above you before he lines himself up to your entrance and, slowly but with purpose, sinks into your heat.

You try to keep your eyes open for him, but the sensation of his cock inside you, hot, girthy, throbbing is just too much. You moan wantonly as he thrusts into you, stretching you out into every possible direction, reaching so deep inside you it makes you see stars all over.

His grip on one of your shoulders is firm as he thrusts, thrusts again, and then stutters because the way you're clenching around him as you come undone pulls him right over the edge with you. The orgasm rips through you as you clutch at Sanji's arms, nails probably streaking him as you try to find an outlet for all the pent up energy that's being expelled into the universe.

Sanji keeps pumping into you until your body stops writhing underneath him. You finally manage to open your eyes again, the blissed out look on your face probably matching his.

“That was… beautiful,” he pants, arms slightly shaking and dick still buried deep inside you.

You swallow, nod. “Fuck. We really should have done this sooner,” you grin, chest still heaving from the ride you've just been on.

“Well,” he says, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “We can always make up for lost time, can't we? Because I don't know about you, chérie, but I'm only getting started.”

Dean glances down at each packet. He snorts and tosses the first one into the metal garbage bin beside his desk. Sam frowns.

“What was wrong with that one?”

“He’s a dude. Don’t you think we’ve got enough of a sausage fest going on around here?” Dean says, gesturing wide at the multi-floor building that makes up HunterCorp. His father’s enterprise, distilled down to two sons who, on their best day, have very different opinions on what makes for a good executive assistant.

Sam utters a longsuffering sigh.

“Man or woman, you need a real assistant, Dean. Someone competent enough to deal with your demanding schedule and…personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?”

“And I need you to have an assistant so I can focus on my real job. You know, running the entire Legal department.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know how to do my job, okay? I think I’ve picked up the slack pretty damn well since Dad died.”

Sam pauses, acknowledging that with a nod, and a heavier note.

“Yeah. You have.”

“So while I’m throwing money away hiring for a wholly unnecessary assistant, who I’m gonna have to tolerate looking at every day, I might as well be looking at somebody hot,” Dean says.

Another exhale leaves Sam’s body, along with the brief buoyant feeling of admiration for his brother.

And now we’re back where the neanderthals live. 

Sam gets a text from Reception that has his pocket buzzing. After he checks the message, he nods to himself. Here we go.

“All right. The first one is on her way up now, so do me a favor and get yourself together,” he says. “For example, it’s a little early for the booze, don’t you think? It’s 10:00 a.m.”

Dean pauses. The crystal decanter in his hand is halfway to pouring his first fifth of whiskey.

Second breakfast, if you will.

He gives his brother a flat look, one that’s accusing him of being an eternal wet blanket. But he begrudgingly concedes the point and puts both the decanter and the tumbler in a cabinet under his desk.

Classy. Sam rolls his eyes.

A knock at the door stops him from commenting out loud.

Clearing his throat, he walks over to let you in.

“Hi, Sam…and Mr. Winchester,” you say, shaking hands with the slightly taller brother. Then you turn to Dean Winchester, CEO of HunterCorp. He stands and leaves his desk to greet you.

In the time it takes him to cross the room, he takes you in within the breadth of a few seconds. More than the professional pantsuit and your pretty face, he notices your bright smile, the slight bout of nerves in the way you shake his hand. He finds himself smiling back.

“Uh, hi,” he says eloquently. “Call me Dean. Can we get ya some water, coffee, iced tea…”

He doesn’t even think they have iced tea, but he’s willing to make Sam go and find some.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” you reply.

“Okay, then. Just, uh, take a seat.” He gestures to the open seat in front of his desk before he returns to his own plush leather chair. It squeaks as he swivels back in place. He shares a nod with Sam, who heads out of the office. The door closes behind him.

Dean glances down at the list of questions Sam prepared for him to ask each candidate, a sheet of paper that lies over your resume. He brushes the questions aside and focuses on the information printed under your name.

His brows raise in interest. “You graduated from Stanford University like my brainiac brother?”

The sound of your light laugh draws his gaze from the page, up to your face.

“Yeah, we were actually friends. It’s just been…a while,” you say, clearing your throat a little.

Dean inclines his head. His understanding grows along with his suspicion as he reads.

“Look at that, a Marketing major. Looks like you had a couple of promising internships too.”

“In college, yes.”

“And you were a Communications Specialist at Ashland for…eight months in 2021?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Again, you nod, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle in your pants. Your gaze falls away from his.

This time, Dean thinks you know full well what he’s getting at when he sets down your resume.

“That was five years ago,” he says. “You haven’t worked in five years since getting out of college?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” you admit, though you sit a little straighter. “I gave birth to my daughter, Emma, in November of 2021. My ex…was not supportive. My mother was also having some heath issues, so I moved back home to help my father take care of her. They took care of me too.”

Your fingers flex and interlace together in your lap. Dean notices the subtle fidget, but otherwise you’re calm and professional as you admit to something so personal. He can respect that you didn’t try to bullshit him.

“Hmm. Complicated,” he nods, then hesitates. “How’s your mom doing now?”

Your lips tug, but not at a smile. “She passed away a few weeks ago.”

Dean dims further as he inhales deeply. “I’m sorry.”

You give a tight nod, your throat swallowing.

“Look, since you’ve been honest with me, I’m gonna be real with you,” he says. “I run a company of 300 employees, 20 departments, 10 floors. I work 60-hour weeks minimum. I meet with department heads, shareholders, business partners and prospective clients on the daily—the kind of schedule that would make your head spin. I know you’ve done what you had to do, but I’m not sure you’re ready for a job like this. And that’s besides the fact that I’m not convinced I even need an assistant who’s probably just going to slow me down by sticking her nose into my process and asking questions I don’t have the damn time to answer.”

You tighten up at that, understandably taken aback. Your lips purse, but instead of tossing him a fuck you then and walking out, like he half expects, you sit with his words. You think it through, and you give him exactly what he doesn’t expect. 

“I may not have been clocking into an office for the past few years, but I haven’t been a stranger to hard work, Mr. Winchester. I’ve done nothing but fulfill the role of an assistant,” you say, and your gaze never leaves his when you say it. “Appointments, calls, messages, emails, paperwork, finances, data reports, coffee, power lunches, drycleaning—whatever you need, however quickly you need it, I can get it and I can make it happen. If there’s someone you can rely on, it’s a single mother who knows how to get shit done.”

Dean understands now. He understands the pain hidden in your eyes, and the too-tight set of your shoulders that hold the weight of responsibility. Urgency. A hint of desperation.

You need this job, maybe a little too much.

He should let you down gently. You’re not the kind of girl he’s looking for.

But whenever his mind and his gut are in conflict, he usually heeds his gut. That’s worked out well for him so far.

So he shrugs, and he stands up, holding out his hand to you across the desk.

“Like I said, call me Dean.”

Two Weeks

He groans into the ceramic mug at the first sip. Jesus Christ, you make a good fucking cup of coffee. That’s not even in the top five of the talents you possess, as it pertains to his business and your ability to learn quickly, talk minimally, and begin to anticipate his needs.

You dress nice, you’re always on time, and hell, you smell good too. Like body lotion and just the right amount of perfume. Obviously he can’t comment on any of these things, unless he wants a visit from Meg in HR. But it doesn’t stop him from noticing you, his heart thumping whenever you come in close to show him a document or ask him a question about a report.

Instead of rolling his eyes or snapping that you should have someone who’s not running this entire company explain it to you—like he did the last assistant who didn’t even survive three days—Dean finds an ounce of patience to spare for you.

He sits there and explains the difference between an M1911 handgun and a shotgun, and why the background checks take two months for one model and a few weeks for the other one is just a difference of state law, not HunterCorp’s manufacturing techniques.

Sam is rather fucking gloaty about it too—mainly at the fact that his top candidate made it through Dean’s initial hiring plans.

“Admit it, she’s good,” Sam says later in the day, while the two of them eat lunch together in his office. You just had it delivered ten minutes ago, still piping hot.

“She’s all right, for being your little college friend.” Dean slurps his lo mien and casts his brother some side-eye. “Is that all she was, or did you two occasionally sneak off for a little rec room break on the side?”

Sam gives him a flat look. “No, I was with Jess by then.”

“Just asking.” Dean shrugs. Secretly, he’s pleased. “You know anything about the ex-boyfriend, Father of the Year?”

Sam snorts in derision. “Some asshole in Sales while she was at Ashland. From what I heard, they were dating for six months or so, and she got pregnant. He, uh, tried to get her to end it.”

Dean frowns, and actually pauses eating to raise his head.

“She told you that?” he asks.

Sam holds back on answering for a suspicious moment, his eyes shifting down at his food.

“Made a couple calls to some contacts I have over there,” he says.

Spies, in other words. Dean nods in understanding. His brother’s always been the smart one. That’s what everyone used to say, including their father.

Two Months

You’re not sure if you should do it.

You have a sensitive report in your hand, fresh off the printer. You really think Dean should see it before he gets any deeper into his negotiations with Roman Enterprises, but he’s meeting with them right now in the big conference room, with Dick Roman himself, as well as the rest of his sales and legal representatives.

This isn’t the first meeting Sam and Dean have undergone with the company; Roman Enterprises been courting HunterCorp into a partnership on a new product, but this could be the day that makes the big swinging dicks in the room shake hands (even if that little visual almost makes you snort).

Dean’s never expressly warned you about entering a meeting uninvited, but it’s still nerve wracking as you stand outside the door. You can hear familiar voices, including the nasally tone of Alastair, the one who gives you the creeps whenever he slithers through the office and gives you a “charming” once-over.

But you also hear Dean. His voice is deep and smooth and confident. It gives you the little confidence boost you need to twist the knob and push the door open.

Just as you predicted, with a sinking feeling, all eyes turn to you when you enter the conference room. Sam and Dean and their lead sales manager, Cas, look over at you in varying degrees of surprise (Cas with disapproval). Dick Roman remains impassive, if slightly amused when you squeak out an, “I’m sorry.”

It’s Alastair’s gaze you feel on your profile when you quickly make your way around the large conference room table and over to Dean. You lean over to hand him the paperwork.

His lips purse when he notices the line of Alistair’s gaze—on your ass.

Dean then frowns at you, and your express delivery.

“What’s this? You think it could’ve waited?” he asks in a low whisper.

“Look,” you whisper back, pointing to the section you starred. It’s a report that Roman Enterprises failed to disclose about their product, a double-chambered gun that can store silver rounds and witch-killing bullets as well as salt rounds: the perfect gun for a hunter.

The problem is the safety and performance report. The one Dean has up on his laptop doesn’t match the one now physically in his hands—the one that says two out of three units of this gun fail to chamber correctly on reloading, resulting in a backfire on the user.

Dean’s brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Is something wrong?” Dick asks. He straightens in his seat, his demeanor a fraction sharper.

Dean glances up at him, then at Sam and Cas, who wear similar looks of confusion. Sam raises his brows expectantly.

“Sorry, one moment,” Dean says to the room, before redirecting his attention to you.

You’re all too aware of being the rabbit caught in the proverbial trap in this room of nearly all men, but you rest a hand on the table and lean in near his ear.

“Their weapons analyst sent this to me,” you explain. “He almost got his hand blown off. Said they didn’t want to go back to the drawing board and waste time when they had us as a prospective distributor.”

Dean blinks in surprise. A fucking whistleblower just outed his own company, but he supposes he can’t blame the guy. If he had half a hand, he’d sue everybody.

“Okay, thank you,” Dean tells you.

It sounds like a dismissal, and truth be told, you’re ready to get the hell of this room. You make a quick escape and shut the door carefully behind you.

Dean watches you leave, but then he collects the report you gave him and passes it along to Sam, with a pointed look that says read it now. Sam doesn’t need the prompting. He shares it with Cas, and they both eventually come to the same frowning conclusions as Dean.

“You gonna fill us in on what that little skirt just gave you that has all of you so fucking sour?” Alastair remarks.

It makes Dean bristle. “That’s my assistant. Have some fucking respect.”

Dick shoots his associate a warning look, as well as a placating hand before he folds both of his on the table.

“Apologies. I’d like to move forward here. How about we discuss oversees shipping—”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dean says. He shares a look with Sam. He’s disappointed, but he nods in agreement all the same.

Dick’s head tilts. His fake-ass smile twitches at the corners. “Excuse me?” 

Dean closes his laptop and slides your report across the table.

“We deal with all kinds, but there’s nothing I hate more than a liar,” he says. “Cas will see you guys out to your line of Teslas out front.”

You’re sitting at your desk, stress-eating with a snack bag of popcorn while you answer emails, even though your mind is racing as you imagine what might be going on in that conference room.

You perk up in your seat when the door swings open, and the entire team of Roman Enterprises files out with steam practically coming out of Dick’s ears. You’re more than happy to see the back of Alastair. Cas follows them closely, while Sam and Dean are the last ones lingering outside the door.

They speak for a moment there in the hall, though you’re too far to hear what they’re saying. Dean eventually rubs a hand over his stubble-covered cheeks and jawline as he heads toward his office, and toward you. He gives you a wry look when he steps through the glass doors of the reception area, squeezing your shoulder as he passes by.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

That’s all he says as he disappears back into his office. You can’t help the warm blush blooming across your cheeks, but you do get up to follow him.

“Um, Dean…”

He turns to you as the door of his office closes behind you. You fold your hands in front of you, an almost contrite expression across your face.

“I’m sorry. That just cost you a lot of money, didn’t it?” you ask.

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. What you saved me is one bitch of a headache, and probably millions in legal fees. So thank you.”

You smile, making him smile in return.

“Okay, um, would you mind if I leave just a few minutes early today?” you ask. “My father usually picks up my daughter after school, but he has a doctor’s appointment. I can come back after she’s settled.”

Dean frowns. “What time does she usually get out of school?”

“Three. She’s in kindergarten.”

He considers it for a moment. “You know, we have a daycare. Cas brings his kids here too.”

You do know that, all too well. Cas is married to Meg in HR, and they have two, very odd twin daughters. You think they’re stealing ink from the printer and using it for “ink blot tests.” You didn’t know that eight-year-olds knew what those were.

“We do. But I, uh…I can’t afford it,” you admit, with some embarrassment. You’re still helping your dad pay off your mom’s medical bills, and even her funeral. It’s not easy to afford to live and provide for a child, but it seems like it’s almost as expensive to die.

Dean taps his fingers on his desk. He shrugs and rounds his desk to sit down in his comfortable chair.

“How much does it cost?” he asks.

“$500 a month. I’m already trying to get her into a private school…”

Dean does the math in his head, easy. Then he sends a quick text to Meg in HR.

“Well, now you can afford it. I’m gonna raise your annual salary by $10K,” he says. “That should cover the tax deductions and extra gas mileage.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. It closes, then opens again before you’re able to make words pass through them.

“Um, w…what?” you ask.

Dean leans back in his chair and smiles. It isn’t often he gets you flustered.

“Consider it an early Christmas bonus,” he says.

You laugh, slightly breathless still in wonder. “It’s the middle of July.”

Again, Dean shrugs. “Just say thank you.”

You bite your lip in amusement, but you nod. Your gaze on him is sincere, and a little shiny with emotion. Your daughter’s definitely getting into private school now.

“Thank you,” you say.

Dean watches you walk out of his office, along with that brief look over your shoulder before you close the door. His smile fades.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He sits up in his chair and goes for that stash of whiskey under his desk. If he wasn’t already an alcoholic, you sure were on your way to making him one.

Three Months

Dean blows out a sigh, then rubs his eyes at the strain of just how long he’s stared at a screen and tried to make these goddamn numbers work.

The building is probably empty by now. Even his brother left two hours ago to go home and have dinner with Jess. Dean’s reluctant to go home to his empty apartment. So here he sits, the workaholic that he is, as the sun fades behind other buildings and casts his apartment into darker shades. He switches on the desk lamp.

A knock on the door kicks his thoughts out of alignment, like an old engine sparking out, into crispy defeat.

“Yeah,” he calls out without looking up. He does though, when you come into view.

“Hey, I’m heading out,” you say.

He can see you’re ready to go, packed up and on your way downstairs to pick Emma up from daycare. He still hasn’t met the kid. He’s surprised himself with the idea that he wants to, though he’s never asked. Never wanted to intrude on your life outside of work. Never wanted to get too close to it.

You’re a single mother living with your father, and that’s complicated enough. You don’t need a man like Dean upsetting the delicate balance. And he doesn’t think he can give a woman like you what you need…besides the fact that you’re his employee.

“All right. Make sure Benny keeps an eye on you heading to your car. It’s getting late,” he says.

“Not that late,” you say with a smile. Though you’re a bit concerned when you step further into his office. “When do you typically head home?”

“Uh, around eight or nine, usually.”

“That’s pretty late. You don’t have anyone waiting on you?”

“Not unless you count the beers in the fridge,” he remarks, sending off another email to a sales rep to get his ass in gear if they’re going to make quota for Quarter 3.

By the time Dean looks up, he sees your small frown. Concern.

It rubs him the wrong way (or maybe the right one), so he clears his throat and waves you over to his computer, opening up a tab he was looking at earlier.

“Hey, do me a favor. Tell me what you think of these. I have to go to some tech expo this weekend with Sam,” he says.

You look over his shoulder at the rows of ties on the screen.

“Well, first of all, don’t get them off Amazon. Go to a men’s store,” you say with a short laugh. “Second, what color is the suit?”

“Uh, just black,” he says in amusement.

You hum in contemplation. The man does look good in his usual slacks and nice buttoned-down shirts, but picturing him in a full suit and tie is an enticing image.

“This burgundy one looks nice. Or the blue one with the pattern,” you suggest.

“You don’t think it’s too loud?”

“No, I think it would look nice with a black dress shirt. Or hey, a black vest with a white dress shirt underneath.” 

“A vest?” Dean intones.

“Yeah, with your shoulders, you’ll look really sharp when you pair it with the suit jacket,” you say.

“My shoulders, huh? What about ‘em?” he asks in amusement, verging on the edge of flirtatious, before he realizes what he’s doing.

You both pause then.

You eventually find something approaching a respectable response, if not really a professional one.

“Just…you have a strong frame for a suit. I’m sure whatever you pick will look good,” you say. Though you turn away to grab your purse from where you left it leaning against his desk on the floor. Your face is blushing hot all the while. “Um, have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you too,” he nods, clearing his throat. He tries not to watch you leave, but he can’t help himself. The natural sway of your hips is too hard to ignore, as is the way you walk away from him on those heels.

Once the door is firmly shut, he tips his head back against his chair and groans. He hates himself for hoping, even fantasizing, that one day you’ll come back and straddle him on this goddamn chair and fuck him with those heels still on.

He bangs the back of his head repeatedly against the chair, as if that could rid him of his pig-like thoughts.

Fuck. Me.

Four Months

Dean steps into his office after four hours of solid back-to-back meetings. If he had to sit through even five more minutes of Crowley’s condescending ass explain 15 subsections of a contract, as if Dean didn’t know how to fucking read, then he was going to throw his laptop into the nearest window.

He expects to find the quiet refuge of his office, and very quickly his stash of Angel’s Envy. What he gets is a kid sitting in his chair, eating his Doritos. She doesn’t look older than five or six, swinging her little legs as she swivels in his nice leather chair.

The sight is so dumbfounding that Dean stops not two steps through the doorway, his hand still lingering on the doorknob. He frowns.

“Hey,” he says. Not in a nice way. In a who the hell are you way.

“Hi!” The kid smiles and waves at him with fingers coated in Cool Ranch Dorito dust.

Dean’s head tilts. “Uh, hi.”

“You said that,” she says.

His lips twitch upward. He points at her, and the chair she’s sitting in.

“That’s my seat,” he says, with some censure in his voice. “You wanna get down?”

She blinks and pauses, realizing she might be in trouble.

“Sorry.” She slides down carefully without letting go of her snack. She wears a private school uniform: a plaid skirt, navy polo, and a matching headband. Her pink Peppa Pig sneakers give away her personality though. It matches her backpack, which boasts a Minnie Mouse keychain and a princess sticker of Belle in her yellow ballgown.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Emma,” she replies.

Dean’s brows raise high in recognition, then they furrow.

“Interesting. Where’s your mom?”

“She had to talk to Miss Nancy, so she told me to stay here.”

Miss Nancy. Gotta be the daycare lady, Dean thinks.

“Here? As in, my office?” he asks in suspicion. “Or did your mom tell you to hang out at her desk?”

Emma guiltily glances down at her feet instead of at him, like Sammy did when he was four, and didn’t want to admit he broke their dad’s watch.

Here, it looks like Emma got bored and wanted to go into the big mysterious room. She continues eating her Doritos.

Dean can’t help but smile. “Did you find those in my desk drawer?”

She blinks up at him with the face. Like when Sam got caught looking through their dad’s old collection of baseball cards with peanut butter and jelly stains on his hands. That puppy dog look had Dean taking the fall—and the week-long grounding.

Emma tentatively offers him her snack. “Want one?”

The look on her face tells him that she’d rather not share, but it’s a clever little manipulation with those big doe eyes. Girls learn quick, don’t they?

Dean shakes his head and pulls out a nearby guest chair after setting down his laptop on the desk.

“It’s okay. You can sit here if you want,” he says.

The chair is a little high, so she reaches for the edge of his desk to help her. Dean offers her his hand instead. She’s happy to settle her little Dorito grime-covered hand in his and have him help her into the chair.

“Thank you,” she says, with that cute little voice. He almost laughs.

“You’re welcome,” he says. You’re definitely going to owe him for this one.

Dean sits at his desk and contemplates just what the hell he’s going to do with this kid for the next few minutes. At least, he hopes it’s just a few minutes. Does he need reinforcements? Should he call Sam up here? Cas?

“Are you and Mommy friends?” Emma asks.

Dean considers her question with a quirk of his head.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I work with your mom.”

“She said you’re her boss.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yeah. Your face is on her phone when you call,” Emma says. When she finishes the chips, he can tell she’s looking for a garbage can. He takes the empty bag from her and tosses it in the small bin under his desk. He wishes he could pour himself a much needed adult drink, but he thinks you’d have something to say about that later.

He settles on the bottles of water you keep putting in his other drawer. He grabs one for the kid, and even opens the cap for her, like he used to do for Sam when they were little.

“Uh, how was school?” Dean asks. Because what else do you ask a kindergartner?

She shrugs. “Okay.”

Fair enough, he thinks. He never liked school much, but he has to keep this conversation going somehow.

“Just okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I don’t like math, but Music was fun. We’re learning how to play the recorder. Oh! And I drew Peppa after school. Wanna see?” she says, pointing at her backpack.

Dean raises a brow, but he grabs her backpack off the floor and hands it to her. She unzips it and rifles through her notebooks and her modest collection of crayons. She then pulls out her prized drawing to show him. It looks more like a ball of pink squiggles to him. But he looks harder, and he can see the eyes and the mouth and the nose are close enough to the character on her sneakers.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he indulges her, earning her shy smile.

“Thank you,” she says. But her face soon falls. “I wanted to draw her yellow crown, but a boy took my crayon and broke it.”

“Aw, that sucks,” Dean says. Though a smile threatens his lips at the little angry pout on her face. “What did you do when he wouldn’t give it back?”

“I just pushed his arm and he fell and cried,” she says.

Dean blinks in surprise. “Oh.”

Yikes. No wonder you had to go back and talk to Miss Nancy.

“But I didn’t mean to! He was mean to me first,” Emma argues.

Dean shakes his head in amusement, once again tempted to laugh.

“Well, you know, you should never put your hands on somebody. You wouldn’t want him to hit you, right?” he reasons.

The girl considers it, still with that little pout, but she nods begrudgingly.

“See? But if that kid messes with you again, you come tell me, okay? I’ll set him straight, man to man,” Dean says.

She starts to smile again. “Promise?”

“I promise. Let’s shake on it,” he says, giving her his hand. She puts her much smaller one in his, and they shake on it like adults.

“Emma?” your voice calls from outside the office in worry. The door is still open, so you catch sight of your daughter just as Dean tells you to come over. Your eyes grow wide with embarrassment as you realize where Emma ended up. You hasten inside his office.

“What are you doing in here?” you ask her sternly, taking her hand and leading her off the chair. “You were supposed to be doing your homework at my desk. Dean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long.”

“It’s all right,” he says.

You still look a bit mortified and apologetic.

“Seriously, it’s okay. She’s a good kid,” Dean says. You smile, if a bit wryly as you caress her head.

“Well, she wasn’t on her best behavior today, so we’re going to sort that out tonight. But thank you for watching her.”

Dean sends you off with a raised hand, though it turns into a small wave when Emma looks back at him with a sneaking smile.

He chuckles and shakes his head. Kids. Jesus.

She looks just like you.

Five Months

The insistent ring and vibration of your cell phone disturbs your deeply rooted slumber. You slap at the device charging on your nightstand and nearly yank out the cord in attempt to bring the screen to your eyeballs.

Once your bleary vision adjusts to the brightness, you growl in annoyance.

Still, you answer the call.

“Dean. Jesus Christ, it’s three in the morning.”

“I just need your opinion on the new crossbow flame throwers.”

Your sigh can probably be heard across the Atlantic Ocean.

“It’s fine, but it would make more sense on a gun, right? Half gun, half flame thrower.”

“That’s what I said! But Cas says we need to diversify—”

“Dean. Three. In the morning. Go to sleep and let me get back to dreaming about Pedro Pascal as a gladiator, feeding me grapes as his queen.”

“…You like Latin guys, huh?”

You groan and turn your face fully into your pillow.

“Sleeping now. I’ll see you in five hours.”

Six Months

“Look! Emma got first place in the Spelling Bee.”

You pass Dean your phone while he scrapes the pickled onions off his burger and onto your plate. In turn, you give him the pickle wedge off your plate. By now you know that he’s a veritable bottomless pit when it comes to food in general, except for the fact that he doesn’t like pickled onions, and doesn’t trust sushi.

He smiles as he scrolls through the pictures of your daughter’s kindergarten class.

“Clearly taking after her mom in the smarts department. Though you didn’t have to do her like that with those Pippi Longstocking braids,” he remarks.

You scoff in amusement. “Oh, come on, they’re not that bad. It’s not like she’s got a wire hanger in there. She’s just going through a frizzy phase. No matter what products I use, I can’t seem to tame that hair.”

Dean chomps his burger. You’ve reminded him at least 30 times, but he still talks with his mouth full.

“Looks like she’s trying to land a plane,” he says.

You snort, shaking your head. You shove his arm lightly and go back to eating, while Dean takes another look at the pictures.

He sees a lot of you in that little girl. She’s got your eyes, your smile, but she probably has her dad’s hair, his chin. Dean hopes that’s all the girl’s going to get from that fucking deadbeat, biologically speaking. From what you’ve told Dean, all that guy is good for is sending monthly wire payments. After you got your raise, he even tried taking you to court to get his child support reduced.

“Did you want kids—you know, before? Was that even on your radar?” Dean asks.

He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he asks.

You hum in contemplation. “Honestly, it wasn’t. I was focused on my career.”

You wipe your mouth as the thought settles in.

“I thought I’d do it right, you know? Work hard, achieve my goals, find a husband who wanted the same things I did, then build a life, and a family. I always thought I was smarter than a broken condom in the back of his goddamn Lexus,” you say, your tone bordering on disgust at the end. You shake your head and sip your iced tea.

Dean quirks his head. “Well, we’ve all been thrown a few curveballs in life. What matters is how you take it. And I’d say you’ve got the better end of the deal. You get Emma, a good job, the best boss in the world…”

You shoot him a knowing smile.

Dean smirks, but he’s still serious.

“And that guy, all he gets is a life without his kid, and without the woman who could’ve given him a family,” he says. “Sounds like a fucking chump to me.”

He continues eating, but you’re not sure if he realizes how that just tilted your entire axis. It makes you look at him differently, the warmth of admiration in your chest, and something deeper coiling in your belly, stirring up something unexpected.

You stare at him long enough that his brows furrow.

“What? Got something in my teeth?” he asks. 

Your face relaxes, your lips tugging at a smile.

“Yeah, ground beef. Can you please swallow before you talk?”

“This is how I am, sweetheart. Don’t try to change me,” Dean says, taking another massive bite. Oily ketchup dangles from the bun and threatens to stain one of his nicer buttoned-down shirts.

You roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stick a napkin in his collar, just in time for the ketchup drip.

Seven Months

You and Sam have lunch together every Wednesday. It started out as a way to reconnect with your old friend, but it’s often devolved into an hourly venting session about his brother’s many idiosyncrasies, how he’s driving you both fucking crazy, and how to best manage the man’s schedule, as well as steer him away from any half-cocked decisions that could cause a PR disaster.

Like the time he accidentally asked a reporter at a charity benefit why albacore tuna was becoming an endangered species.

“I mean, come on. They’ve literally got fish on the menu tonight. Maybe if you people stopped eating so much damn sushi with your avocado toast, we wouldn’t need this bougie dinner party. $5,000 a plate? Give me a fucking break.”

The fact that he slept with her that night still didn’t save him from the article she published later that week, complete with direct quotes. She had a good goddamn memory.

Today though, your weekly lunch with Sam is less about quasi-therapy, and more about celebrating the fact that Jess is pregnant. You’re even helping her and her sister plan the baby shower.

“Any advice? Just, you know, about parenting in general,” Sam asks. For once, he seems less his normal confident self, and a little more sheepish. It’s sweet, even endearing.

You smile. “God, I don’t know. I’ve been winging it from the beginning. Just…be present, as much as you can. Jess is going to need you to show the hell up, without being asked, without being nagged. You’re the rock she’ll need to lean on, even when she thinks she can do it all while you’re here trying to show up for the job. Especially when the baby’s born. If you’re not covered in three layers of bodily fluids, then you’re not doing it right.”

He laughs a little. “Noted.”

Your mind veers into other directions as you finish up your sandwich and crumple up the foil wrapper. Most predictably, along the road that leads back to Dean.

“Dean doesn’t seem to be the family man type,” you remark. “More married to his work, but…he’s been really good with Emma every time I’ve brought her up to visit the office.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He basically half raised me after Mom died. More than half, actually. Dad was always working,” Sam says.

“What about relationships?” you ask.

It earns you a certain look from Sam. You’ve come to learn that both Winchester brothers are incredibly sharp, just in different ways. Dean knows how to read people. He’s a good judge of character, and it makes him a shark in the board room, the kind of man that can take in the information his department heads serve him and make swift decisions that often pan out well for HunterCorp.

Sam is perceptive in an almost clinical way, analytical and methodical. He’s the one who can read the data and find the one thing that’s missing. He can anticipate problems before they start, and when it comes to people, Sam often catches the little things, tells and underlying motivations. It gives you away before you’ve even realized it.

“Well, Dean’s been pretty predictable when it comes to women, even before Dad passed,” Sam says.

And it’s true. Dean’s never seen the same woman more than a week at a time. You know this, because you’ve seen the “consolation gifts” he sends them. A Tiffany bracelet. An Apple Watch. Gucci sunglasses. The perfect gift that tells a girl she won’t need to stick around for breakfast.

“But to his credit, he’s up front with them,” Sam says, drawing your gaze. “They know what not to expect.”

Your lips quirk. “Sounds so transactional…and lonely.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “but I get it. He took a lot onto his shoulders when Dad died. Right now, Dean’s more focused on making sure we survive than on what he might want. To be honest, I doubt he’s even thought about what that is.”

For some reason, that hits you behind the ribs in a quiet, sharp strike. In your mind, you can’t help but see the familiar tense set of Dean’s shoulders hunched at his desk, eyes glued to his computer while an evening sun sets behind his head.

Even in that big office overlooking the entire city scape, he never has time to admire the view.

Eight Months

It’s your mistake.

Your fingers brush Dean’s for half a second too long when you give him a stack of purchase orders to sign. His eyes meet yours. You point out the new way you’ve color-coded the departments for each PO.

Your heel wobbles on your pivot, an uneven floorboard. Suddenly it’s his hand closing around your wrist and the other wrapping around your waist, giving you stability. Your eyes meet his, heated breaths in between.

A thank you falls from your lips, drawing Dean’s attention there.

But he lets you go.

You walk away, pretending you don’t know his eyes are following you.

You bite your lip against a smile.

One Year

“Seriously, which one?”

“Jesus, Dean. Green! I already told you.”

“No need to get snippy. I just want your opinion.”

“You always want my opinion. That’s why I already laid out the green one for you.”

“But I like the black one.”

“You always wear the black one. The black one says politician. The green one says you’re the boss, but you’re approachable.”

“I don’t want to be approachable. That’s how I get stuck in a 45-minute fucking conversation in the break room with Garth about his side hustle YouTube sock puppet show. That shit was deeply uncomfortable. I just wanted my damn coffee.”

“You know, you could also cut back on the caffeine and the booze while we’re on the subject.”

“Oh, what are you, my mother?”

“You tell me. I’m the one dressing you right now.”

You work the collar dark green suit jacket over his shoulder and smooth down the wrinkles. You firmly ignore how his gaze roams your face, and lower still. You want to pretend you haven’t noticed these signs, all while you try to stop yourself from giving any yourself.

“There, looks good,” you say. Though you make the mistake of meeting his eyes.

He grins. One of those grins that makes you want to grab his face, either mushing it into his seventeen mugs of coffee, or kissing him fucking stupid. You’ve been restraining the latter urge by a tenuous thread for several months now, mostly because you sicken yourself.

He’s your fucking boss. It’s unprofessional. You’ve already been down this road once in your life, and—

“You okay?” he asks.

Suddenly you realize how close he is. You can feel the warmth of his body, you can smell his cologne, and he sounds so sincere in his concern, briefly touching your arm.

You nod, knowing you should create some distance between you and him. Somehow you can’t force yourself to take that one small step back.

Instead, you reach for his tie. “Remember, you’re meeting Frank Devereau and his wife tonight, and Charlie Bradbury. She’s the brains behind the project, so you’ll want to talk to her about the details, how the program works, and how we can incorporate it into our existing tech.”

Dean hums in agreement, but in truth, his attention is on your nimble hands as you work on his tie. You slide the knot up to settle snugly, but not too tight against his throat. You allow your hands to slide down his chest while you admire your handiwork with satisfaction, but your small smile fades. Your mouth goes dry as your gaze travels back up to his, lingering on his parted mouth.

His hands slowly come to hold you by your arms, making your heart tap a syncopated beat.

“Does that look mean you want me to kiss you, or am I just seeing things?” he says at last.

Your eyes widen. You bite the inside of your lip, nervous energy fluttering through you, even as everything within you would like to scream a resounding yes.

“We can’t…shouldn’t,” you say, in a quieter voice. His office door is closed, but it’s not locked. There are far better reasons than that though, and you struggle to remind yourself of each and every one of them.

Dean steals your focus, however. His eyes seem greener than usual, probably because of the jacket. You picked it with that in mind.

“In this case, shouldn’t isn’t a moral argument,” he says. “It’s society’s rules. I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’ve never much cared about what people who don’t matter think about me.”

Your brows begin to knit together. “Who matters to you? Because my daughter and my father. They matter to me.”

“Being with me doesn’t hurt them,” he argues, a little peeved at the implication that it would; that he would hurt them, or you.

“Being with you?” you ask in shock.

Dean’s mouth opens, but he hesitates, like what he just said surprises even himself. His lips quirk at a smile.

“I know you, uh, probably think I’m not capable of something like that,” he asks.

“I mean, it is surprising,” you admit airily. Your cheeks warm in a blush. “You could have anyone, Dean…and you have.”

He chuckles dryly. “All right, fair enough. But other than Sam, who gets me better than you? Who else is gonna handle this, the pressure of my life and everything that goes with it…better than you?”

Your eyes widen. A softer smile threatens your lips, because you realize then that he’s actually serious.

About you?

Of course, that’s when your very real, rational doubt creeps in.

“People are going to talk,” you point out. “That’s why shouldn’t always matters. And you and me? Jesus, Dean, this is the oldest cliché in the fucking book.”

His hands move down to your waist, squeezing gently. Enticingly.

“Then we’ll be discreet,” he says, with one of his crooked grins. You shake your head, but you start to smile too. You allow him to pull you back in, figuratively and literally as he bows his head closer to yours.

“You really think you can pull that off?” you ask.

“Sweetheart, with the right motivation, we can pull off anything,” he says, half whispering them on your lips as he captures them with his own.

It’s slow and laced with a curling heat that licks tingles down your spine, just like his hand moving to the small of your back, pressing you into him. Your body betrays you then, with a moan in your throat and your own hands traveling up his arms, over his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck.

The graze of your nails at his nape makes him shiver and groan as he licks into your mouth, holds you tighter. You feel the press of his growing arousal against your belly.

Your good sense knocks at the door of lust and yearning, reminding you that you’re making all the same mistakes again. This isn’t a man you can trust—not with this. But Dean’s lips are hard to ignore, covered in the remnants of your lipstick as he kisses his way along your jaw and down your neck, where he sucks and nips just hard enough to make you gasp his name and writhe against him. He squeezes your ass and smiles against your skin.

“So fucking beautiful, you know that? Even the little sounds you make when I touch you. I wanna find out what that pretty voice sounds like when you come,” he says, in a voice dripped in whiskey and wicked promises.

Jesus. Your heart flutters. You haven’t been touched like this in so very long. You haven’t felt desired like this in…

“How long have you been thinking about that?” you ask, a little breathlessly. He continues his exploration, his lips blazing a sensuous trail down the column of your throat, along the line of your collar bone, and between the rise and fall your breasts. He slides open the buttons of your blouse with a practiced hand, his eyes drinking in the sight of your lace bra.

“Since the day you started wearing these sexy fucking heels,” he says, dragging his hand up your thigh, over your skirt, in a way that raises goosebumps on your arms. But he hesitates. His eyes ask a question as they meet yours.

“You need to tell me what you want though,” Dean says, more seriously than you expected. “You want me to touch you?”

Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat, but you nod, biting your lip.

“Kiss me, touch me, make me fucking come,” you say. “But first, you need to lock that door.”

A crooked grin spreads across Dean’s face. He steals another kiss before he does exactly that—he crosses the room and locks that fucking door. You lean against his desk for a breather, but you realize that half this shit needs to go. You move stacks of files to the side, the coasters you put for his mugs of coffee along with the empty cups themselves. You push his double-screen monitors forward, giving Dean just the angle he needs to hold you from behind and start laying more tantalizing kisses along your neck.

You sigh and help him with the zipper of your skirt while he works on the bra clasp. The straps loosen down your arms, and he flings the bra away so he can get a handful each of your breasts. You moan and rest your head against his as he begins to squeeze and tease, gently twisting your nipples between his fingers. He leaves open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, sucking at your pulse point.

When his hand moves further down and slips behind the waistband of your skirt and panties, he feels your pulse flutter and trip along with your gasp. His fingers dip between your folds and find the slick mess of your arousal.

“Goddamn, baby. Soaked for me already,” he teases.

You don’t need to see his face to know that smug smirk is plastered across it. You reach back and tug sharply on his hair.

“You can gloat, or you can fuck me,” you retort.

He chuckles and kisses your temple. “Don’t you worry. You’re gonna have to bite down on my belt to keep from screaming in a minute.”

His hand that never left your breast begins to strum the hardened, sensitive nub, at the same time his other hand finds your clit. You shudder against him at that first touch, that perfect moment when you realize he knows exactly what he’s doing as he learns your body. He circles your clit slowly, but with a delicious pressure until it swells under his fingertips.

Then his long fingers dip down into your needy channel, making you whimper as you hold onto him and the desk for stability. His fingers pump smooth strokes inside you, almost as deep as he plans to fuck you with his cock.

He knows he has you when his fingers curl and brush deliberately against that perfect spot inside your inner walls. Your thighs begin to shake, your breaths labored, your hips bucking against his hand in a quiet plea.

Your orgasm rolls swift and steady against his fingers. Your pussy flutters around his hand, and he groans along with you.

“Good girl. Can’t wait to feel that squeeze around my cock,” he says, a filthy whisper in your ear.

You laugh a little, nodding in agreement. You turn around to help him with his belt.

“Yeah, right now. Want you inside me before we run out of time. You have to meet Sam downstairs soon.”

It’s another work event Dean can’t get himself out of, even if the networking opportunities are good for the company.

“You should come with me,” he says, grinning at the way you slide his jacket off his shoulders, but you toss it as carefully as you can across the nearest chair. You just had it drycleaned this morning.

“What?” you laugh. “Dean, you don’t need me there. I’m just an assistant—”

“No,” Dean says, stilling your movements when his hand cups your cheek. Your lashes raise as you look up at him, finding him serious again. His gaze roams your face, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “If it ain’t fucking obvious, you’re more.”

Your mouth falls open, but you’re not sure what’s going to spill out. Dean doesn’t give you time to figure it out, or even let himself settle into his own admission.

He just kisses you, hard and thorough, knocking any more doubts out of your mind, and any deeper thoughts out of his.

He grabs you up by your hips and seats you on his desk, rattling the surface. Your arms wrap around his shoulders on reflex. You feel the muscles flexing under his dress shirt—a crisp black. You help him yank up your skirt and kick off your panties, though they get tangled around your ankle. His slacks and boxer briefs end up coiled around his knees, just far enough to give him room and leverage to slide into your heat.

You both moan at the feeling of him settling snug inside, bottoming out, his almost bruising grip on your ass. Your thighs are wrapped almost as tightly around his waist as he lays you out more fully on the desk. It’s probably harder to do it this way, instead of him just bending you over the hard mahogany. But you’re glad you get to see his face, get to run your fingers through his hair and share his breaths while he fucks you in a slow-rolling rhythm.

It’s more intimate. It feels like it means something, especially when he once again cradles your cheek and brushes wild strands of hair away from your face. Especially when he kisses you deep enough to taste the Almond Joy you snacked on earlier.

You kiss him back just as fervently, as if this will be the first and the last time. You have no idea what happens after today, and you know that probably makes you a fucking idiot. It could lead to the end of your second chance at a career, but you want to trust this. You want to trust the steadiness in Dean’s hands and the look in his eyes.

So you give into what you want, sitting up to lay nipping kissing along his prickly cheek and neck, sucking your own marks against his skin. The way he groans and shudders and fucks you harder—it makes you feel powerful.

“Lean back, sweetheart,” he grits out. “Touch yourself for me.”

You manage to follow his lead, shakily laying back down and letting your hand drift back down your body, finding your clit. Dean watches you play with yourself, his fingers flexing against your hip. You feel him so deep, so good, that the coil of pleasure in your lower belly begins to tighten in earnest.

He’s only satisfied when you have to smother your own mouth against a cry, your hips snapping up to meet his as your release finally hits. Another few ragged strokes, and he spills into you as well.

“Fuck,” he groans into your neck, catching his breath. That was awesome.

But then, his eyes widen. “Christ, forgot a condom.”

“I’m on birth control.” You breathe out a laugh as you soothe him, caressing his shoulders.

He blinks, then he relaxes, chuckling faintly.

“Guess you just make me lose my head,” he says.

“It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to doing the thinking for you,” you tease, biting your lip.

Dean stares down at you, brows raised, yet amused at your cheek.

“Hmm, I’m gonna remember that one. Might have to punish you tomorrow,” he remarks.

You smirk, though a blush burns down your neck at the idea, and the depths of his voice.

He withdraws from you with a quiet moan, then helps you up with a steading grip on your arms when he feels that you’re still a bit shaky. After pulling up his pants, he finds the paper towels you keep handy in one of his desk drawers for the cleanup.

“Seriously, come with me tonight. I’m sure you’ve got a nice dress. If not, I’ll buy you one on the way,” he says, as you two start to pull your clothes back on. And in your case, find your bra.

“Dean, I need to take Emma home,” you say.

You pause with your fingers poised on his dark green jacket, ready to smooth down any wrinkles. The color matches his slacks perfectly. His hair is a bit messy, but overall, he looks edible and professional at the same time. He’s ready to shmooze with the heads of conglomerates and Silicon Valley tycoons and the politicians they own.

But you know you’re not a part of that world.

“Maybe next time,” you say, though you don’t really mean it. Your hand falls.

Dean nods, but he catches your hand before you walk away from him. He slowly winds you back in and kisses you thoroughly enough to make your knees buckle, just a little.

You’re still not sure if he meant what he said about wanting to be with you, or if this is just something he’ll change his mind about in the morning after a few glasses of whiskey.

You definitely think about more than just the road ahead while on your way home, Emma’s chatter filling the car. For once, you can’t say you’re fully paying attention.

Your fingers keep touching the memory lingering on your lips.

AN: 😘❤️‍🔥 How'd you like the slow build? lol Did Dean's earnest appeal surprise you there at the end? He's been a pretty successful play boy up until now, but he's really going to prove himself in Part 3 of our adventure, set shortly after Pratt Fall.

Next Time in Nothing by Halves:

Dean finds a guest spot in front of the school. The old Impala rumbles to a stop there, and he climbs out, grabbing the bouquet resting in his passenger seat.

His keys jangle in his other hand as he makes his way to the front office to check in, just like you told him to in your texted instructions. The nice ladies there give him a guest badge that he slaps on his chest, over his dress shirt, and they tell him how to get to the theater. He feels awkward and out of place walking down the halls of this school alone, but you had to take Emma over there early before the show. 

The hell am I doing here?

He has to fucking wonder.

But he promised you. He promised the kid. So he’s here.

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He wraps his arms around you from behind as you remove the cheetah print oven mitts from your hands (that your baby girl picked out from the store herself) and tucks his head into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. You flinch with a giggle.

He presses a gentle kiss on your skin before turning you around in his embrace, smiling down at you. "Hey."

"Hiii." You smile back sweetly.

He would've given you the usual passionate greeting, but, he's still confused, and a little concerned. "Mags just did a complete 180 at the sight of me, bolted back to her room i'm guessing. Know anything about that?"

You hum, bringing soft hands up to rest at the nape of his neck. "Yeah...just give her some time okay. Why don't you go freshen up? I'm almost done with the potatoes, we should be set to eat soon."

That doesn't help his spiraling thoughts.

He does head to your shared room for a quick shower, but can't help and stop by to check on Maggie first. Her room door is slightly ajar, and as he goes to approach it, it slams closed.

His first instinct is to just open it again, but four years of parenthood and your patience have softened him, and he takes the approach you would no matter how much it pains him.

"Mags sweetheart, it's fine if you don't want to see me right now, but I need to know you're okay."

After a moment, he hears a small "i'm okay."

He hesitates, fighting the urge to burst in there and check on her himself. Instead he takes a breath, "Uh, alright. You let me know if you need anything, yeah?"

"got it."

He snorts at that, clearly she picked that up from you. It quickly fades into a pensive frown the further he walks away from her room, wondering what he could've done to make his sweet girl avoid him.

Upon pushing your room door open fully he finds Banana curled up on top of his pillow, in an adorable loaf. Of course. She's bigger now—still fluffy, still attached to his kid, still sleeping near his face whenever possible. She meows at the sight of him, and he sighs both fondly and tiredly.

At least two out of three are happy to see him.

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By the time he's washed up and headed downstairs, you're already plating the food. Your classic homemade meatloaf and seasoned diced potatoes, his absolute favorite (he could do without the asparagus side though...but you're persistent and "greens are good" etc. etc. )

He watches you move around, confused by the missing sight of their pipsqueak who's always excited to help you plate dinner.

"Where's Maggie?"

You hum. "I'll go get her right now, you just sit and relax. But careful with the potatoes, let them cool a little. Honestly the meat is still hot too just, hold on a sec."

Before you can step past him he places a gentle hand on your arm. "Is everything okay? Why is she mad at me?"

At that your eyebrows furrow, "What? She's not mad."

"She's actively avoiding me and you said to give her time."

Your face morphs from confused to amused. "Oh, no yeah I meant that literally babe. She's been working really hard on something and she doesn't wanna spoil the surprise."

He finally relaxes, breathing a sigh of relief. "Huh."

You wrap your arms around his neck once more, and he rests his hands on your hips. "Honey that little girl couldn't hate you even if she tried."

"I feel like that's debatable."

"And you know any debate against your wife is an automatic loss." You tease, and he grins before leaning down to capture your lips with his, having no rebuttal.

You laugh softly into it, this man.

He's faced things you couldn't even imagine, but his four year old being upset with him is where he draws the line, where he can't handle.

Before you can get fully lost in the now mini makeout session, you hear excited steps running down the hall and part. He rubs his thumb over your bottom lip gently, promising this isn't over.

"dad! dad! dad!"

"Oh now she acknowledges my existence." He mutters, and you smack his arm playfully.

Maggie slows to a speedwalk—remembering she's not supposed to run inside the house—to an awaiting ben, her hands holding something behind her and out of his view. "hi"

He softens instantly. "Hiya, you alright sweetheart?"

"mmhmm." she nods. "i have something for you."

"You do?"

"you have to close your eyes though, no peeking!"

He chuckles, "Okay okay."

"mommy you have to double check his eyes."

"I'm checking. He's closing them sweetpea." You assure her.

She then holds up a handmade card—cream colored construction paper for the sturdiness, folded in half, doodles and glitter all over and a small picture of the three of you taped to the front with sparkly duct tape.

"okay open!"

He blinks into focus, eyes landing on the card held out towards him. He's (definitely not) willing away the sting in his eyes. "What's this?"

"it's for you! mommy says we don't need a holiday to make the day special. and i love you all-of-the days!"

Ben doesn't like father's day.

For good reason, it doesn't bring back the most pleasant memories. Still you felt bad every year considering he'd go all out for you on mother's day. So you've found a loophole—you'll 'not celebrate' on one of the nearby days (always changing it so he doesn't expect it) and this was the first time your baby was old enough to really put something together on her own.

You helped with the basics of course, but the fun decorations, that's all her. He's particularly fond of the written message inside; scribbly and glittery and green, with the largest font size, it reads

best papa ever ♡ !! i luv u ◡̈

"do you...do you like it?"

He realizes now how quiet he's gone, looking up to see her face scrunching in worry, and he quickly mends his mistake.

"I love this, so very much. Thank you honey."

She smiles again in relief, springing forward to hug him, and he happily takes her into his arms. "I love you." He murmurs.

"i love you too dad."

You can't blink away the (happy) tears in your eyes.

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Dinner was delicious.

You're a little surprised your notorious picky eater was willing to try the meatloaf, having a bowl of mac and cheese ready on standby, but after you told her it was Ben's favorite (aside from chili) she was insistent on trying it.

It was followed by movie night, with popcorn and s'mores. Now you get ready for bed, Mags sound asleep in her room, Banana surely curled up with her.

"Maybe you could convince her you love broccoli, and celery."

He grimaces. "Eh, that means I'd have to eat it in front of her."

"Maybe you should be eating those anyway. Mary Jane isn't the only green you're allowed to consume babe. Expand your horizons."

"I'll expand your horizons."

"That doesn't even—shut up." You laugh.

He smiles, bringing you close. His hand rubs your back softly, the other coming up to cradle your cheek. For a moment you both just, stare. Feels like so long ago you mere strangers frequenting the same place, now over a decade later here you were. A family.

He brings you in for a slow kiss, but you don't let it get too far. "Mmmm I have one more surprise for you."

He smirks. "Really?"

"Yep, close your eyes."

"Seriously?"

"Humor me."

He shakes his head, giving you one last peck before closing his eyes. You go to your bedside drawer, taking out the small box you'd been saving for a few weeks now.

It's gently placed in his hands. "Okay, open."

He opens his eyes to a small yellow rectangle in his hands, taking the lid off to unveil his gift.

A small pregnancy test, positive.

He stares at it, then looks up at you, your worried face reflecting the one he saw on your little girl hours ago. The apple did not fall far from the tree (and for that he's grateful).

"So...? Questions, comments, concerns?" You try to lighten the mood, not realizing this added gift was already making him feel higher than any strain of any drug he's ever done.

He scoops you up in a tender hug, holding your body against his in the most comforting way.

"So many," He starts, and you giggle. "But we'll get there."

You sigh in his arms, face still tucked against his shoulder.

"Yeah, we will."

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ben masterlist ᝰ. main masterlist

The first time you brought Spencer coffee, it had been completely by accident. The shop you went to had made your order wrong the first time and given you both cups. Unsure of what to do with it, you had offered it to him since he was the only other one in the bullpen when you had arrived. Surprisingly, he had accepted it. The second time you brought him coffee had been the day after a particularly stressful case. And the fourth time, it had become a problem.

Not a real problem, of course. The BAU had serial killers and kidnappers and interstate investigations to worry about. Compared to those, your increasingly embarrassing crush on your coworker wasn't even on their radars. Which was great because no matter how much you told yourself that you couldn’t date someone you worked with, your heart never seemed to get the memo. 

Which was why you had found yourself standing in line at a coffee shop at six-thirty in the morning, mentally reciting Spencer’s order while pretending you weren’t. One coffee for you. One coffee for him. Because apparently you had become the sort of person who memorized a man’s coffee order. Lovely. You blamed it on your inability to simply ask Spencer out like a normal person.

The elevator doors opened onto the BAU floor. Most of the lights were still off. Hotch wasn’t in yet. Neither was Rossi. The bullpen was quiet enough that you could hear the sound of pages turning. Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip, and you tried to remind yourself that you were an adult, not a high schooler. It didn’t do anything to quell the butterflies.

Spencer was already in office. As he always was when you came in early. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve guessed that he slept there, curled up behind his desk with a book for a pillow. The mental image made you smile. You crossed the bullpen, thankful that Spencer didn’t seem to notice you at first. It gave you a few stolen seconds though you’d never admit to taking them.

You watched the way his slender fingers dragged across the page before deftly turning it and moving onto the next. Watched the way he chewed on his lip, the muscle in his jaw flexing slightly with every movement. It was ridiculous, just watching him exist. You knew it was ridiculous. Then again, no one had ever accused a crush of being rational.

“Morning,” you said softly as you drew closer, not wanting to startle him. His head snapped up, warm brown eyes landing on your face before dropping down to the two cups of coffee in your hands.

“Good morning,” he replied, a small smile spreading across his face. It was gentle and genuine. The kind of smile that always felt like a reward. You dragged your thoughts back to yourself before they could stray too far into dangerous territory. “You’re early,” he said, closing the book with one finger marking his page.

“So are you.” You tried to sound casual as you set the coffee down on his desk, careful not to spill any of it on his papers. “I figured I’d beat the morning rush.” Spencer’s gaze lingered on the cup of coffee you’d set down, his expression softening slightly. He picked it up and turned it in his hands, examining the order written on the side. He frowned.

“How do you know what I order?”

Your heart stuttered against your ribs for a beat. Of course he’d ask. He couldn’t just accept a free coffee without asking about the details. And it wasn’t like his order was something straight off the menu either. It was just something you’d… remembered one day. Because apparently your brain just stored information about Spencer Reid with frightening accuracy.

“Oh.” You made a vague gesture with your free hand. “You mentioned it once.”

“I did?”

“About three months back.” And that’s where you fucked up. Because now it sounded weird. Who in the world remembered a coffee order from three months ago? Fortunately for you, in Spencer’s world, it was a completely normal thing. Or at least something that didn’t seem out of the ordinary. He looked thoughtful for a moment, as though he were filing the information away somewhere.

“That’s impressive.” You preened for a brief moment before confusion kicked in.

“Impressive?”

“The average person retains significantly less information from casual conversation than people assume. People typically forget about fifty-percent of a conversation within the first hour of having it.” Of course. Of course that was his takeaway. You laughed, hoping that it didn’t sound as nervous as you felt. Spencer smiled at you and took a sip of the gifted coffee. Something warm and dangerous settled low in your chest, and for a second, neither of you looked away.

Then, Morgan showed up with his booming voice, and the moment shattered, the fragile pieces of it collapsing down around your feet as you shuffled over to your desk.

“Damn, where’s my cup?” he asked, glancing between the two coffees you and Reid held. He grinned, already moving towards the break room to start up the communal pot.

“You snooze, you lose,” you called after him, sinking into your chair and sipping at your drink.

Three weeks later, Spencer still hadn’t figured it out. Not that you’d expected him to. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. The only problem was that somewhere along the way, bringing Spencer coffee had stopped being about flirting. Anymore, it was a habit. Part of your routine. It was something small that made him smile, and that smile – the one that was just for you in the mornings before anyone else showed up – had become your favorite part of the mornings. You were halfway through the motion of setting the cup down when Spencer spoke up.

“You don’t do this for anyone else.”

You froze, coffee in hand as you looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. “What?”

“I noticed that you don’t bring coffee for anyone else in the office.” The cup sat between the two of you. Spencer looked at it then up at you. “Just me.” Your pulse hammered beneath your skin. Had he actually–?

“Oh.” You let out a nervous chuckle. “Well.” Every coherent thought fled from your mind, leaving you with an absolute masterclass of a non-response. Spencer continued before you could manage anything more.

“I was wondering why.”

And there it was. The most perfect opening in the world in the history of flirting. Because the answer was simple. Because I like you. Four words. That’s all you had to say, and you wouldn’t have to dance around this anymore.

“Because,” one down, three to go, “you’re here earliest.” Nope, those weren’t the right words to say. What a traitor of a tongue you had. Spencer nodded in understanding, accepting your explanation like it was the most sound reason in the world. You were pretty sure that the thought of someone being interested in him in a romantic way hadn’t ever crossed his mind. And that realization hurt just a little more than it should have.

“You don’t have to keep doing it.”

“Oh,” you squeaked, your stomach lurching uncomfortably.

“No, I mean–” Spencer sat up a little straighter, suddenly flustered as he shook his head. “I appreciate it.” The sincerity in his voice nearly knocked the air from your lungs. “I really appreciate it. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to keep doing it.” And there it was again. The small smile that no one else in the office got except for you.

“Not a problem at all, Spence.” And suddenly, the coffee didn’t feel quite so embarrassing anymore. Maybe he didn’t understand what it meant. For all you knew, maybe he never would. But he liked it. And that was enough for you.

Spencer hated formal events. This wasn’t anything new. He’d hated them the first time Hotch dragged him to one. He’d hated them the second time. And he hated this one all the same. There were too many people, too much noise, and far too many strangers trying to shake his hand.

Worst of all, he had to wear a tie.

The tie itself wasn’t the problem. He wore ties for work almost every day. The problem was that he’d tied it three separate times, and it still somehow looked wrong. Spencer frowned at his reflection in the restroom mirror. The knot was slightly off-center, and the collar of his shirt sat unevenly. He loosened it again, his mind going over all the different ways he could potentially convince Hotch to let him stay behind at the hotel. He wasn’t really needed for this part. He sighed, pulling the tie free entirely and draping it over his shoulders. Maybe he could blame it on jet lag. They’d been in Colorado for three days, but he could–

There was a knock at his hotel door that pulled him from his thoughts. Spencer glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and you all weren’t scheduled to leave for at least another forty-five minutes. He briefly wondered which one of his teammates had come to check on him. Probably Morgan, ready with some quick joke or quip. Spencer opened the door, fully expecting Morgan’s grinning face. Instead, he found you. 

All of his thoughts crashed into each other at once as he took in the sight of you. You were dressed and ready for the event, more put together in a way that looked effortless. Spencer had seen you in plenty of business casual stuff before. He’d seen you wear nice outfits for other undercover work in the past too. But something about you in this exact moment was… different. A little more put together. A little more ethereal in a way he just couldn’t wrap his brain around. When his mind finally kickstarted back into action, it supplied him a single thought.

Oh.

Which wasn’t particularly useful. Or eloquent. Especially for a man with his vocabulary.

“Hi,” came the oh-so-professional greeting from his lips. He watched your eyes travel from his face down to the tie that was still draped around his neck, and a small smile curved your lips. The same one that always made something warm settle between his ribs.

“Tie giving you trouble?” you asked, and Spencer had to look away. You were standing in his doorway looking fully put-together, and he was standing there with his tie undone and hair mussed from running his fingers through it one too many times. It wasn’t exactly the image he wanted to present.

“It doesn’t want to sit properly,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely. “The knot keeps shifting.”

“Here, let me help.” You stepped into his room without waiting for an invitation

“I can do it,” he said too quickly. Because the alternative involved you standing close enough to touch him. Which felt like a terrible idea but not for the usual reasons he had. For reasons Spencer was trying very hard not to examine. You paused and folded your arms.

“Spencer.”

“Really,” he insisted. “I’m perfectly capable of tying a Windsor knot.” He was. He did it every day for work. He was a fully functional adult who could dress himself for a formal event he had zero desire to attend. You laughed, – not at him, never at him – and Spencer was beginning to suspect that your laugh might’ve become his favorite sound. Not that he planned on telling anyone that. Ever. Before he could think of another excuse, you stepped fully into his room and beckoned him closer.

“Come here.” His heart raced. He opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it as his traitorous feet obeyed, bringing him within arm’s distance before he could think better of it.

You reached up for him, pausing for a moment to let him retreat if he suddenly decided he didn’t want your hands on him after all. When he didn’t budge, your fingers gently grasped the loose tie and drew closer to him. You were so close. Closer than Spencer could ever imagine you being. Close enough that Spencer could see the tiny details he might not have fully been able to catalogue from afar. The faint shimmer of your makeup. The way your eyelashes cast the faintest shadows against your cheeks. The scent of you. Something warm and familiar. Something that immediately lodged itself in his brain.

He didn’t dare look away from your face. Somewhere at the back of his mind he recognized that your movements weren’t putting together a regular Windsor knot. There were too many steps for that. An Eldredge knot his mind supplied. Your fingers brushed against his throat as you looped the fabric around itself, and Spencer was pretty sure he forgot how breathing worked. Which was, obviously, impossible considering that breathing was an autonomous action that his body was physically incapable of forgetting in any sense of the word.

And it wasn’t like you were doing anything inappropriate, either. You were fixing a tie. A completely normal thing. A thing that approximately half the population of men got help with. It wasn’t an official statistic, so the percentage was likely higher. Which put him in the majority. So why did his entire nervous system feel like it had short-circuited?

“Hold still,” you chided, lightly tugging on his tie. His gaze fell to your lips, and for a single, dangerous, second, he let himself wonder what they would feel like against his. Spencer diverted his gaze.

“I am holding still.”

“You just moved.” Your fingers ghosted against him again, and Spencer stared very intently at a piece of the peeling wallpaper against the opposite wall of the hotel room. At the mirror that hung on the wall. At literally anything except for you. Because looking directly at you felt like it was too risky at this exact moment. What if you looked in his eyes and found all of his secrets there? It was a ridiculous notion. “There.” You smoothed the tie against his chest, and he didn’t need to see it to know that it was perfect.

“Thank you,” Spencer said, his voice softer than he meant for it to be. You looked up at him, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you hummed with possibility.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, your hand still resting lightly on his chest. “Now you look ready to impress a room full of strangers.” 

He swallowed hard, throat feeling uncharacteristically dry. 

“You clean up real nice, Reid.” Your words were light and teasing, but they landed somewhere deep inside his chest. Spencer blinked, caught off guard.

“What?”

You smiled at him. “You look good.”

His ears burned. Because people didn’t usually say things like that to him. Not in any serious way. Not while looking him directly in the eye. Not like this. The warmth in your expression made his stomach twist itself into knots.

“You look nice too.” That wasn’t right. You looked beautiful. You looked stunning. You looked–

Nice. Truly the most exceptional word he could pluck from his vocabulary. But your smile brightened regardless as though nice had been the best compliment you had ever heard.

“Thanks.” The silence between the two of you stretched, neither of you willing to break it. After a moment, you took a small step backwards, and Spencer immediately missed the closeness. Which was an alarming realization in and of itself. You nodded towards the hotel door. “Come on. Before Morgan sends a search party for us.”

Spencer laughed, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders. “I’ll be right there.” You nodded before slipping out the door. Spencer pressed his fingers to the knot you had done, stepping into the bathroom to take a brief look at your handiwork. He smiled at his own reflection. The knot was immaculate, sitting exactly where it needed to be. He hadn’t expected anything less from you.

You were pretty sure you looked like hell. Honestly, the entire team did. The case had been long and grueling. Three states, four victims, and next to no sleep. You all had piled into a diner after the arrest. Tables pushed together and everyone was nursing mugs of coffee. You’d spent most of the last seventy-two hours surviving on gas station coffee and sheer stubbornness. Everyone had. 

Morgan was poking at the fries on his plate like they’d personally offended him. JJ looked ready to curl up beneath the table and sleep for eternity. Even Rossi looked tired, which felt vaguely unnatural. The only person who seemed remotely functional at the table was Spencer, which somehow wasn’t surprising.

He seemed to operate on an entirely different set of biological rules than the rest of humanity. You sat next to him, shoulder pressed lightly to his. He didn’t seem to mind. Or at the very least, he didn’t move away. And that tiny fact was all the fuel your little crush needed to continue burning for the next eternity.

You stole a glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you sipped at your coffee. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his dress shirt was undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a disaster, the product of running his hands through it several times too many. You liked him best like this. Not because he looked more attractive. Although he absolutely did. That wasn’t the point. The point was that this version of Spencer felt more real. More relaxed. More human.

This was the version of him you didn’t get to see nearly as often as you’d like. The version of him that you had somehow, disastrously, fallen head over heels for. Months ago, the realization would’ve been horrifying. Anymore, though, it mostly felt exhausting. Because you were pretty sure absolutely nothing was ever going to come of it. Garcia and Morgan both insisted that he liked you back, and JJ swore that everyone could see it. You weren’t so sure about it, though. If Spencer liked you back, then surely something would’ve happened by now, right?

The waitress showed up beside the table before your thoughts could spiral any further. She had a pot of coffee in hand and proceeded to fill everyone’s cups as they were offered up to her. You dutifully held yours up. There wasn’t enough caffeine in the world that was going to keep you from passing out once you were on the plane. But you did have to stay awake long enough to make it there. She set the coffee pot down and pulled out the notepad she had taken everybody’s orders on.

Your eyes drifted to Spencer’s hands and they way his fingers wrapped around his mug. There was a small scratch on his knuckle, and you vaguely wondered when he’d gotten it. He hadn’t been part of the takedown…

“–together?”

You turned to look at the waitress, eyes wide. She was pointing her pen between you and Spencer. Your brain short-circuited. The word echoed in your head, and because you were apparently incapable of functioning like a completely normal human being around Spencer Reid (or maybe you could blame the exhaustion), your brain latched onto the idea that you were so obvious about your crush that even the waitress could see it.

Heat rushed into your face, and all at once, every trace of exhaustion had been wiped from your system. Beside you, Spencer froze, and you could see the way his brow furrowed. Then, he let out a small, awkward chuckle before shaking his head.

“No, we’re not together,” he said, and the easy way he said it made you want to slide beneath the table and disappear. Which was dumb, because obviously you weren’t dating. But your stupid heart still carried that hopeful torch. “Just coworkers.” You looked down at your coffee, wondering if there was any way you could drown yourself in it in case the embarrassment wasn’t enough to end you. Unfortunately for you, Spencer kept talking. “Actually, workplace relationships, while fairly common, tend to be more complex than people realize. Fifty-seven percent of people report a negative impact on their work performance and–”

“Reid,” Morgan cut in. “She means the check.” Spencer’s mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears turned a faint shade of pink, and you watched the realization dawn across his face.

“Oh,” he said, his voice going quiet. “The check.” The entire table went quiet as the waitress scribbled something down on her notepad, her expression unreadable.

“Right. Separate checks then,” she said, clicking her pen. She slipped away, and mercifully, the rest of the table went back to their low chatter. You focused on your coffee, stirring it just to have something to do with your hands. Spencer shifted beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours again. The contact sent a ripple of warmth through your body despite the humiliation still burning in your cheeks and the sting spreading through your chest. 

Logic dictated that you shouldn’t have felt hurt. Spencer was simply being honest, and that’s what you liked about him, wasn’t it? It was just a misunderstanding. Obviously, Spencer hadn’t said that he wouldn’t have dated you specifically. He had simply launched into reasons why dating a coworker could be difficult. They were just facts. And Spencer wasn’t exactly known for choosing the most socially graceful option when a factual one was available.

But facts or not, the logical side of your brain was already checked out for the evening. All your heart could hear was ‘just coworkers.’ The words burrowed deeper into the hole in your heart, finding the weakest spot and curling up to fester. You took a sip of your coffee, letting the bitter taste of it burn its way down your throat. Spencer shifted beside you, and you could vaguely feel the way the rest of the team’s eyes drifted down to your end of the table. You stayed quiet for the rest of the evening.

Spencer had fully expected you to cancel on him. Not because you were unreliable but because the team had landed late the previous night after a case in Wisconsin. And ‘late’ was being generous. The jet touched down close to midnight on Friday, and by the time everyone made it to Quantico, filed the necessary reports, and dragged themselves towards their cars, it had been close to two in the morning.

Movie night had been planned for Saturday. It was your idea, technically speaking. Spencer had made an offhand comment that he hadn’t seen a movie you were referencing during a conversation in the bullpen, and you’d stared at him like he’d committed a federal offense.

“You’ve seriously never seen it?”

“No.”

“Spencer,” you began, your tone suggesting that you were trying very hard to stay reasonable. You were joking, of course. At least… he hoped you were joking and that you weren’t actually upset at him for not having seen whatever movie you were talking about.

“It’s not statistically unusual to miss popular media,” he reasoned. “In fact, given the rate that new–”

“We’re watching it.”

Spencer stopped talking, thoughts careening off a cliff as your words sunk into him. He blinked. “W-we?”

“Yes. My civic duty demands it. This Saturday. Clear your calendar.” He smiled before he could stop himself. Then, he proceeded to spend the rest of the week trying very hard not to look too deeply into the fact that you had made plans with him. Not with the team. Not with a group of people that included him. Him.

Which, he had to remind himself, was objectively nothing.

Coworkers spent time together outside of work. Friends watched movies together and made plans. Friends brought takeout and laughed with each other and sat on couches in living rooms while pretending none of it meant anything more. Still, by Saturday afternoon, Spencer had convinced himself that the plan would fall through even as he reorganized the stack of books on his coffee table for the fourth time.

You were probably too tired. Or maybe something else would come up. He could think of a small list of things that you probably prioritized on a Saturday evening over watching a movie you’d already seen with a coworker you saw almost every day. So when you called him at six asking him for what he wanted from the Chinese restaurant just a couple blocks away from his apartment and assured him that you’d be there right around seven, Spencer found himself standing completely still in the middle of his living room for three whole seconds.

He looked down at himself. Cardigan, button-down, and slacks. Was it too formal? Probably. He had already changed twice. The first outfit felt too casual, but the second had seemed like he was trying too hard. He thought that maybe this one had landed in a more reasonable middle ground, but now with the timer until you showed up at his front door counting down, Spencer was beginning to suspect that there was no such thing as reasonable.

The stack of books on his table got adjusted for a fifth time.

The knock at his door came at exactly 6:57. He crossed his apartment too quickly, stopping just a couple paces away from his door and forcing himself to breathe. This was completely normal. And it wasn’t like this was the first time you’d ever been over either. There was the time when you’d driven him home when it was snowing and used his restroom before braving the journey home. He still kicked himself for letting you drive alone in that weather.

The knock came again, jolting him from his thoughts. He pulled the door open. You stood in the hallway wearing jeans, a soft-looking sweater, and the kind of tired smile that turned his thoughts to static. You held up the takeout bag in one hand and a DVD case in the other.

“I come bearing food and cultural education.” He took the bag from you and stepped aside, something warm and impossible settling into his chest as you crossed the threshold.

“You didn’t cancel,” he said before he could stop himself. You looked at him, eyebrows lifted as you slipped your shoes off and lined them up next to his.

“Was I supposed to?”

“No.” He winced. “I mean, no, obviously not. I just assumed you might. We got in late last night, and we were in the field for almost four days. Statistically, sleep deprivation can significantly impact social follow-through.”

You stared at him for a moment before grinning, eyes practically twinkling as they found his. It was his favorite expression you had. “Well,” you began, walking further into his apartment. “Statistically, I really wanted to be here.” That was a nonsensical answer that didn’t really make grammatical sense, and Spencer’s brain supplied him with several possible responses. He rejected all of them.

“I’m glad you came,” he said finally. It wasn’t his best work, but it was genuine. And he meant it more than he probably should have. Your smile widened anyway, and he was sure that he’d said the right thing.

His apartment felt different with you in it. An irrational thought but not an inaccurate one, he mused. Nothing had physically changed about the space, but it seemed less quiet with you there. Less… solitary. Spencer wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that observation.

Dinner was easy which, admittedly, surprised him a little. It shouldn’t have, in retrospect. Lots of things with you were easier than with others. He didn’t have to filter himself nearly as much. The two of you had made it through maybe five minutes of the movie before you had paused it in the midst of him pointing out several historical inaccuracies in the opening scene. Spencer looked over at you in alarm.

“What?”

“Keep going.” You motioned for him to keep talking.

He glanced back at the screen. “You paused it.”

“Yeah, so I can hear what you’re saying.”

Spencer stared, a strange warmth moving through him that left him just a little breathless. Most people tolerated him. But not you. You didn’t interrupt him when he started explaining things. You didn’t get that glazed, polite look people sometimes got when they were waiting for him to realize that he’d rambled on too long. You listened. You asked him questions. Real, engaging questions. Not just the surface level ones to be courteous. He swallowed and looked back at the television because looking directly at you made whatever had wedged itself between his ribs threaten to tumble out of his mouth.

“It’s just that the timeline doesn’t really support the costuming choices,” he said at last.

“Okay,” you said, nodding. “What would’ve been more accurate?”

The first half of the movie took twice as long to watch because you kept pausing it to argue with him, ask him questions, or point out inconsistencies. And somewhere along the way, Spencer felt himself relax into the moment and stopped worrying about whether he was talking too much.

You were curled up on the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you and your takeout container sitting empty on the table in front of you. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as you brought your hand to your mouth to hide a yawn. Moments later, you did it a second time. By the fourth one, he frowned.

“You’re tired.”

You gave him a look from across the couch. “Astute observation, Doctor.”

“You should sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Spence,” you said, shaking your head at him. Spencer’s frown deepened.

“That’s an incredibly reckless mindset, especially given that the average adult needs between seven and nine hours of sleep per night to maintain optimal cognitive function.”

“Says the man who once stayed away for forty-eight hours straight during that Chicago case.”

“That was different,” he argued. “It was a case.”

You laughed softly and pointed at the tv. “Eyes on the screen, genius. You’re missing important cultural references.” He dragged his gaze away from you and only half paid attention to the characters as you shifted, scooting closer to him and settling deeper into the couch cushions.

The movie continued. Your commentary became less frequent until it stopped entirely. Spencer glanced over again. Your head was tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed. He waited a moment, unsure if he should say something or not. Your breathing evened out.

You were asleep. On his couch. In his apartment. Beside him. Not because you had to. Not because the jet didn’t have any other available seats. You had come here intentionally. You had stayed. And you felt safe enough in his company to let yourself drift off within arm’s reach of him. The realization settled over him all at once.

The objectively correct thing to do, he thought, would be to wake you and offer you the bed. Or a blanket. Or, more realistically, a cab home. Something practical and considerate. But you looked peaceful. And Spencer didn’t want to be the reason that peace ended.

He had discovered, over the last several months, that he liked when you got to be comfortable. He liked seeing the way your shoulders would loosen after a hard case. He liked when you were happy, and more than anything, he wanted to be the person who could make you smile when work had taken too much from you.

It was a truly dangerous thing to want. Spencer knew that. He wanted it anyway.

You shifted in your sleep, and before Spencer could process what was going on, your head settled against his shoulder. Every single one of his well-earned IQ points evacuated the premises. Gone. Vanished. Like they had never existed in the first place. He didn’t move. Couldn’t move, really. Every muscle in his body had locked into place the moment your hair brushed against his jaw.

The movie continued playing, but Spencer had stopped processing any of it. All of his thoughts gravitated around the weight of you against him, the slow rhythm of your breathing lulling him into a strange, unfamiliar calm. He had never been big on physical contact before. He knew the physiological benefits of it and could cite several studies done over the years about how physical touch affected the human brain. But knowing the science of it and actually experiencing it were two very different things.

Your warmth seeped through his cardigan and settled into his skin, and he found himself leaning into it despite every rational part of his brain telling him that this was a bad idea. Minutes ticked by, and Spencer remained exactly where he was, too terrified to move and risk ruining whatever this was. Because this was nice. Dangerously nice. The kind of nice that made him want impossible things. The kind of nice that made him imagine what it would feel like if this had been on purpose rather than an accident.

This wasn’t a date. He knew that. You were his coworker. A friend. A friend who brought him coffee and fixed his ties and fell asleep on his couch because you trusted him. That was all. And yet… Spencer tilted his head just enough that he could catch a glimpse of you. Maybe there would be a day when you chose this with him. Maybe one day he could simply reach over and–

Nope. Absolutely not. His thoughts were venturing into dangerous territory.

Spencer turned his attention back to the television, but he didn’t see anything on the screen. He realized with a quiet start that he was in trouble. Because somewhere between the coffee and now, you had become his favorite part of every day. And Spencer wasn’t entirely sure when that had happened.

You had reached your breaking point. Not because anything in particular had happened. In fact, it was precisely because nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing at all. You were trapped in your own personal hell, unable to move past your childish crush on your coworker while simultaneously incapable of addressing it like the very reasonable, mature adult that you were. 

The bullpen was empty. The rest of the team had finished their paperwork and gone home early. Rain tapped against the windows of the building. Across the room, Spencer was still buried in paperwork, reading and organizing files with quiet, focused efficiency. He was hunched over his desk, glasses balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose and threatening to slide off completely with every passing line he read.

It was a terrible idea. You knew it was. But you were tired. Tired of wondering. Tired of hoping. Tired of reading meaning behind every little smile. You stood from your desk and perched yourself on the edge of his.

“Hey, Spencer?” His attention snapped to you in an instant, eyes wide over the rims of his glasses, and you hated how your brain reminded you that he always looked at you immediately whenever you spoke. As though your voice mattered more than whatever he had been doing before. It was a dangerous thought.

“Hm?”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “If someone liked you…” You looked at the papers on his desk, eyes focusing on the spot where his fingers still held his place. “…do you think you’d notice?”

The question hung between you, heavy and loaded with every implication you could pack into it. You watched as Spencer’s brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together into a thin line. His head tilted slightly, and you knew that this was the worst idea you’d ever had. Because the longer he sat there, the more he profiled the question, the more likely he was to figure out the reason for it. Which meant it became more and more likely for the reality of rejection to crash down over you with each passing second. Then, finally,

“Probably not.”

Your jaw went slack. “What?”

Spencer’s hand pulled away from the page he had been reading as he spun in his chair, turning to face you fully. “Human courtship relies heavily on implication. There are dozens of signals that could indicate romantic interest, but most also have non-romantic explanations.” You stared at him. He had gone into full lecture mode. During the closest thing to a confession you’d been able to give a voice to. Granted, it wasn’t really a confession. “Physical proximity, gift-giving, and prolonged eye-contact are typically the most common signs of attraction, but those all exist in platonic relationships as well.” He paused, eyes searching your face. “Why?”

Something twisted inside of your chest, and you weren’t sure if it was relief or devastation. Probably a horrible mix of both. Because of course. Of course Spencer Reid could profile a stranger’s entire life from a single crime scene, but he couldn’t recognize romantic interest if it hit him in the face. And somehow that was even worse. Because if he didn’t know – if he genuinely couldn’t tell – then maybe every missed signal wasn’t rejection.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or scream more. Instead, you settled for a weak smile and a shrug that you hoped looked more casual than it felt. “Just curious,” you said, voice sounding strange even to your own ears. “A hypothetical.” Spencer’s brow furrowed, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he thought.

“Hypothetical,” he repeated. “You know, statistically speaking, most questions posed as hypotheticals aren’t actually hypothetical.”

“Just thinking out loud,” you insisted, voice pitching up slightly as you moved to retreat back to the safety of your desk. Spencer’s eyes tracked you as you fled, and you could feel the weight of his gaze following you back to your desk. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you focused intently on the computer screen in front of you, clicking through files you had already reviewed three separate times. You made it almost four minutes before Spencer spoke again. Which, considering the circumstances, felt both mercifully brief and unbearably long.

“Are you asking because of someone specific?”

Your fingers froze over the keyboard. You should’ve expected it. Really, you should have. Spencer Reid was not known for letting a loose thread hang, especially not one that had been handed to him with a flashing neon sign that read ‘suspicious emotional subtext.’ You didn’t dare look up at him.

“What was that?”

“Your hypothetical,” he clarified. “Are you asking because someone has been flirting with you, and you’re not sure how to interpret it?” The laugh that left you was strangled.

God, this was the worst part of it all. He sounded genuinely interested. Concerned, even. Fully prepared to help you solve a problem that was, unbeknownst to him, currently sitting across from you with his glasses sliding down his face. And it wasn’t even his fault. Okay, it was, but you could hardly blame him. You hadn’t exactly been the most forthcoming about it.

“Something like that,” you said. It was close enough to the truth to make your stomach lurch. Spencer was quiet for a beat. Then, you heard the soft scrape of his chair wheels against the floor. You looked up despite yourself. He had perched himself on the edge of his desk, right where you had been moments before. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he had that look on his face that he got whenever he was trying very hard to figure out the answer to a question.

“You’re asking whether someone would notice if they were being flirted with. That suggests either uncertainty about the other person’s awareness or uncertainty about whether your perception of their behavior is accurate.”

Your mouth went dry. Damn him and his brain. Damn the way he could pull the edges of a thing apart without ever realizing that he was the center of it. “It’s rude to profile your coworker, Spence,” you chided, but you couldn’t muster any heat behind it. “Maybe I was just wondering how often people miss obvious signals.”

“Frequently,” he said without any hesitation. “People tend to overestimate their ability to interpret romantic interest accurately. There have been studies done suggesting that men, in particular, are more prone to misreading friendliness as flirting, but the inverse happens too. Some people under-detect attraction because they’re trying to avoid making wrong assumptions.”

There was something softer in his voice. He was looking at you. Not with the sharp focus that he used on suspects. This look was quieter. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t want to scare away. You chewed on your lip and turned back to your computer. The almost-confession sat between you like a live wire. One more honest word and the whole balance that your friendship sat on could come crashing down around both of you.

I like you, Spencer.

Your friendship with Spencer wasn’t theoretical. You already had it. What if confessing made every plane ride awkward? What if movie nights suddenly stopped? What if you couldn’t look across the bullpen and smile when you caught his eye? The possibility of something more with him wasn’t guaranteed. But the possibility of losing what you already had was a risk you simply weren’t ready to take.

“Anyway,” you said, too brightly. “Forget I asked.”

“I don’t think I can do that.” Your stomach did a little flip, and Spencer seemed to realize how it sounded a second after he said it. His ears went pink, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I mean, I have an eidetic memory, so technically–”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out breathless. Relieved. A little too fond. Spencer’s mouth curved in response. And there it was. That smile. That small, private, devastatingly Spencer smile. The tension between you eased into something more bearable. Almost manageable, even. He looked down at his desk, shuffling around the papers he wasn’t reading. “You know, if this hypothetical person is making you feel uncertain, you could always just ask them directly.”

You nearly choked. “Could I?”

“It would be the most efficient way to resolve the ambiguity.”

“Right.” You nodded, swallowing down all the words you wanted to say. “Efficient.”

“Although,” he mused aloud, “efficiency isn’t always emotionally comfortable.” That surprised you. You looked at him again. For a moment, he seemed younger than he already was. Not naive. Just uncertain in a way he rarely allowed himself to be around anyone. His thumb brushed against the side of his index finger, a small self-soothing gesture you only noticed because you noticed too much about him.

“No,” you agreed. “It isn’t.” Another pause hung between you. Somewhere deeper in the building, an elevator chimed faintly, but no one came into the bullpen. No one interrupted. No one saved either of you from the conversation you were both pretending not to have.

Friday afternoons at Quantico always felt different when there wasn’t a case taking you across the country. There was something almost strange about witnessing the building slowly empty as agents filtered towards the elevators. So often, you only ever got to experience the bustling activity of a regular work day or the quiet of coming into the office in the wee hours of the night after touching down post-case.

You should’ve left twenty minutes ago. Your reports were finished, you’d organized your desk twice, and your car was sitting in the parking lot just waiting for you. Hell, you could probably even catch the latest episode of whatever show one of your friends was raving about. And yet, here you were, standing beside Spencer’s desk while he carefully slid a file back into its proper place.

“You know,” you said, “you don’t have to finish that tonight.” You gestured to the file in his hands. Spencer looked up, warm brown eyes finding yours.

“I know.” His fingers lingered on the file. “I just want to finish organizing these before Monday.”

“Haven’t you organized them like four times already?”

“Those were different files.”

“Ah.” You nodded solemnly. “Completely different.” Spencer shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at the edges of his lips. The thing that kept ruining your life. You should’ve been immune to it by now. You weren’t.

“Are you leaving?” he asked.

“Eventually.” Your answer earned you a look. “What?”

“You’ve been standing there for ten minutes.”

“Maybe I enjoy judging your filing system.”

Spencer laughed. The sound was soft. Almost private. “You’re terrible.” But there was no bite behind his words.

“Only when it comes to you.”

Minutes later, the two of you were finally heading to the elevators. The ride down was quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that had developed naturally over months of shared cases, shared flights, and far too many late nights together. By the time you stepped outside, the sun hung low on the horizon. The air was beginning to cool. The perfect weather for an evening walk.

“So, got any plans for this weekend? Besides our weekly movie night?” you asked, falling in step beside Spencer as the two of you began the familiar route to the train station. Spencer adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of you both.

“Nothing particularly exciting. I was planning to finish a book I’ve been working through.”

“The one on forensic linguistics?”

“You remembered?”

“Of course I remembered,” you said, bumping him with your shoulder. “You’ve been talking about it this whole week.”

Spencer ducked his head, a smile playing at his lips. “I didn’t realize.”

The two of you passed the coffee shop you always stopped at. The one that always got Spencer’s order right. Spencer stopped to peer into the window of the bookstore he always liked to stop at because they usually had first editions of books. You offered to go in with him, and he declined your offer every time. None of this should’ve felt significant anymore. The coffee shop. The bookstore. The walk to the station. They had all become part of your routine months ago. They were small, ordinary things.

Except that you thought about them constantly.

For months, you had collected scraps of ordinary things. Tiny pieces of evidence that maybe he liked you back. Tiny fragments of hope. And for months, none of them had amounted to anything. You were tired. Tired of carrying this thing around inside your chest. Tired of pretending that walking him to the station every Friday wasn’t your favorite part of the week. You were tired weeks ago. Now, you were exhausted.

And the worst part of it was that you couldn’t even bring yourself to stop. Because every time you thought you were finally getting over it, he’d smile at you. Or remember some insignificant detail you’d mentioned weeks ago. Or call you first when he found an interesting article. And you always ended up right back where you’d started.

“I’ve noticed something,” Spencer said abruptly as the two of you stopped at an intersection. “You do this every Friday when we don’t have a case.”

“Do what?”

“You walk me to the train station.” You kept your eyes on the sidewalk across the street, unwilling to let yourself hope that maybe he’d finally picked up on your feelings. Spencer turned to face you, and you could see the way the sunlight caught the edge of his jaw in your peripheral vision.

“Well someone has to make sure you actually make it home. Can’t have you sleeping in the office over the weekend. The cleaners might mistake you for a stack of files,” you said, keeping your voice light. The crosswalk signal blinked white, and you stepped forward. Spencer didn’t move.

“Your car’s in the opposite direction,” he pointed out, falling in step behind you again. “You walk fifteen minutes out of your way every Friday.”

“Maybe I just enjoy a nice Friday evening walk,” you countered, hoping that the deflection would land. Spencer fell silent beside you, and for a moment, you were sure you’d gotten away with it. The two of you crossed the street, and you let yourself believe that he’d let it go like he always did. That he’d simply file the observation away in that impossibly organized mind of his and move on. He didn’t.

“Your apartment is in the opposite direction,” Spencer said again. “You walk me to the station and then turn around and walk back to your car. That’s thirty minutes of extra walking every Friday.”

The train station came into view, its familiar brick facade catching the last golden rays of sunlight. You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets and turned to look at Spencer. The evening light caught in his hair, turning the edges of it gold, and something about the way he was looking at you made your stomach drop. You didn’t have an excuse for him. You didn’t have the energy anymore to try to think of one.

“You know, Spence, for someone who’s supposed to be good at noticing patterns,” you began before your exhausted brain could stop you, “you miss some really obvious things.”

His brow furrowed instantly. “What does that mean?”

Your heart stuttered then stopped as you realized what you had said, and you wished you could take it back. Abort mission. You laughed. Too quickly. Too loudly. Too forced.

“Have a good weekend, Spence.” You started backing away, plastering a too-nervous smile on your face.

“That’s not an answer. You can’t just say something like that and leave.”

“Watch me.”

Spencer stared at you, jaw going slack as you laughed again and turned to walk back the way you had just come. He blinked, feeling like he’d just been blind sided by something as subtle as a bullet. As you disappeared among the crowd, he readjusted his bag again and began his descent to the station.

People moved around him. Commuters, tourists, the usual Friday evening crowd. But even as he navigated through them towards the station, he didn’t notice any of them. You miss some really obvious things. The comment sat at the forefront of his mind. Something about it bothered him. Not because it was insulting. Because it was specific. Patterns and obvious things. Something he had missed.

Spencer frowned. The train hadn’t arrived yet. Which was good. Because now, he was thinking. And unfortunately, thinking was how Spencer got himself into trouble. What obvious thing? The question settled into his brain. Made a little nest. Refused to leave. You seemed amused when you said it. But also… something else. Something that he couldn’t quite place.

A memory surfaced. The diner several weeks ago. The way you stared into your coffee after the waitress asked if you were together. The sudden quietness. The hurt he’d read in your body language. No… not hurt. Disappointment? Why would you be disappointed? Unless–

His stomach dropped.

The coffee. Every morning. You had remembered his order after hearing it once.

The tie. Your hands against his collar. You look good.

Movie nights. The fact that you had never cancelled. Not once.

The hypothetical. Spencer’s breath caught in his throat. The hypothetical.

“If someone liked you, would you know?”

“Oh my god.” 

The words escaped before he could stop them. Several people glanced at him, but Spencer didn’t notice. Because every memory was rearranging itself in his head. Like puzzle pieces falling into place next to each other. The realization crashed over him. You’d been trying to tell him. And he had answered you with statistics and facts. Spencer covered his face with one hand. You had been handing him answers, and he had somehow missed every single one.

A second realization hit him before he could fully recover from the first. Why did the thought make him so happy? Spencer lowered his hand. Because the answer was painfully obvious. He liked your smile. He looked for you when he entered a room. His favorite evenings somehow always involved you. His apartment felt quieter after you left. His first instinct when something interesting happened was to tell you.

The train pulled into the station, doors opening with a mechanical hiss. Spencer watched as people boarded it, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The train doors chimed their final warning before departure. Spencer turned around, the doors sliding shut behind him. But he was already halfway up the stairs before the train started moving.

The evening air hit him immediately, cool and sharp. He broke into a jog. Then a run. His messenger bag bounced against his hip, books and files shifting with every stride. Several pedestrians turned to stare as he passed, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. His lungs burned in a way that was entirely unfamiliar as he retraced the path you both had just walked minutes ago. He wasn’t a runner. He had never been particularly athletic, but his legs carried him forward with a determination he couldn’t explain.

His mind raced faster than his feet, cataloguing every moment between you that was suddenly so obvious. When he finally made it to the parking lot he knew you always parked in, he was breathing harder than he’d ever admit to. His chest heaved, and he pressed a hand to his chest as he scanned the rows of cars, searching for yours. The lot was nearly empty at this hour, and for one terrible moment, he thought he had missed you.

Then he spotted your car. And you. You were standing beside the driver’s side door with your keys in hand. Spencer started towards you before he could talk himself out of it. Before he could overthink it. You looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Surprise crossed your features before settling into confusion.

“Spencer?”

He slowed to a stop just a few footsteps away. You stared at him. He stared back at you. And he realized that, despite sprinting out of a train station to chase you down, Spencer hadn’t actually planned what he was going to say. “Did you miss your train?”

“Yes.”

You didn’t look convinced. Spencer couldn’t blame you. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Strands of his hair had fallen across his forehead. Your expression shifted from confusion to concern then from concern to something softer.

“Spencer.” The way you said his name nearly undid him. “Why are you here?”

“I figured it out.”

The words settled between you, and for one long moment, neither of you moved. Then,

“…what did you figure out?”

Spencer let out a single, helpless breath of a laugh. Everything. He had figured out everything. The coffee. The tie. The movie nights. The hypothetical. The station walks. Months and months of things he’d managed to completely miss because the idea that they could’ve meant anything more than just friendship had never occurred to him.

“You’ve been flirting with me.”

Your eyes went wide, and Spencer didn’t have to be a profiler to know. He had never seen anyone look more guilty than you.

“Oh.” You looked away. Towards the parking lot. Towards the sun setting over the horizon. Towards anywhere but him. Spencer took a single step closer. “I’m sorry,” you said, and Spencer was taken aback. That wasn’t what he had expected you to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t– I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I just–” Your voice cracked. Spencer thought his heart might’ve done the same. Why were you apologizing? He was the one who should’ve been sorry. You were the one who had tried. He was the one who had missed it. “Spencer, I–”

“Can I kiss you?”

For a second, Spencer wasn’t entirely sure that he had actually said the words out loud, but judging by the look on your face, he had. You opened your mouth to say something. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“Spencer–”

“I know it’s abrupt.” That was the understatement of the century. His heart was beating so hard that he could feel it in his throat. “I know it’s not exactly– I didn’t plan any of this, and I’m probably doing this wrong. But I ran out of the train station because the thought of going home without telling you was somehow worse than the thought of you thinking that I was rejecting you and that’s–”

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you.

The distinction blurred into irrelevance the moment your lips touched his. Your lips were warm and soft, and they chased every thought from his mind. His hands hovered uncertainly at your sides before they finally settled on your waist. Your fingers found the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as the world narrowed to this moment. The kiss was slow and uncertain but devastating all the same.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. His eyes found yours. A smile played on his lips. He was somehow more breathless than he’d been a moment ago.

“Wow.” The word slipped out before Spencer could stop it. You laughed immediately.

“That’s all you’ve got to say, genius?”

“In my defense, I had a much better sentence prepared.”

“Did you really?”

“No.”

You laughed harder, the sound echoing across the nearly empty parking lot. And Spencer found himself laughing with you. Because somehow, after months of missed signals and crossed wires, you’d both ended up exactly where you were supposed to be.

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Guide:

Reader's thoughts are in italics and in first person.

Ben's thoughts in italics, bold, and blue!

The tilted stacks of papers scattered across the red comforter of your California king look more intimidating in the morning light. Their pages flutter in the artificial breeze from the propeller sized fan spinning above the bed. The Times New Roman font looms across the stark white pages and each flourish of your pen brings a starling streak of red in it's wake.

Focusing on work was the only way that you were coping with this… any of this.

You let out a sigh, shifting a leg beneath yourself to get more comfortable, but the essay poised on your thigh does little to distract you from reality, neither did the small stack of paperbacks that Hughie had smuggled from your apartment.

Nothing could distract you from this.

You raise your head and give the room another cursory glance. It was similar to Ben's.

Startling view.

High lofted ceilings.

Dark wooden bedside tables.

But there was something missing.

It pulsed at the back of your mind, burned on the tip of your tongue, danced along in the shadows of your consciousness. You didn't know what, just that there was something wrong.

The same wrong you felt the minute you hugged your brother.

The same wrong that you felt the moment that Ben walked away from you a year ago.

Shit.

Closing your eyes for a moment to refocus on the essay perched in your lap takes an extreme amount of effort. Since Hughie and Butcher left three days ago, everything had.

Each time you found a moment of silence your thoughts shot back to the one person you were trying your best to avoid, the same person that every cell in your body screamed for you to seek out.

You hadn’t seen Ben in four days.

You readjust where your legs are crossed beneath you again and take in a deep breath, but it doesn't help.

Nothing did.

Sleep only deposited you into his memories.

Waking only left you feeling empty and wanting him.

Working only made you all the more frustrated with yourself for not trying to figure this out.

But what is there to figure out? Ben is Ben. He's-

A flash of him in the living room the moment you were along comes hurtling back. The look on his face when he turned away, the heavy emotion that came from him weighing on your shoulders, the final thought he had when he turned away a millstone around your neck-

Fuck.

It made you want to run to him, to pull him close to you tell him that everything was okay, that he was yours and none of it mattered.

It does though. It matters too much.

The rational part of your head had kept you firmly in place, but the piece inside that belonged to Ben screamed and raged in its iron cage. Even now it scuttled along, banging it's head against the bars, telling you that Ben was too far away, that you needed him here.

It didn't need to tell you, you felt the loss as if missing a limb. You felt the acute ache within your soul that Ben wasn't with you that only grew stronger from the moment the two of you had met again at the housewarming party.

You wondered if Ben felt it too or if he would just call it "Soulmate bullshit" and continue on as if he was God's gift to the world.

But what if you're wrong?

The little voice inside asks, it's claw-like fingers curling into your shoulders and keeping you firmly trapped in the endless loop.

Ben had proven more than once in the time you'd known him that you were right. His rants about you being "his" and "belonging" to him only made you all the more disappointed in this chain of events, but somewhere in all of it was Stormfront.

Her eyes glittering black, her cruel smirk almost pitying when she told you the story of catching Ben staring at his wrist.

Maybe then it was different, but now it doesn't matter. I don’t need to figure this out again or solve this. All I need to do is hold it together until Hughie gets back.

You sigh to yourself again and turn back to the student's essay, which honestly looks as if it was copied and pasted from a AI version of Sparks Notes. You still couldn't fathom why someone taking an upperclassman class that they chose to take with you would still be using AI to write their essays.

Work was the only way that you were coping with this, the only distraction that worked enough to pull you out of your head.

Hughie had stopped by with a duffle bag, a few paperbacks, Heathcliff, and your work supplies, before giving you a rushed hug and leaving you in the almost crypt-like living room.

You didn't want pieces of home in a cramped bag, you wanted to be there.

You wanted to be at home with it's dirty coffee mugs, stacks of paperbacks taller than yourself, cozy reading chair, throw blankets- not locked up in Ben's apartment.

You chew the inside of your cheek thoughtfully.

For the better part of four days you'd spent your time avoiding him.

Moving through the empty hallways when you didn't think he was nearby. Stealing snacks from the kitchen in the dead of night. Hoping that you wouldn't hear any more of his thoughts or feel any of his emotions- especially the ones that made you feel guilty for not being what Ben wanted, for not acting the way he expected you to.

You hated that you felt guilty. If anything you wanted him to feel that way, for it to spur something in his head or smack some sense into him that the way he is acting isn't okay. Or at least give him enough brain cells to realize that he is the way he is and why he scares you.

You didn't understand how someone who could see inside your head could be so stubborn, but judging from the many, many memories that migrated into your head, his stubbornness was not a new development.

I get a stubborn murderer as a soulmate, well I'm just the luckiest girl in New York. Forgive me for not clicking my heels.

You send yet another angry email in your head to fate and hope that she's listening. Given your current dilemma she'd probably sent you to spam.

Another sigh builds in your chest when you raise your eyes to look out into the blinding light. On the horizon the sun has slowly begun it's celestial trail across the sky bringing a golden hue to the clouds beyond.

The building was so high that you couldn't even see the people below, in fact, anything and anyone on the street seemed to vanish in their entirety leaving you with only the sky above.

It truly was one of the most beautiful places you'd ever been and if you'd had to pick anywhere to live it would be here. Of course there were constraints to that.

For example, your meager salary and your distaste for jewel robbery.

But despite the current situation, it was definitely a positive to wake up to the world like this.

You wondered why Ben moved here, if it was because he too was entranced by the ability to be so far above the world that nothing below seemed to matter? If he too felt on some level that up here he was free the same way you did? If this apartment was his own way of hiding from the rest of the world so he could finally just be?

You didn't think that Ben thought that deeply about anything, at least not the same way that you did. The emotion that you'd seen mainly from him had been anger-

Then what the hell was that the other day?

A flash of the way Ben seemed almost a little sad hits you like a freight train, when you'd told him that you wished things could be different and he turned his back to walk away from you the second time since you'd met him.

The emotions that bled through the air between the two of you had been anything but anger, it was an melancholic feeling that reminded you far too much of all the birthdays you celebrated sitting with a lit candle for the man you thought you'd never have.

You turn back to the paper in your hand and try in vain to focus on something other than your soulmate. Unfortunately the most you do is read the same sentence over and over again in your head so many times none of the words sound right or look like they're spelled correctly.

Shit. I don’t know how to fix this!

You scream in your head, squeezing your eyes so tightly that it hurts, because you didn't. You didn't know how to fix any of it and every moment you spent trying to figure it out only made you all the more frustrated.

"Brr."

Heathcliff's indignant purr from where he's curled on the end of the bed, breaks the uncomfortable silence. He flicks his tail once in annoyance, the dull thud a thunderclap in the sun lit room.

When Hughie had brought him, Heathcliff had shot out of the cat carrier like a rocket only to be scooped up by you and shuffled off the bedroom you'd decided to inhabit. Like hell you were going to give him free reign of the apartment.

For the remainder of the night he'd paced in front of the door and scratched his claws against the mahogany wood, until you lifted him and held him in air jail.

You had the claw marks on your arms to prove it.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you want me to do-" You say to him with a frown.

Heathcliff yawns showing all his teeth, the audible clack of his mouth coming back together echoes through the empty room. Before he sits up, stretches his spines, shakes out his thick black fur, and jumps off the bed to trot to the door.

He turns back, blinking yellow eyes filled with judgment.

You never understood how Heathcliff somehow looked at you with more disappointment than your mother, but he pulled it off.

He blinks.

"Heathcliff."

Blink.

"I said no."

You weren't exactly sure where Ben had been hiding. With an apartment that made Buckingham Palace look like a shoebox, it wasn't difficult to lose him.

But you still hadn't actually seen the apartment in it's entirety.

Sure, you'd picked the direction opposite of where Ben's room was and found carbon copy of his room, but other than that you hadn't tried to explore.

Not that you didn't want to.

Curiosity ate away in your subconscious, coaxing you towards the door and the possibilities that lay beyond. You wondered what you'd find if you were to walk along the sun streaked hallways trailing your fingers against white painted walls.

Pandora's box awaits.

A voice purred in your ear.

You shrug it off and make a note of something in the margins of a student's essay, but press too hard sending the tip of the pen through the paper and onto the plush comforter below.

Shit.

It wasn't the first time that it had happened, but it didn't make it any less annoying. The room that you were staying in didn't have a desk and leaving meant the possibility of running into-

Shit.

You groan to yourself, tapping the red pen against the paper.

Maybe it would be nice to find a desk at least.

A little voice whispered.

Being here made you long for your beautiful mid-century teak desk that you'd rescued from a curb two years ago. You'd practically nursed it back to health with orange oil and broken dreams, until the wood finally shone.

It was the one piece in your apartment that you were genuinely proud of. Something with a history older and greater than yourself, something that had survived hell and high water to end up smushed in the corner of your bedroom under the only window that actually let in light from the alley-way.

Carrie Bradshaw once said that with the right desk, writing would follow, a statement that you had written on your heart each time you sat and felt the sun warmed wood beneath your fingertips and stroked a finger along the ancient grains.

But here there was no inspiration.

And try as you may have the age old siren song of sleep won 9/10 times each time you told yourself you were going to "grade" in bed.

Beds were good for a number of things, but getting work done wasn't one of them. You were sure that Ben would say the same thing.

A notification on your phone lets you know that you have yet another text from Tate, who had been pestering you with questions the second you told him that you were sick and weren't sure when you'd be able to return to teach in person. Yes, he was sweet and telling you to feel better, but each time he texted you asking something that you knew you were going to have to lie about you could feel your stomach knotting together.

You hated lying, and especially hated lying to him. He wasn't just your TA, he was your friend.

Not to mention all it did was make you feel worse that your TA could understand you and care more than your soulmate did.

Heathcliff makes another indignant sound from the door of your bedroom to let you know he's still talking to you.

You blink at him. "I don't know what you want me to do. We aren't going out there."

Blink.

"I will not be pushed around by a cat."

You swear the end of his lips tilt upwards as if to say, Yes you will human.

"Fuck."

*3 Minutes Later*

"Slow down!" You hiss at Heathcliff's taunt behind as he trots ahead of you down the sun streaked hallways.

The roof above is lined with skylights, making the hallways impossibly bright and making you wish for sunglasses. The white paint is blinding in the morning sun and the caramel colored wood is warm and sanded silky smooth under your bare feet, each step a pleasant pad as you race after Heathcliff.

Predictably, he pays you no mind and continues to leisurely sashay.

Each patch of sunlight turns his coat a hazy gray and Heathcliff seems to dance from patch to patch, drunk on his new freedom.

The stack of paper rustles under your arm as you hurry after him, tightening your grip on the red pen still clasped in your hand.

Every few steps an ugly modern art piece rears it's head, random strokes of gray, black, and *gasp* white on a canvas that was bigger than you were tall. Each one looked identical to the last.

You didn’t understand why Ben's apartment looked like the home of an eccentric billionaire's wife who had nannies paid to keep her children occupied while she spent her days at Barney's and nights faking orgasms.

I gotta stop watching Real Housewives.

But you still couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to live in a place so sterile. It made you long for your books, your warm mismatched throw blankets, empty mugs, and ancient desk with it's worn edges and handlebar mustache crack along the top that you traced with a fingertip whenever you were bored.

You wondered if the apartment came like this or if Ben was the kind of person who hired an interior decorator to make his apartment more "homey."

They missed the mark. The whole thing is like a mausoleum.

You sigh to yourself when you pass another canvas.

Would it kill him to add some color somewhere that isn't black or gray? Or maybe a plant?

You were terrible with plants, practically killed them just by looking at them, but with this much sun maybe plants would bring some life into this lifeless apartment.

Few memories of the apartment Ben had before his time in Russia float to the surface.

A congealed mass of orange shag carpet, popcorn ceilings, and velvet that you couldn't help but smile at. It seemed so cliché that Ben had an apartment that looked like it came right out of a bad 70's tv show, but you figured that's the way the world was back then.

If you'd been talking to Ben you'd be peppering him with questions about what it was like to live through all the eras that you'd only read about in the well-worn paperbacks stacked in your apartment.

Before all of this you had fantasized about doing just that. Before when Ben was nothing more than a figment of your imagination the only way that you'd tried to be close to him was through literature. Reading authors whose work explored the years you believed your soulmate lived though, allowed yourself to walk the lonely streets beside him in your mind and experience what life had been like.

Unfortunately now in the after things were complicated.

Again.

You didn’t really understand why you were surprised when everything in your life often was like living Murphy's Law.

Ah yes, everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

Heathcliff scratches at a door at the end of the hallway, his impatient meow ringing through the empty hallway with such startling sound that you glance behind you to see if Ben is standing there.

Supe hearing couldn't be fun. Especially not when you had a cat like Heathcliff who would make something akin to a T-Rex roaring at the smallest of inconveniences.

He scratches the dark wood once more, glaring at you.

"Oh I'm sorry did you want me to open the door?" You raise an eyebrow at him. "Here I thought you were just going on a stroll."

Heathcliff's eyes narrow slightly, sensing your sarcasm. He makes an outraged huffing noise and flicks his tail once to show you he means business.

It reminds you of the way Ben seems to be whenever he sets his mind on something.

"Is that you saying please?"

If looks could kill, Heathcliff would be dancing around the living room with your head on a spike. His shaggy dark fur fluffs out around him, yellow eyes glowing ominously.

"Okay, but only because you asked so nicely." You snort, opening the door of the room he's chosen.

The door creaks open depositing you inside.

Heathcliff's feet leave heart shaped prints in the thick layer of dust on the hardwood floors where he slinks ahead of you, weaving through the stacks of boxes higher than yourself. Musty light comes through the floor to ceiling windows at the back of the room, but barely enough to illuminate the space. Aged sheets are draped over several pieces of furniture shoved together in a mass of Tetris puzzle on the right wall, wooden legs scraping the ceiling.

You cough once to clear the dust from your throat and scratch your nose with the back of your hand.

Why does Ben have all this stuff in here?

You put down your papers on a small end table shoved behind the door to take a look in the box closest to you. It's less dusty than the others and the brown tape on top has been peeled away and redone.

The second you open the box the musty smell of lemon comes out in a fluid wave over your senses.

Your fingers find something soft within and you slowly pull out a bundle of fabric.

Why does Ben have a woman's dress?

It's beautiful.

Made of a soft pink floral silk material that shimmers in the musty light. It's tailored perfectly and still in astonishingly good condition. The movement causes another wave of the lemon scent to come floating into your nose.

You gasp at the memories that pull you under the second it does.

A little boy with Ben's mischievous green eyes and dark hair crying while a woman with a beautiful smile kisses a cut on his finger and wipes away his tears.

The same little boy holding on to the woman's skirts while an red-faced angry man with Ben's eyes and broad shoulders shouts so loud the room shakes.

The woman watching from a bench in a sunlit park with the breeze making her hair flutter around her angelic face while the little boy runs with a red kite soaring above the rest of the world. The dusting of cinnamon colored freckles seems lighter then, his eyes the color of fresh cut grass, his hair no longer the dark you knew, a burnished gold under the mid-day sun.

You glance into the box, catching the glimmer of a gilded frame. 

It's a family portrait, black and white, with the man you saw in the memories standing behind the same little boy. The boy's smile is gone and the space beside the man lies empty.

It doesn't take a genius to guess when the photo was taken.

You'd only seen a handful of Ben's childhood memories.

Enough to know that Ben's father shared more in common with your own parents than you were willing to admit. You'd seen the memories of the time after Ben's mother, the memories that brought an uncomfortable darkness and chill with them, when Ben's father said things to Ben that you'd heard echoed from your own parent's mouths.

Feeling like a disappointment followed you throughout your childhood hand in hand with the loneliness of the soulmate you desperately wanted who understood you.

Now seeing the way Ben was when his mother was alive made you want to time travel, kick his father's ass, and then scoop up the little boy who used to smile so brightly.

"What are you doing in here?!" An angry voice demands.

You let out a startled yelp, dropping the photograph in surprise. You hadn't heard Ben enter the room, hadn't felt the familiar surge of warmth that came whenever he was in your general proximity- but there he was shrouded in the darkness of the doorway.

The photograph lands in the box with a resounding crash, but you don't have time to worry about it, not with Ben standing so close to you.

Today the feeling that comes with his proximity burns through your entire body.

The brilliant light from the hallway makes your soulmate seem impossibly taller and broader than you remember. His green eyes are dark, frown firmly in place while he surveys where you stand. His arms are crossed tight over his muscular chest, the black t-shirt and jeans combo making him more intimidating.

"Um-well- I-" You stutter looking for an excuse. His mother's dress is still clasped in your hand and waves around with the motion of your floundering.

"So you can snoop through all my shit, but you can't bother to come downstairs for breakfast?"

"I wasn't snooping! I was looking for a desk to-"

"Didn't know they could fit into fucking boxes."

"My cat came in here and I-"

Heathcliff takes this moment to re-appear from the jumble of boxes behind you and begins to rub himself on Ben's right shin.

Ben drops his gaze to the fluffy creature at his feet, who purrs as if Ben is a giant tree of catnip.

Shit.

The thought of picking up Heathcliff and running back to your room crosses your mind. You knew the way that Ben was around other people and doubted that he was any different around animals.

Ben's eyes flick to yours, his temper flaring enough that you feel the spike of your own heartbeat.

"I told you that I wasn't going to hurt your fucking cat." He snaps, but then he leans forward, mouth pulling into a sinful smirk that makes your throat tight. "But I'd be more than happy to give your little pussy some attention."

Your cheeks flame red hot under his scrutiny, hating the triumphant smirk shining on your soulmate's face, and trying your best not to think about what that would entail.

The image of your soulmate coming out of the bathroom shirtless comes without warning. You remember the intricate trail of water down his muscular chest, the warm drag of his eyes over your body, and the low rumble of his voice like the distant rumble of a thunderstorm.

Heat trickles down from the roots of your hair to the tips of your toes, warming you from the inside out, building and building until it feels like your entire body is on fire and the only thing that will sate you is reaching out to touch Ben.

Your fingers twitch to reach out and push back the dark strand that hangs forward into his eyes. Something within screams to close the distance between the two of you, the tension pulling so tight in your body you could snap at any minute. Electricity races down your limbs the longer you stare up into the emerald eyes of the man you thought would never exist.

Fuck.

Ben's smirk widens, the dark glimmer in his eyes making your knees weak. "You'd like that wouldn't you sweetheart?"

You take in a trembling breath to steel yourself, but it's full of him. Full of the smell that soaked through the apartment and set your soul on fire, because it was everything you always imagined.

Something masculine, heady, the smell of rain that clings to the world the moments before it falls.

"Ben-" You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Yes doll?"

He takes a step forward into your space so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against your face.

The fear that usually comes with his proximity seems miles away from here and now, but it's still there, enough to keep you from reaching out for him and fill the void inside of you that belongs to Ben.

You didn’t understand how two pieces within yourself could be at war, that one piece shouted he’s too close and another screamed not close enough!

"Please, don't." Your voice comes out in a whisper, but it's enough to make Ben hesitate.

Not again with this shit.

He audibly huffs out a sigh, jaw clenching.

Does she have any idea what I could do to her?  I could ruin her, show her why she's lucky to be my soulmate! 

Maybe I just want you to feel lucky to be mine.

The thought comes without warning and you feel yourself cringe in embarrassment. You didn't expect Ben to care about that, not when he'd spent every waking moment trying to get you to understand what a catch he was and how happy you should be about the match instead of focusing on things like body counts and cold-blooded murder.

Nor did you think he considered it given how many memories you’d seen of him with other women. All you were to him was another in a million who was supposed to belong to him.

You believed that Ben didn't actually care about you, he cared about what you represented. It reminded you far too much about the dated views of women in the 30s, where they were nothing more than trophies, seen more as a pretty doll in the corner made to be seen and not heard. The Angel in the House Phenomenon floating it's way into the modern day.

Not once had you heard him think about how special you were or how much he was happy that it was you. All you’d heard was the macho shit and him thinking he was the best thing since sliced bread.

You hug your arms around yourself, dropping your gaze to your feet, because yet again you'd allowed Ben to see more than you wanted to. Something that should have been so special ruined by the fact that your soulmate was the way he was.

Shit.

Ben blinks for a moment all other thoughts coming to an abrupt halt. He hadn't heard you think something like that before, at least not in front of him. Sure he'd heard you say plenty about him, felt your fear whenever you walked into the room, seen the lonely memories through the bond, but this was… different.

He didn't like the feeling that stirred in his own chest when you thought that. It made him feel guilty all over again and made him want to do something really stupid like reach out and tilt your head up to trace his fingers over your frown, to draw you into him and apologize for things that he wasn't sure why he had to.

Fuck, he hated this more than anything he’d ever been through. He wanted you so badly he didn’t quite understand how to say it other than the way he had.

He thought it was enough.

You find your voice.

 "I wasn't snooping. I was trying to find a place to grade papers." You point to the stack of tilted essays on the dusty box behind the door. “I was trying to grade in bed and the pen keeps poking through the page and I can't get any work done."

Because that's what you're supposed to do in bed, fucking work? Shit if she wants to work that hard in the bedroom I've got a job I think she'd enjoy.

Your eyes widen at the thought, but Ben only lets out a tired chuckle.

"There's no office with a desk. The decorator asked, but when I told her I didn't do that type of work she decided to bring all this other shit in." He gestures to yet another brown chunky piece of undiscernible furniture shoved into the corner collecting dust.

"You didn't tell her what you liked?" You ask tentatively.

"I didn't think I needed to." Ben shrugged. "Never really had to worry about any of that shit before. Never really-" He clears his throat. "Spent that much time in an apartment before."

"Oh."

"I mean, before I was always shooting commercials or some other bullshit, but now-" He trails off.

I don’t really know what I'm doing. 

The feeling that comes through the bond between the two of you makes your heart ache. It was the first time that you felt like you were seeing the real Ben. It was as if he'd let his guard down for two seconds and you saw someone that didn't exist in the blood soaked memories you shared, it was someone like… you.

Ben winces slightly with the thought and just as soon as the walls had dropped they're back up again, lost in the hardened expression he usually wore.

You wait another moment, not sure what to say, the only sound in the room is the loud purring from Heathcliff who has continued to rub his head against Ben's shin.

Being at a loss for words was never the way you were, but being around Ben you didn't know what to say or to do. The entire situation was just so awkward and frustrating that it made you want to smash everything in your general vicinity. You wondered deep down if anyone else ever had this problem or if like the whole ridiculous "entwined thing" you and Ben were special.

"Would you mind showing me where the dining room is?" You say gesturing to the stack of papers billowing slightly in the air conditioning. "I really do need to get those graded by tomorrow."

"Sure."

Ben leads the way out of the room, down the hallways, and towards the spiral staircase without looking behind him. You wonder if that's because he's still weird about what he shared while the two of you were back in the storage room or if it's because he's still mad at you for not being open to being with him.

The later still made your heart squeeze into a vice in your chest.

You pass through the almost warehouse sized living room filled with uncomfortable white furniture and that looks down on the rest of the city below.

This view is incredible.

"It's why I bought the place." Ben says from in front of you, not bothering to turn around. "I like how quiet it is."

"Me too. It kinda feels like you're away from it all." You pause to look out, watching a cloud gently trail over the painted sky. "It would have been nice to live here when I was a kid."

You feel your cheeks warm with the statement. Everything with Ben felt like an overshare, like there was no point of telling him because he didn't actually care about any of it.

"Why?" He turns, green eyes curiously tracing over you face.

The sun is so bright that at this distance his eyes turn a lovely shade of olive, allowing the golden flecks to catch fire. It reminds you of the soft grass in your backyard as a child when you stretched out under the watchful oak trees above with a book on your lap and the wind your hair.

"I mean I- When I was a kid I kinda wanted to get away from it all and up here it feels like we are. That we're so far from everyone else that what they think and what they say don't matter."

You didn't understand why you were embarrassed to admit that, you'd said it to your brother multiple times, talked about it with Annie, even mentioned it to Butcher once. But with Ben things were more difficult.

"It feels-" the word on the tip of your tongue doesn't quite fit the situation, doesn't quite make sense because of who you're with, but you felt free.

"Free." Ben's voice comes through the brilliant living room in a rolling rumble that makes your fingers twitch to feel every vibration beneath your fingertips.

"Yeah." You breathe, eyes catching Ben's

The harshness of Ben's rugged good looks are softer in the sunlight, dripping through dark hair to turn it a chestnut brown and bring out the dusting of freckles across his cheeks. He looks more like the man you imagined, the gentle one that seemed to waltz right off the page of your favorite novels.

You don't know why your face heats with a blush, goosebumps rippling over your skin as you feel the trace of his eyes on you, and you drop your gaze to the stack of papers in your hands.

Sometimes it felt like Ben was staring through you, like he could see inside and yes technically he could, but whenever he was there just staring it was different. It felt intimate somehow in a way you couldn't describe.

He clears his throat and gestures with his head in the direction of the semi-truck sized doorway to break the silence. "The dining room's in here."

"Oh thanks."

When you breeze past him the motion sends a wave of his cologne surging upwards into your nose, something that makes your heart stutter and your knees weak.

You didn't understand how it was already familiar, something that seemed to soothe a part of you that was empty for so long. It makes a warmth bloom in your chest for a few seconds when you brush past, the warmth of his body bleeding through the space.

It's only millimeters, but it feels like miles.

Something within screams at you to reach out and touch him, to draw him closer, to throw yourself at him, to allow him to make you forget everything, but you ignore it. It feels like you're being torn in two when you calmly put the stack of papers on the dark wood dining room table big enough to comfortably seat twenty people.

Say something you fucking pussy!

Ben growls in his head.

Don't just stand there with your dick in your hand! She came out of her room, she came down here with you! Offer her a drink or a fucking smoke or-

You glance to where Ben is standing half-in-half-out of the room, looking much more awkward than you'd ever seen him in any of the memories you'd shared. It was different than the confident macho man who swaggered through your mind, the one that had a twinkle in his eye and a bravado that made women weak at the knees.

Ben makes a pained expression as if disgusted with himself when he remembers that you're able to hear him.

"I am a little hungry." You say tentatively to test the waters.

What are you doing? He's-

You stop the thought before it gets any farther. You weren't sure if it was the way that the light touched him, or if it was the warmth that seemed to ebb and flow between the two of you, but something felt… different.

Here Ben is different.

Ben blinks, eyes widening in surprise. "Really?"

You nod slowly. "Yeah, I mean I-" You clear your throat, glancing down at the papers you'd placed on the table. "Can't grade on an empty stomach. Whenever that happens I tend to be a little more tough, and I like to think that my students think I'm a cool teacher."

The end of his lips twitch up in a signature smirk. "I told you doll, if you were my teacher I'd be there every damn day. Probably would have given a shit about my grades if I got to look at you."

Instead of the usual feeling that comes when Ben says something like that, you feel a smile pull at the end of your lips and you roll your eyes.

But it's enough to make Ben's smirk widen.

Now we're getting somewhere.

You snort.

Give him an inch and he'll take a mile.

Sweetheart it's longer than an inch. I'd be happy to give you a preview.

He winks and you feel your entire body flush, cheeks heating to an inferno. Ben's inability to feel shame was yet another thing that you needed to get used to.

But despite it all there was a little voice inside that urged you to get used to it. The same voice that brought the sweep of goosebumps over your flesh with the thought of Ben touching you, the one that wasn't afraid of the man Ben was.

Ben's smile makes the warm feeling in your chest beat it's wings against your rib cage.

And you were staring to realize that the little voice you wrote off, was starting to sound surprisingly like your own.

A/N: Yes, a brief break from some of the heart wrenching angst, but we're not out of the woods yet! 😭

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y'all think! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know!

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non-inert treatments: non-inert treatments are another confounding factor to the placebo effect; while they could be considered a treatment for the placenta effect also (see abortion and birth), it is more often considered the point in which the non-committed couple reaches a crossroads, either furthering their relationship and becoming fully committed to each other, or going their separate ways as far as their individual relationship goes; any resulting child carried to full-term is not included as part of the couples relationship, except when broadened into a family group - a separate issue outside of the placenta effect study

Dean never intended for you to sleep in his bed that morning. By the time he woke up, it was well into the day. Was hard to tell when he couldn’t see his clock over your shoulder, but could see the lights from the hallway filtering in under the door and through the grill.

Must’ve been the way his room’s setup was different to yours. The end of his bed opposite the doorway meant the light shone into his eyes if he looked at it the right way, like he did then. If he’d had a hangover, he’d have been screwed, technically he had, depending on how you looked at it. Some might say he was. 

His arm was around your waist, and while it wasn’t awkward per se, it was surprising. As rare as him still being in his bed so late in the day. 

You always slinked off after sex. Each round with him, a literal wham-bam-thank-you ma’am kind of situation neither of you mentioned—ever. Until you wound up together in the sheets or out of them the next time, and even then, aside from the usual bedroom talk, there wasn’t much talking going on. His, ‘yeah, baby’s’ and bringing up how well you were taking him. How wet you were or when he was about to shoot his load. 

After the kitchen and the subsequent move to his bed, the last he remembered was him shooting into you and filling you up. His fingers, still pressed into you. Their tips brushed over himself as he continued to draw the sensations out of your body. He’d all but stilled, aside from his chest heaving against your back, soon finding a sliver of post nut clarity that allowed him to collapse with you still in his arms. 

Now, he was sticky. The good kind. A sheen of you and him covered his junk like a layer of sweat, having not bothered to clean either of you up. It was something you insisted on doing yourself. Except this time.

He leaned back and glanced down between you. It was gonna be another Memphis situation if you didn’t move soon. Even at the thought of it, his dick twitched at the prospect. Even his own frown towards it did little. 

You shifted, though. Hips angled more so the one under his forearm moved closer to the mattress. Legs stretched, receding beside him. Knees rubbed together. He had to shuffle back himself to avoid your ankle to his shin, which then had him stilling because you sighed in your sleep, and it was…sweet. Nice? Different? 

Definitely different. 

Reminded him of his days with Lisa and Ben. The relaxed mornings on the ones he didn’t have to run off to work for and be at the site by eight. Hell, even those workdays were easy when he considered everything hunting entailed. 

It’d been a while since he could just be. To lay there in his bed—any bed for that matter, and not have a care in the world.

Not rushed. He had no desire to get up. Nor was he hellbent on getting somewhere to even get his coffee. There was no bitter smell that morning that’d woken him as it was, and even his bladder seemed to give him a break. He had to wonder if it was just in cahoots with his sack. His body parts stuck together and all that, but, hey? What was a world without friends?

You were his friend. Family. That wouldn’t change, and as you came to, he held you firmer. Waiting for the moment you’d recognise where you were most likely flip out on him, though he was hoping for the opposite. That the peace would last a little longer so he could pretend he had a slice of normal. Remember what he’d seen the night before in your eyes. 

He still didn’t know what that was. Just knew how it made him feel. How he’d wanted to cradle you close, much in the way he was doing now. How he wanted to do it again.

As his thumb ran over your skin, your stomach muscles below his other fingers tightened. Your breath, quiet, as opposed to the softer ones you’d released as you’d slept. 

He could feel you tensing beneath his touch, still he dared dropping his head between your shoulder blades. His hand, still on you, still holding you, but loosening the longer you did nothing more than breathe.

“Morning,” he rumbled. His voice hoarse from the scotch that’s remnants still clung to the back of his throat. 

“Hey.” You cleared your own before shifting again, body flipping to your back. It left enough distance between you he felt the draft from the outside hall in the gap below the sheet that covered you both.

Someone had pulled it over you. More than likely him, though he couldn’t recall. His mind, still focussed on the sex and your words in the kitchen. 

You’d told him you weren’t fine. “I’m not,” you’d said in particular to him telling you he was. But you’d brought up his getting injured, too. Rowena’s henchman. And though he’d favoured you with his shoulder—as he’d kissed you, he’d felt a need within himself to ask if you were okay. Even during the moment with his dick ploughing into you, he felt the need to ask again. Yet both times you’d insisted you were good.

Looking at your face now had him wondering, though. If he asked again, would you say the same thing? 

He wasn’t sure it’d get him anywhere when you’d already pulled away with just his forehead to your spine. Granted, you were still waking up, and okay, his arm was also on your stomach. You might’ve felt the stirrings of his morning wood. 

The whole setup was unusual. He couldn’t deny it. But sitting—lying there in silence wasn’t the way to go about things. He had to say something before you retreated.

So he changed his trajectory. Pulled his arm away from the pillow you were using. Pulled it back to him and drew the sheet higher over his waist. He put his other hand behind his head and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. How he treated all the women before you that weren’t Lisa or Cassie; they were the only ones he was comfortable lying with like this. 

And you? 

He was getting way too sappy for so early in the day, even if it was late for him. You stared at the ceiling, too. Head rolled back a little so your chin was higher than your nose. 

“This is—new,” he said. He’d almost gone with nice. Still thought it was, but he wasn’t about to tell you that. “Didn’t think I’d—”

“I’m pregnant.” 

What?

There was a full minute of him trying to swallow your words and wallow in them before he did something. At least, that’s what it felt like. He had to taste them on his tongue first. Let them sink into his head while he tried to control his reaction before he sat straight up. One knee bent, the other shoved towards your waist—which he had to adjust. Get the offending limb well away from your womb and the—

“Gesundheit.” His brow raised and the crowns of his cheeks raised higher. A smile, not joyful, but fucking confused, plastered on his face because you had just had sex. Hours ago, sure, but how could you…? 

His lashes fluttered again. To be that fly on the wall that could get the fuck out of dodge.

Had he heard that right?

He stared at you. While you hadn’t run off or cowered under the sheet like he might’ve expected—prior experience judged upon—you had an odd streak to your lips. “I mean, I’m late,” you huffed. “I, ah, I’d been practicing how I was gonna tell you, but my head—I dunno.” You shook said head, the same lips trembling. “I was struggling how to tell you, but it’s been almost two weeks now and I—”

“Well, two weeks ain’t the same as right now,” he chuckled. The one that was ever boyish as he came down from the initial heart attack you’d tried to give him. Though how and why that seemed to make him feel better was beyond him. “‘Cause I just came in ya a few hours ago, and that—well, I’m not a doctor, but you don’t know that soon.” 

He stared at you for a second longer. Looked over your face and the mouth that’s shape told him you were serious. He ran a hand over his own. Ever aware, you watched him even though you attempted to make it look like you weren’t. 

He lowered himself back onto the mattress. He’d have sighed as his back hit the memory foam, but he held it in, knowing every action was being scrutinised. His arm, furthest from you, still up in the air, T-Rex style all over again. 

There were a lot of similarities to Memphis.

Even though he’d just released you for your own comfort, he was sliding his hand back under you and pulling you closer to him. When that didn’t push you away, he risked his thumb stroking your skin again. “You, ah, you’re sure you’re late? I mean it—”

“I’ve been waiting for it,” you said. He heard your breaths in between. “Y’know, cramps or—something, but the last time I had my period was after that case in Tulsa, and—”

“Okay,” he said. Defeated, maybe? There wasn’t much he could do at that moment, buck naked and still perplexed. Wasn’t like he didn’t know how it could happen. Not like he’d suited up.

“Okay?” You sat up that time. His hand had to drop to the mattress to accommodate you. “What do you—”

“I mean, okay.” He stressed his voice enough that you’d drop the question. There were already enough false ‘I’m fine’s’ going around; you didn’t need another one to contend with on top of them. 

He meant this one. Sort of—freaking the fuck out. There wasn’t a lot you could do at that moment, either. Not like you had one of those tests from the drugstore on hand you could pee on, though he’d have to go and get you one to be sure. 

It was you, though. Not some Amazon. Not Lisa, who he’d noped out of. It was you. Someone he could deal with. Wasn’t like you’d taken a test and the positive was glaring back at him—yet.

His hand reached for your bare thigh, now exposed. His eyes, tracing the movements his thumb resumed for fear of looking at your rack that was also out on display for him. “All we know is you’re late. Can’t do much about it now.”

“But—”

“I’ll go get you a test myself.” Right after he had his coffee. Chuck knew he deserved it. His self control was reason alone.

Dean pulls a pack of peas out of Jody’s fridge and slaps it on his shoulder. No towel, no paper, just straight over the former gunshot wound Tiny had a hand in making worse. 

He winces. Stares at the inside of the freezer a little longer, allowing the cold air to cool his face down, even with the threat his low brow might stay that way. 

He knows there’s worry etched into the grooves around his eyes and nose. He knows the second he turns around and faces Jody and Sam, they’ll have questions for him. Sam’s been holding them since the motel in Grafton. Since Dean frantically searched through your things for answers. Even before.

What was he supposed to say to them? What did he say to you when he didn’t know how to form the words he wanted to tell himself?

Things were okay? Because they weren’t. Not really. You were okay. The baby was okay. All six millimetres of it. But Dean didn’t even know how big that was until he googled it. His kid was smaller than his smallest fingernail. What kind of father was he?

The kind that let their mom get taken by a nest of vamps, that’s who. Dean could say as much as he wanted that it wasn’t his fault, but he pushed you away. Fought against you. He’d made your life hell enough that you’d left the motel on your own to get a second test. So what kind of father was he? 

Not the kind to be around. That’s for sure.

Water running out of the tap spills into a container behind him. He didn’t even hear either of them move. He shuts the door and spins around to see Jody filling up the coffeemaker. Sammy’s staring at him from across the room, leaning on a piece of bench, arms folded, but neither says a word, and Dean straightens himself up, having not realised he was slouching. 

All his muscles scream at him as he slinks past them both to the dining table. He pulls up a chair, the one facing the window and away from them, and slinks into it. Those same muscles protest under the onslaught of bunching up under his own weight.

Legs stretching below don’t help. Only make it harder.  His bad arm, draping on his thigh, he loses his head and stares at the wood grain, waiting for someone to speak or for his thoughts to turn happier.

He should be, right? Happy that is. You’re not talking to him ‘cause you’re resting in Claire’s room. That’s better than not talking and ignoring him.

You’ve hardly said a word since the hospital. He made you see someone in Grand Forks because it was safer than Grafton after the case. Just made him more aware of the kind of life you’d be bringing your kid into.

His kid. 

His jaw grinds from side to side. Tongue scrapes the back of his teeth and lips. Jody’s the first to join him, which is surprising. She places a hand on his good shoulder as she moves to the chair to his right and diagonal.

He doesn’t look, though. His lips twitch into a shallow smile that only just clips the edges. Enough for her to see he appreciates the sentiment. 

But she says nothing. He’s okay with the silence. Until Sam’s boots shuffle over the floor, and he can only guess what’s coming. 

He doesn’t sit next to him like he often does when they’re here, though, but across from him where he can stare at him some more.

Clearing his throat, Dean still doesn’t move his face from the grains on the table before him. He shuffles his ass, though. Presses the pack of peas firmer against the ache. They should be on his heart or stomach, but he doesn’t have enough hands and Jody doesn’t have enough peas. 

“Dean?” she tries, in that mom voice of hers. S’not helping. Even when she leans forward to catch his eye, he refuses to budge.

“She’s okay, right? The doctor said they’re both fine?” But even Jody, assuming his own rhetoric with the way her tone turned it into a question, not a statement, doesn’t help Dean fix his resolve.

“It’s not the point.” He readjusts his grip. His hand attached to the bullet wound curls his fingers into a half fist.

“It is the point, Dean,” Sam says with the same know-it-all tone he used yesterday. “Doctor let her go. She didn’t lose much blood.”

“But she did lose blood.” Dean raises his voice. It’s just not enough to make a scratch on the air. “She’s got a big chunk taken out of her neck.”

“That’s no different from any other time.” Sam folds his arms and leans onto the table, trying to get closer to him. “She had worse in Tulsa.”

And that made it better? 

“No one roofied her in Tulsa.”

What if they’d turned you? What if they’d decided you were worthless like Humphries? They dumped him for not having enough of the HCG crap in his veins. 

And you? Well, turns out you had a lot of it. Growing stronger every minute, according to the good doc in Grand Forks. Turns out Dean’d fucked up again by insisting you drink that water bottle before you took the test. Fucked up by not going out and getting it for you sooner. 

Who needed sleep? Not him. In fact, if he hadn’t been such a horny son of a bitch, you might’ve told him sooner than after you’d woken up.

Dean shakes his head. His tongue swipes the dry patches on his lips and darts back inside. That’s all either of them is getting from him now. Even with Sam’s persistence. 

“I’m just saying she’s strong.” Sam shrugs. His head drops, too. “If your kids like you…then they’re strong, too.” 

“They’ll be lucky to have you both,” Jody adds. Doing the mom bit again. 

She’s good at it. Raising Alex and Claire can’t have been easy. Dean remembers her bitching about them not being hers. 

Said she had no history, but then she added Patience to the group. Made it three after losing her husband and her own kid. 

She’s cut out for this stuff. Dean’s not. He gave up on Ben and Lisa when it got too hard. Can say all he likes he came back to hunting because Sammy came back topside.

He did come back for that, but he told no one, not even Ben, that the line about not being able to sit at Lisa’s dinner table wasn’t because of his job and being respectable. No, they didn’t deserve him there because he didn’t want to be there anymore. 

Emma didn’t deserve him, either. Even if she was a monster, he still wonders if what she was saying had any truth behind it, because people can change. Nature can change. 

You’re down the hall. You and the baby he thought of as a fleeting want until it was taken away from him twice. 

He meant what he said to you in the warehouse, and now that he’s seen them with his own eyes when you were coherent enough for the doctors to do the ultrasound, he’s sure he wants to be there with you even though he doesn't deserve it. 

Doesn’t stop him wanting you.  

Decided that the second he saw you in that chair that he did. Knew he couldn’t let anything like that happen to you ever again. No hunts. No cases. He’d keep you in the bunker if he had to. He’d get out if it meant he can keep them, too. 

But just looking ‘round Jody’s dining room is an ode to the apple pie life he can’t give you. 

It takes him down a notch. Makes him realise he’d let you both go if you wanted to get away from him. Make a safe life for yourself, ‘cause while he has a roof over his head, he doesn’t have the necessities like Jody does. She also has the things that make a house a home. Like Lisa’s. Like the Humphries and the Walsh’s there’s love and life in this room alone.

It’s not Bobby’s, and it never will be, but the charm is in the warmth. She’s got colour and fabrics; not giant doilies, but a couch that’s comfortable. One that sinks in just enough. Dean has the Dean cave with glass still on the floor from the smashed TV. While his armchairs are comfy, they’re just surrounded by concrete and bleak.

The bunker ain’t a place for a kid. Ignore the fact about a home, and it’s not his place to be around a kid, even his own. No matter what anyone says, he let you get taken. Even if he didn’t do or planned on doing it, his actions led you there.

“They’re lucky to have her.” His jaw ticks. “She’s the strong one.” You sat in that chair, knowing what you knew. Sitting next to the others. Dean still refuses to liken them to you.

When he heard you say his name, Dean’s heart only raced more. Sharp, like ‌the quickening he felt in his balls when he came, the palpitations flooded his body. That adrenaline, already in his system, still set his every nerve on fire. 

If only the heat could set the small room alight, not to burn, just to see, ‘cause the smell…the smell wasn’t pleasant. And Dean recognised the must for what it was. 

Pungent, like a urinal was. Like the wet patches he found on the ground outside bars and under causeways from drunks. Those who’d tried but failed to piss the excess booze away. Those who didn’t realise they were doing it until the warm streams met their inner legs.

The stench singed the hairs in his nose, but it was worse than that. Concentrated, mixed with blood and excrement too, from whomever hadn’t held it. But how could you blame them? Finding out vamps existed was the cliche for shitting one’s pants as it was. Yeah, it didn’t scream sanitary.

Of course it wouldn’t. Even with the refrigeration unit not fired up and under cooler temperatures. The walk-in cooler was the perfect example of a living petri dish, and he would’ve expected no less from any civilian. Five people in a room, six if you included when Humphries was there, things were bound to build. All of you left in a giant closet. Some, more than a week. 

If Ronald had died in here, it would’ve been worse for the other three that were still there, not knowing if they were next. Not knowing why they’d been targeted. Dean wondered if you knew now, having been on the case with him and Sam. 

Wasn’t something he was about to bring up here and now, though.

You’d think those flames coursing through him would’ve spared him from the ice, but no. His skin, his hands, his cheeks—the parts exposed, felt the air seep down into his bones as he strode across to you. 

If you were okay, then why weren’t you giving him some smartass rendition of him being too late, not struggling to say his name? You were supposed to say something witty. Supposed to by rounding up the others and keeping their morale high, but you weren’t. 

Your shoulders curled over. Your head dropped even though you’d seen him. 

Was he too slow—too late? Thoughts of babies and human chorionic—whatever—be damned. Were you okay?

He said your name as he dropped to his knees on the mat below him. The moisture trapped in the bases of the anti-slip holes soaked into the fabric of his pant legs. He ignored that, too. Even as the rubber edges dug into his skin like icicles in the snow.  

“Hey.” His palm came to your thigh, squeezing just enough for you to feel him through your jeans as he looked up into the umbra at face. “You alright?” He forced a smile, though all you’d see were his teeth, uneven from the force of it. His brows folded at the cold that covered your own legs and the dark patch on your neck, catching what little light had filtered in from the hall.

“Told ‘em—come.” Your voice, though hoarse and rambled, huffed in amusement. ‘Cavalry.” Your half thoughts sounded more like you’d just woken up rather than being excited he was here to rescue you. Whether you were was neither here nor there to him. Not when you were within his arm’s reach. 

“Think you became the bait,” he muttered, trying his best to be lighthearted. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his phone. “How many’d you count?” He focused on the specifics, hoping you’d understand without further explanation. The last thing he wanted was to spook the crowd any further, but with his fingers distracted, his gaze only flicked to them. 

“Um,” you muttered, “five—think. How—”

“Five,? he said, unlocking the screen and holding it up to his ear once he’d dialed Sam. “Pattinson’s girlfriend was the last,” he chuckled. He just didn’t expect you to question him on his knowledge of teenage vampires when you were struggling to speak.  

Before you could get any further than the ‘how,’ he was squeezing your leg again as he waited for the dial tone to do its thing. At least your gears were doing theirs. “Take it easy, yeah. M’here now. Gonna get you out of here.” 

The light from his device, even against his cheek, had lit up your face enough for him to really see you: alert, somewhat, exhausted maybe. The bite on your neck, the same as any other he’d seen on you and others before, though it hit differently.

“Hey,” he said again when Sam answered, not giving his brother time to say more than a greeting back before he cut him off. “Found her. Get the car and bring it to the front.” He hung up just the same, keeping the screen lit up to see you all better. 

“Now the real cavalry’s here.” He winked at you, eyes soon tracing the bite on your neck once more. 

Blood still oozed out of your wound. Not flowing enough, you’d bleed out, but enough for Dean to know they’d bitten more than once in the few hours they’d taken you. Most likely now, before he’d arrived thanks to Bella. The back of your hand had a catheter as Mr. Humphries had done. Tubing attached to it, wound round the back of your chair to one of five drips.

His remarks about Ronald would ring true in some ways; if the cancer patient had been the one to put the catheters in everyone. Someone had some kind of medical training, not that Dean did himself. He was just repeating what the coroner had mentioned. And Dean?

“Let’s get you out of this, honey,” he said. 

Much like the handle of the machete in his hand the night before, the plastic in Dean’s hand sweats against his skin. 

Of course, it’s the crinkle of it that grabs yours and Alex’s attention. Of course, you both turn away from what you’re doing and look up at him, taking any choice of knocking away from him. All that’s left is to plaster his face with an over-confident grin. He licks his lower lip through it when he sees the state of your undress and what he’s actually walked in on. 

On the inside, he’s still wondering what the hell he’s going to say to you. There’s a lot you need to talk about, but he’s gotta push all the self doubt and loathing to the side, because at the end of the day? You’re what’s important to him. 

He flicks his gaze to your face. “How’s the patient?” is what he goes with. Simple, though he’s feeling like an idiot. Doesn’t even know why he’s thinking so damn hard about this when it’s just you. It’s just Alex. She’s seen it all. He’s just sure as hell wishing she was seeing it from a different room. 

It’s bad enough he’s been failing when it comes to you, and now he has an audience with her. Even with the boyfriend turned vampire, he doubts she’s seen everything. She hasn’t seen him handle relationship stuff. At least Sam left him to his own devices for most of the case, which is why he’s in this mess.

As much as he’s grateful Alex is checking your wound, he was gone for over an hour. She should’ve been and gone when he was gone plenty enough for her to be done with this. Out buying you the stuff the doctors at the hospital said you needed, that they needed. And like the weight of the test in the pharmacy bag pulled tight against his fingers in the bunker that night he brought it home, the one from Jody’s local market weighs on him. 

He’s got vitamins. He’s got the candy you like. Ice cream and the cereal you always stock, already in Jody’s kitchen, even though he’s planning on heading home with you and Sam tomorrow. But you might want it. He can’t believe he’s gonna say it, but this is his kid; they might want it, too. He’d get you a cheeseburger to wash it all down with just for them. 

“Just redressing her wound,” Alex says with the faintest sliver of a smirk gracing her lips. Her teeth on show like she’s trying to impersonate Elvis or her former found family, but in actuality, she’s just concentrating as she places the last of the bandages.  

Okay, yeah, the question was obvious, but she didn’t need to be like that. It’s the first time he’s come to see you since the kitchen, after listening to Jody and Sam waffle on about how lucky you both were. He’s brought up the courage to talk to you now, because the last time you really talked you were sitting out the front of the Walsh’s house and that didn’t go so well.

Which is why he still doesn’t see it. The part about him being lucky. The part where he should just talk to you. Like he hasn’t tried that already.

You hid this from him for days. You hid being late for two weeks, but he could forgive you for that. He can forgive you for the not telling yesterday, too. 

Just has to keep his cool and not fuck up like last time. Part of the reason he’s been letting you rest since he got you to Jody’s place was so he could mull over everything. Avoid saying something else, he’s gonna regret. 

And he’s regretting everything. From the moment you told him you were late in his bed, he can see how he’s been a dick. Asking you out like that. Walking out on you like that. The list can go on; he’s just aware there’s two sets of eyes still staring at him until Alex focuses on helping you slip his flannel back over your shoulder. The one he gave you this morning at the hospital. The one you’ve worn since.

He thumps his free fist against the door—twice, like he’d planned with the knocking. “I can help her with that. Think Jody said she needed you in the kitchen.” He doesn’t care that it’s obviously a lie. Just relieved Alex stops mid button. 

She seeks your confirmation. A single glance, before you’re nodding that it’s okay. Which, great? Perfect, though Dean’s wondering if some silent communication is also going on with the amount of times your eye twitches. 

“Thanks, Alex,” you say as she stands up and collects the supplies she brought in with her up in her arms. 

Dean mutters his own. The hand behind his back rearranges his fingers around the bouquet and the bag he’s holding, but he has to drop them to his side when you work at the next button yourself. 

He pretends neither of you is staring at the bright pink wrap and the softer tones of the peonies the lady at the store helped pick out for him as he strides over to you. The thing is offensive to his eyes, too. Can’t remember a time when he’s even given someone flowers, unless he counts his own mom.

Even then, it was the djinn in Joliet and Mary herself that reminded him of it. The weeds he pulled from the Lawrence house’s front lawn reminded four-year-old Dean of his yellow Tonka truck. His mom’d said he’d been proud of them. 

He wasn’t so proud when Sam gave him shit for it, however. Even though it was the actions of a kid and not of a grown man, like Alex’s continuous smirk, it was damn hilarious, to everyone but him.

Dean places the flowers and the rest of his haul on the bed next to you, only to find Alex still staring at him. Her lips, now flattening, but somehow pushing her cheeks higher up her face to the baseline of her lashes. 

Short of asking if he can help her, “We’ll call you if we need you,” he says. His tone, more preteen than adult-Dean. He might not know her as well as he knows Claire, but it only makes it easier to be dickish, even if it’s not called for. 

“Might need me sooner than you think.” She snickers, as if she knows Dean’s got no idea, which is telling. There must be some silent communication going on between the two of you. More so when Alex pulls her cheeks higher with her brow and the way her eyes flicker to the flowers. 

He still doesn’t see what’s so funny, though. Sure, he’s got them and he asked you out the way he had, but the gesture is all there. It’s all about the action, not the words.

“Would you just—” He cocks his head to the door and lowers himself down to take over the button you’re still struggling with. Seems neither of you can take a hint, much like the women in the store who chattered at his sheer presence in the florist. 

If he’s honest, cocky even, he’ll admit it’s not the first time he’s received looks like the ones they were giving him. Sideways glances and whispers that’d make most guys feel three feet tall. Technically, he did at that moment, already feeling so out of place in a tiny little shop front full of flowers grazing each limb as he tried to avoid others.  

As it is now, your fingers pull his jean leg, and his name on your lips pulls him back.

Once Dean had removed the catheter from your hand, he wrapped his tie around your wrist and pulled you to your feet, hoisting you up, bridal style, against his chest. His fingers, digging into your flesh beneath your clothes, held you tight as he carried you out of the refrigeration unit. 

He didn’t look back.

There was no way he was hanging ‘round. You needed a hospital. To be checked over, and he…he needed to know for sure. 

His heart worked faster. Throbs passed by his ears and tremors tingled in his legs as he moved. He stepped over Robert’s girlfriend, kicking her one extra time before he continued back down the path towards Tiny, the others, and the entry where he hoped to God Sam had brought the Impala to.

They could call the feds once he had you in Baby. Even better once you were on your way out of Grafton if he could get away with it. He needed to get you to a doctor. Needed to get you checked out. “I’ll get you to a hospital, yeah?” he muttered as his boots tread over the squares of moonlight that still kissed the concrete. “Get you checked out, make sure—”

He stopped himself. Couldn’t bring himself to say it over the lump in his throat.

Dean wasn’t even sure you’d figured it out yet—why they’d taken you. Why they’d gone after the others. 

You hadn’t been there for that conversation, having been locked in the bathroom, yet again. But the IV he’d taken out of your arm? The case. Sam, discovering all the others had HCG in their blood. Unless he’d missed something all the times you’d slept together, there was only one conclusion he could draw from everything.

And he was going to make sure you both were okay.

Dean shuts the door as you asked. His grip, gentle on the handle. The tips of his fingers, hanging off the brass. As the worn latch clicks into place, the soft thud of wood against wood sets deep in his gut.

It’s the first solid chance he’s had of getting you alone since he carried you out of that warehouse and into the safety of Baby. Before then, it was the moment he left you at the motel to go with Sam and interview the punk-ass kid with the craters on his face. 

A fleeting thought goes to Edith and the others he left behind when he got you out of there, but he couldn’t do much more for them than what he and Sam have already done. There were two of them, and no way he was letting you walk out of there, even if you’d been coherent or insistent. The fact that you weren’t, screamed at him to focus on you. Teenage moms be damned. 

There’s enough guilt racing around his heart as it is without adding more to it. The sound of the plastic ‘round the peonies crinkling under your touch has his attention for now. Hand still on the door, his spine straightens, and he turns. The kind of spin he’s seen in the movies when the guy walks away from the love interest, only for them to call out to him and turn back around. 

You’re not calling out to him though. The tone you’d used with him when you told him to close the door was short, but the bouquet is louder still. He’d say deafening, only that spots going to his heart, that’s racing again, even though it’s heavy and he isn’t. He’d rather take running through a warehouse with your body cradled close to him or his boots thundering through an empty lot over what he has to face now.

So he does turn ‘round. His feet, slow and unpredictable, shuffle his body to face you. If his legs were any longer, he’d be toppling over because both heels seem to catch on nothing but the carpet beneath his feet and the hem of his jeans. Both frayed and shaggier than Jody’s floor, and in need of replacing before he can even think of doing anything about his life and this kid you’re potentially going to be bringing into the world. 

He still doesn’t even know if you want to keep the baby. Not much was said at the hospital aside from getting you there. Even if he wanted to, you couldn’t. You weren’t coherent enough. 

But the lump that’s been continually in his throat and the nerves that even now urge him to draw you back into him like he’d done at the warehouse. Like every hour that’s passed since he carried you through the warehouse. Since he bundled you into Baby’s back seat and held you closer. Since he carried you into the ER, all he could think was how much he wanted you to, too.

A moth drawn to a flame, his eyes catch on your body as they did the moment he stepped back from you after placing you on the hospital bed. You, now further away than you were then, like you were in Grafton compared to Omaha. Like you were in Majorie’s living room.

The tears well behind his eyes like they‘d done back in Grand Forks. When he wished he’d taken you to the hospital in Grafton over driving those extra forty-five minutes because of his damn job. His worthless life couldn’t afford the risk of being found out, even at the risk of you. 

Of them. 

He scans the length of you, head to toe. He was certain he was the one burning. His whole body on fire from adrenaline alone, but the evening glow spilling through the curtains behind you lights up your silhouette like you’re his holy grail. Halo and all, crowning your hair like the glow he saw way back in the bunker when you first took that test in the bathroom. 

He supposes its part true. You are his holy grail. Missouri’s words, a prophecy, inscribed in his head like the sigils he bears in his ribcage. Like the vision of you before him now. His flannel over your shoulders and his…his kid, all six millimetres of them, hidden behind the layers of your still flattened stomach. Protected from him and his life, for now. 

He’d continue staring at you. At the way your fingers curl around the bouquet and you focus on the delicate petals with your fingers, but “The white ones are f’apologies,” he mutters, digging deep into both his pockets. With how tightly his own stomach muscles are working, the waist slides easily down his hips unlike his words.

“The, ah, the yellow’s for good luck,” he takes a tentative step, catching the way your eyes flicker over the flowers as you consider what he’s said. His catch on your form and latch onto it for fear of him blinking and you no longer being there. 

He sees your lips move and the whisper you produce is so quiet, he’s lip-reading your question on them ‘bout the pink ones.  

“Lady at the store says they’re for romance.” He leaves the part out about them being used in bridal bouquets and swipes his hand through the air, holding it up before you can say anything untoward him dating you again. “Not that I’m expecting anything. I just, ah, wanted you to have something nice. That’s all.” He nods his head as if that sets everything in stone.

On that note, he strides forward, dropping to his knees in front of you as he’d done in the warehouse. As he’s done many times before. 

Only he’s reaching for the bag you’ve ignored until now. Ignoring you instead of looking at you up close now that he’s shrinking before you. He’d compare himself to yet another animal as he takes out the remaining things. The beaten and bloodied dead bird is all that’s missing to show off to you, but you’ve got his face to contend with there. Cuts and bruises from the fight, his gut sure flips as if there’s more than that plastered on it, along with everything else running through his head.

“De—”

“I, ah, I got you this,” he hands you the candy bar, “and, ah—” His fingers hover over the small bottle of prenatal vitamins the doctor recommended. 

It didn’t cross his mind at the store that you might not want ‘em. The thought has his lower lip running over the lump in his throat that’s only spreading further since he crossed Claire’s room to you. It’s doubled in size since last night, and only expanding. 

You’re pregnant now, right? It can’t hurt to give ‘em to you. Can only help with your healing while you decide what you’re going to do, if you’re going to do anything at all. 

His fist takes them firm. The plastic container, small enough to hide behind it with only the lid poking out when he raises it higher.

He could bite the thing like he could chew his knuckles. Could throw the lot out the window before you caught on, but he doesn’t. Just channels his inner Sam with his next delivery. Man up, ‘cause deep down, he wants you to want them to. “I got you the pills the doc mentioned,” he says. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want ‘em, but I thought they—” 

He swallows the next words when your palm reaches his stubble. Follows the plaid pattern covering your arm, past the bandage, past the dried blood you haven’t quite removed from your skin in the surrounding areas. Travels past all that to find your eyes, staring back at his. Narrowing, confused. “De—”

“Just thought they’d help with the recovery, y’know?” His mouth twitches. The corner of his lip barely forms into a smile because he can’t for the life of him read your expression. And even with your face dropping lower to his, he’s dropping his own to where you can’t reach it. 

He turns away from you again as he readies himself to say his next words, because he can’t keep looking at you. Not when every time you open your mouth, it feels like he’s risking everything by not saying this stuff to you. No matter how many jokes he’ll use to mask any future rejection or the one you’re about to throw at him for everything that he’s done and will no doubt continue to do. 

“I know we haven’t talked about that yet,” his tongue plays with his inner cheek, “but I just wanna make sure you’re okay. That’s all I want.” His lips repeat the last sentence without a sound. Weak and pathetic, like the poor excuse of a human that he is. 

When he lets you say his name in full, he doesn’t deserve the kind tone you’re using. Doesn’t deserve for you to even be speaking to him or to be in Jody’s slice of apple pie when he should be in the river like Humphries, catheter and all. 

When you ask him if he’s finished, he’s finished alright. Finished and ready to sit back and take all you’ve got. He’ll sit there without another word from him or you if he has to. Just an awkward silence between you. Take years of silent treatment ‘cause Chuck knows he only has a few years left on his ticker now. He’s two beats away from a heart attack and an ever soaring blood pressure.

Only you’re climbing down to him. Sinking down to his level. Your hand on his cheek, moving to his shoulder to steady yourself. Without thought, he brings his to your waist, like he’s clinging to you. Bunching up the fabric of his shirt beneath his fingers as your legs fold against his knees. He drops himself to his side, his own thighs stretching beneath him as if he’s fallen and is rearing to get up. But he’s not. He won’t.

He might cling to your waist still, but he’s clinging to every second you’re close to him. Can feel the warmth exuding off of you as if you were still in his arms and against his chest, like you were from the moment he’d picked you up in the warehouse until he was placing you on the hospital bed. 

The clinical smell still clings to you as much as he does, and he hates it. The disinfectant, reminding him of mothballs and doilies and death. And that’s not you. You’re full of life. You’re supposed to be carrying life. His thumb brushes close to your stomach, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Can’t help it. Not if it means he might not get to again.

“You’ve been talking since Grafton.” You lean forward, tilting your chin to see him better, like the cat that’s definitely about to skitter. “It’s my turn, yeah?” 

“You weren’t exactly talking before it,” he mutters.

“And now you know why.”

If it weren't for you moving so close to him, he wouldn’t have heard you that time. Hell, if Jody’s house had a basement, he’d be collecting his stomach from down there because he’s lost it. His thumb stills on you. His whole body does. Freezes. Stiffens. “You knew all that time.” 

“No,” your head tremors, “no, I mean—you saw the test in my bag.” Your hands move to your lap, pulling on your fingers again like you wanted to break them until Dean takes your wrists in his grip and pulls you towards him.

Before you can protest, he’s taking you up in his arms and adjusting his bow legs to accommodate you. 

It looks more like he’s tackled you to the ground during a fight and faced the wrong end of the deal, but he’s just trying to prevent one. Stopping himself from backing away himself by anchoring you to him while he has the chance. If this is the last time he holds you, so be it. He’ll savour the moment for what it is. The last piece of apple pie he’s ever going to get, surrounded by you in Jody’s home. 

He’s surrounded by you. Enveloped by your scent beneath the clinical one and the soap that Jody keeps in her bathroom. His flannel mixes with it. Baby’s in there somewhere, too. Clinging to the fabric, clinging to his skin.

There’s carpet under his ass and your ass is on him. It’s not what he knows, but it’s comfort compared to polished concrete and fading tiles. You lean into his chest, and he just secures you tighter. A hand, unashamed and covering your stomach, now the one chance he has to hold them, he tells himself.  

He doesn’t care if you try to move; he’ll let you, but he’ll resist first. He listens as you tell him the words he’s been longing to hear. To just have you talk to him again, even if it’s telling him you won’t keep them. He won’t make you. 

“My period didn’t come,” you whisper. “Was starting to think it was all in my head, and you weren’t helping.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You twist to look at him. Your hand on his own stomach digs into the flesh, but he’s too busy watching every movement you make from your folded brow to the way your breath fans across your lips.

They’re pouting and there’s a slight sheen to them like the one he saw in the bunker that night. He wants to do nothing more than capture them under his own, but he won’t. He’s too busy. Still too scared to remove his gaze from you.

Even in his arms as he has you now, he can’t risk closing his eyes to feel you better. Can’t blink in fear of you taking off, ‘cause your chest is heaving now. You stare back at him, and it’s challenging and terrifying, like he can still lose you. Terrifying that for a few seconds he allows himself to pretend things might mend between you with a simple touch. With a simple hold. 

“You got butthurt because I rejected you, but I don’t need you to do all this.” You nod at the bouquet. To the candy. To the vitamins. “People have kids on their own all the time. I don’t need you to date me.”

And though Dean knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help himself. He ignores the rest, even the part about dating, and only grasps onto the phrase about people ‘having kids’ and runs with it before the chance runs away from him again. “You wanna keep it?” he rushes only to find your irises flicking back and forth in their sockets, reading his face much the same as he’s trying to read you since you sat on the floor next to him.

Your lips purse. The shine, more apparent. His twitch, but he’s not risking saying anything more now, though the pause is too much. The anticipation, too great. His heart, beating in his chest so fast, he’s feeling the palpitations in his arms and legs. 

They flitter. Little thrums more like the sensation of his stomach protesting at the thought of another cheeseburger from Granny’s. Like the little niggle he felt when Jake said Edith had taken a home pregnancy test like you had, and nothing can bring it down or take it away. 

Not until you ask him, “I—I mean, is that okay?” 

It takes a while for the words to register in his brain, because you’re asking him? Here he’s been telling himself since that night that it was all up to you. That it was your choice in the end if you kept it because it was your body, this was all happening to you. But you’re giving a choice? 

He was against it before, but he allows himself to blink because he sees your worry. He sees the uncertainly, clearer now for what it is, and he revels in it. Licks his lips as he does. 

And when his eyes stay open long enough to find yours, he’s bringing his mouth back to you. His saliva on your skin, his tongue tracing the edges. The spark he’d lost in the bunker returning, tenfold.

“Is that a yes?” you say as he presses yet another kiss over you. 

“It’s a yes.” He breathes your name onto your skin, and nips at the very spot, feeling the warmth he left come back to him. “But I’m gonna need you to accept I didn’t ask you ‘cause you’ve got my kid in there.” He brushes his nose over yours as he changes sides. Enough to steal another glance and see you smile before he’s sampling you again.

More kisses, more pecks, more nibbling. “Did it ‘cause I wanted to,” he says between it all. “Need to know if you’ll have me.” 

He knocks his skull against yours and stares into the flash of colour that shines brighter ‘round the whites of your eyes. Hands on your neck now, holding you there in place as his true cocky grin comes out. “Is that a yes?” he says with a smirk.

“What?”

“Wanna date me?” he chuckles, broadening his grin like his heart is as light as a hot-air balloon. His attached cheeks, now bright red, the canvas that carries it away. “Cause that’s an easy—“

You swat his chest. He only laughs harder. You narrow your eyes, but your teeth are showing like his are. 

Your fingers grip his flannel and tug the collar down, prickling tiny hairs and the skin beneath them. “I’ll date you Dean Winchester,” you say. The rise and fall in your tone, channelling one, Missouri Mosley, down to the way you draw him in like you’re reaching deep into his soul. “Just don’t ask me to marry you.” 

And what can he say to that, aside from grinning at you further or reclaiming your mouth with his tongue? 

He does both. His smile, doing the kissing now. More demanding, more forceful. More of himself, put into it because his heart’s elated just to be given the chance. His hands, wherever he can reach you, adjusting his position on the floor so he can reposition you in his lap. His lips, never far from yours.

They lavish your skin; your skin tingles his own. When he pulls you closer, your own hands cling to him like he’d been clinging to your waist and your every word. 

There are things you’ll still need to sort out. There’s still so many more things you need to say and do, like finding a decent doctor ‘round Lebanon or potentially leaving the bunker. One thing is for certain, though, Dean still has some loose ends to tie, but there’s nothing wrong in saying he won’t ask you to marry him in the future. He just doesn’t tell you that.

Like the journey from point A to point B took him from Dede’s doorstep to here in Claire’s room, there’s an excitement in the unknowing that slots somewhere in between becoming a father and making an honest woman out of you. Until then, he just has to keep working and practicing on those night moves of his, because now? He has a lot more to lose than he originally started with, and he ain’t losing you again. No matter what.

A/N: And that’s all folks. Thank you for reading all the way through to the end 😊

I set this story in season 13 with the original intention that I could dive into the similarities between Dean's relationship with the reader and his relationship with Mary. In particular with him wanting to go to the otherworld to save Mary and Jack. This set-up had me wondering if he would still want to do that if the reader was pregnant. In an earlier draft I had her questioning him about it before the start of the case (during the pregnancy test scene). Though that might not have happened, part of me still wants to explore them fighting over him wanting to go in the future - and maybe more smut!

As a final note, to those who have read my other stories, in particular, Sand In A Velvet Glove, let’s just say there’s a reason why I gave the teen in this story the name Edith (even if the reader wasn’t shown to bond with her in the end). ❤️

Dean Taglist: @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @artemys-ackles @aylacavebear @bejeweledinterludes2 @deans-baby-momma @district447 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean

@fymyuji @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @idjit-central @kimxwinchester @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @jollyhunter  @kiddieclaws @kr804573

@krazykelly @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @linkilocks11 @livinginataydream @lori19 @lupinslibraries @lyarr24 @maddie0101 @middleearthlife

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@supernotnatural2005 @thewinchesterwench @ultimatecin73 @waynes-multiverse @winchesterwild78 @youroldfashioned @yoursrosie @zepskies

“Why’s that?” you asked.

“Safer than the ground floor,” he said, humming in pleasure as he inhaled your perfume. “That’s nice. What’s that, Burberry?”

“Yves Saint Laurent,” you replied, smiling harder, trying not to. 

“Fancy,” he murmured against your skin. 

“It was a birthday gift.”

He wondered if your ex, Sergeant Perfect, was the one to get it for you. But he realized that it didn’t matter. Mark had a hold of you now, and he didn’t feel inclined to let go.

His presence still burned at your back when you stopped to unlock the door of unit 315. You led him inside, where he took in the small, but breathable surroundings of your apartment. It opened up right into the living room, with the dining room and kitchen to the far right, and a narrow hall straight ahead.

“Hmm, nice place,” he remarked, but he was soon distracted by your grasping hands guiding him down to you by his jacket, with you leaning up to catch him in a heated kiss. He fell into the pull of you all too willingly. He held you flush against him, letting his hands wander down your back. He squeezed the plush of your ass and groaned at the give. 

Meanwhile, your fingers were running through his hair, but they clenched tight on reflex when he bent down to grab you up by your thighs. A squeal escaped you, accompanied by a rare giggle once you realized what he was doing. His answering grin was cocky and familiar, but you just grabbed his face and plundered his mouth—a sensuous duet of lips and tongue, but fraught with a thrilling heat.

You helped him shrug out of his jacket first, then yours. They created their own pile on your living room floor before he walked you through your apartment. 

“Which way?” he asked. He didn’t give a fuck if you said bedroom, closet, or bathroom tub. He’d make it work. 

“First left,” you panted. 

He held onto you impressively with one arm to open the door, finding the one and only bedroom. Of course he had plans of his own when he plopped you down on the edge of the bed, but as you discovered, it put you at the perfect level to unbuckle his belt. He stripped off his shirt from the back of his collar, a sleeve almost catching on his watch in his haste.

He helped you with your silky little blouse next. His eyes darkened at the sight of your black lace bra holding up your perfect tits. He could already tell they’d give him a nice handful each.

He had to marvel at the way you popped open the button on his jeans and worked them down so readily. He supposed he shouldn’t have had any doubts about your intentions after your behavior in the car, with that little two-finger tap dance across his inner thigh that almost made him crash into a Yield sign.

But there was teasing, and then there was taking his hard cock in your mouth, where you were warm and wet and salivating like you couldn’t wait to choke on it.

His body almost buckled. “Jesus…”

His hand flew to your shoulder, then into your hair, tangling tight around the strands as you worked him into deep and smooth strokes. Already you were doing your goddamn best.

His jeans and boxers were barely halfway down his legs, coiled somewhere around his knees. You pushed them down a little more, so your free hand had more room to slide even further back, gently cupping and massaging his balls. A shuttered groan was knocked out of him at the sensation. But it was a steely resolve that kept his hips to a minimal rocking to try and match your rhythm, instead of bucking hard into your mouth and choking you for real. His fingers did tighten in your hair though, making you wince.

Your lips tightened on his shaft as you slowly pulled back, with purpose, sucking the pearling precum out of the head of his dick. His stomach muscles clenched as half a shudder went through him. His heart pattered like a steel drum in his chest.

“Fuck, sweetheart, have a little mercy,” he chuckled roughly.

Your smile was cheeky at best, devious at worst.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re flagging already,” you said.

Mark raised a brow. He would be remiss if he didn’t take you up on that little challenge. With a hmph, as he helped you back up to your feet, just so he could lure you into a devouring kiss. It was pure heat as he held you flush against him, your pretty lace bra scraping against his chest. But it was also distraction, allowing him to maneuver you where he wanted you on the bed: breathless on your back.

He kicked off his remaining clothes, though he prided himself on remembering a condom you gave him from his wallet, soon discarded again with his jeans. He shook the little foil packet at you in amusement before he fitted himself with its contents.

But he had to stop short once he helped you peel off your jeans. A slow smirk took control of his face when he fingered the familiar hem of your panties, silky and violet.

“These look even sexier now than the day we met,” he teased. “Nice of you to model ‘em for me.”

“I thought you might appreciate that,” you said, rubbing his arms as he climbed back up your body to kiss you. His arms were a cage you didn’t want to escape; you arched against his chest so he could successfully fiddle with your bra, yanking the clasps open with a practiced hand. You tried not to think of exactly how much practice, or let your brain fall back into overthinking, like wondering if he was serious about more than just wanting you.

You couldn’t deny that you wanted him too. Maybe tonight, that was enough.

The way he was kissing and sucking your tits was certainly good enough. His teeth grazed the firm peaks, making you moan and grab onto his hair tightly, your thighs wrapping around his hips. The rigid length of him pressed against your clothed pussy with blinding friction. It had him painfully, distractingly hard, but the way your knees squeezed his hips reminded him that he had work to do.

He kissed his way from your breasts down past your navel, where your legs spread wider, enough to accommodate his broad shoulders. His hand smoothly traveled up your thigh and squeezed soft flesh. Your breathing deepened just in anticipation as his lips blazed a trail along the inside of your knee, your thigh, nipping with teeth just shy of your pussy.

“Mark,” you gasped, laughing a little. “Jesus…”

“Oh, don’t flinch now, baby. We’re just getting started,” he said. And thumbed at the darkened wet spot through your panties.

His smile was incorrigible, but worse was the way he slowly dragged your panties down your thighs. Once they reached as far as they would go without him moving out of the way, he yanked the flimsy silk, making your mouth drop open in shock and your heart stutter. The fabric burned and your pussy throbbed with another flood of arousal.

He pacified you with his fingers slipping through the slick mess of your folds and quickly finding your clit. Your hips raised somewhat off the bed as you breathed into the delicious pleasure. Your hand came up over your head to grab onto your pillow, your other hand fisting the sheets.

“Good angle?” he teased.

“You’re gonna buy me new panties,” you uttered, but your sultry moan only stroked his ego.

“Hell, I’ll buy you a whole matching set,” he said, “long as I get a live preview.”

He grabbed another pillow to wedge underneath your hips, as if preparing you on a platter for his next meal.

Then he dove in, finally making better use of his mouth by tongue-stroking your clit. His fingers worked themselves inside your aching channel, then curling those long digits inside your inner walls. He hummed low in pleasure at the taste of you, making you blush and tangle your fingers back into his silky hair instead of the sheets. You felt the deep vibration of his voice against your clit, and it had you seeing brittle stars.

Mark was nothing if not a puzzle-solver, a true analyst, trying to figure out which angle you responded to more, which side of your clit was more sensitive, what kind of pressure would have only his name on your lips as you fell apart.

He knew he found it when your nails raked across his scalp, your body shuddering against him as you uttered a broken cry. “Mark.”

“That’s right, baby, come all fucking over me,” he muttered. But his fingers slipped out of you, so that he could grab your thighs and rip the pillow from underneath you. Just like the fucking panties, it was now in his goddamn way.

His cock sunk into you while you were still tinging from your first orgasm. Hell, it still felt like you were coming. Or it could’ve been just the feeling of him stretching your inner walls as they fluttered around him, welcoming him inside.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathed, grasping onto his shoulders desperately.

He didn’t give you any time to recover. He started moving, a steady roll of his hips that stole your breath and had you clinging to his neck with biting nails and a dirty kiss. His breathing was labored too, but not because he was anywhere near done with you.

He grabbed onto the headboard and curled an arm around you, kissing you back hard enough to still taste cinnamon sugar and tequila.

“Harder,” you said against his lips, yanking on the longer strands of his hair for good measure.

A deep and guttural moan came from his throat. You really were his kind of woman.

But he still asked, “Fuck, you sure?”

You nodded, panting as you slipped your fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, make it fucking count,” you said.

He met your gaze, and for a moment, he didn’t even know what he saw in your eyes.

After another steamy kiss that knocked all coherent thought out of his head, and yours, he pulled out of you just to turn you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees. He realigned himself flush against your ass, giving both cheeks a firm squeeze as he sunk back inside you to the hilt. Your heady moan, and the way you squeezed on him on reentry, nearly undid him right there. Jesus fuck…

He slowly regained his rhythm and the leverage he had with a white-knuckle grip on the headboard. He held you to him too, heeding your guiding hand to squeeze one of your tits, rolling the sensitive bud of your nipple between his fingers. Your mouth fell open as your breaths fell out in time with his thrusts. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to feel his power.

Your arms were shaking, even with his support. He let you sink forward and rest your forehead on your arms, with a needy whimper as it deepened the angle.

His cock pulsed a warning inside you. It was getting harder to wait for you to come with him, but he could feel your legs quaking, your inner walls tightening around his cock, sucking him in as you finally mounted the crest of a new wave.

“You almost there, baby?” he said, nodding to himself when all you could answer was a high moan. His hand tightened on your hip. “Yeah, I fucking feel it…”

He reached around and guided your hand down between your legs. “Play with yourself. Stroke that clit the same way I did with my fucking tongue.”

You nodded, rubbing your swollen clit with trembling fingers. Combined with the feeling of his cock hitting that most sensitive place inside, it was almost too much. But it was also just fucking right. Your vision flashed, a cry forcing itself from your lungs.

Grabbing a fist full of your hair for his own stability, Mark finally allowed himself to let go along with you. His ragged shout echoed sharply in the room as he spent himself into the condom. You shuddered against him, heaving for breath as you clawed back up the headboard. His fingers freed themselves from your hair to smooth it down instead. He held you to him without collapsing on you, leaning heavily on the bedframe instead. His arm shook.

He chuckled as he tried to regain his breath. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied airily, squeezing his arm as your head rested on his shoulder. “Good job.”

Another laugh huffed out of him.

“That’s my line, sweetheart,” he said, pressing his lips to your neck.

You were nearly boneless as he lowered you back down to the bed. You felt the loss of his cock keenly when he withdrew. Jesus, he’s fucking big.

You slowly managed to turn on your side so you could see his face. You smiled, and you leaned in to kiss him. 

It was gentler than he expected, but it was nice.

You laid your head in the crook of his shoulder. His pointer and middle finger stroked your arm back and forth while you both just breathed and existed there. The low hum of the AC kicked on just in time. The ceiling fan occasionally clicked as it spun. Distant sirens. Quiet slipped into the spaces where heartbeats fell. Warm lamplight and stillness.

After a while, you turned your head and scooted back a little, so you could meet his eyes, see the dewy sheen across his forehead.

“Was I worth the wait?” you asked cheekily. 

Amusement curved his lips. “For that, I would’ve waited a goddamn year.” 

You burst out laughing. “You’re so full of shit.”

He smirked. But your mirth faded the longer you considered him. 

He clocked the shift. It was hard not to, when you were laid out right in front of him, your body bare, and a few more layers stripped back too.

“Now what’re you thinking?” he asked. “I can see your gears turning.”

You took a deep breath before you answered, reaching out to stroke his cheek. His beard prickled your fingertips.

“Wondering if you’re going to be the guy who dips out before goodnight, or at least stays for the morning sex,” you said. And actually calls me after…

He got to smiling again. “So far I like the sound of the overnight package.” 

You bit your lip against another laugh, shaking your head. Your hand fell to his chest, hesitating there.

Against all prior evidence, Mark defied your expectations by settling into your bed, into this. He kissed you slowly. 

You breathed into it and allowed it to settle inside you, even after he pulled back.

“I’m looking forward to waking you up in the morning,” he said.

Your small, pleased smile told him he made the right choice. 

The sun had climbed halfway up the sky by the time Mark kept his word and woke you. A slow Saturday morning of warm skin on skin, his mouth mapping every inch his hands had the night before. Your upstairs neighbor was going to remember Mark’s name, layered on the walls in lusty sighs and sharp gasps. 

But after a shared shower and a ham and egg scramble with some particularly delectable homemade sourdough, he started to get his things together to head home. A thought occurred to him as he grabbed his wallet from under your bed, along with his keys.

This was the longest he’d spent with a woman in over a year.

No more UC for a while.

Even before then, Mark knew his track record. But he wasn’t exactly itching to leave this time. Maybe it really had been too long since he had a night that fucking good.

Or maybe the prospect of going home to an empty apartment, with little else besides a case of beer and more case files, was losing its luster.

Regardless, Mark pushed past the reluctance in his steps as his keys jangled in his hand. 

You followed him to the door in your loose pajamas and wild, sexy bedhead. It had him contemplating another serving of you for the road, but he limited himself to a slow kiss goodbye.

“See you soon,” he said with smile. 

You gave him one back. “Be careful out there.”

He shot you a wink. “Always.”

You snorted. “Somehow I doubt that.”

After you spent an extra few seconds watching him head down the hall, you shut the door and locked it behind him. Your fingers went to your lips as you contemplated the night’s decisions, as well as the morning’s surprises—mainly his mouth, and the fact that he’d stayed even longer than sharing a cup of coffee with you.

You cooked him breakfast. You two talked and laughed and relived yesterday’s moment that Officer “Tight Ass” Vance pulled Mark over in the middle of the desert. Mark later used your lavender soap in the shower, teasing the bar down your spine before he fucked you against the tile wall. 

If you were honest, you were a little disappointed that he didn’t mention even the obligatory “let’s do this again sometime.” But you also knew better than to try and lock this man into anything. You gave him a chance to be more than what you expected, so now, you’d just have to wait and see if he’d take it.

You were just settling down on the couch with a book when your phone buzzed with a call. You smiled, and you answered. 

“Forget something?” you asked.

“Actually yeah,” Mark said on the line. “What’re you doing on Monday after work? I’ve already got an idea on where to take you on date number 2.” 

You were glad he couldn’t see how embarrassingly girlish your smile was. You’d probably have to smother his satisfied smirk—with any means necessary. 

“6:00 p.m. works for me,” you said.

You and Mark spent your Sundays very differently. You had brunch with Sarah and tidied up your apartment (as if you hadn’t done that overhaul the night before Mark came over). Afterward, you filled out a few more job applications while you were still waiting to hear back from the District Attorney’s office.

Meanwhile, Mark did his usual workout routine in the morning, followed by a protein bar breakfast and a nosedive back into his open cases from his work laptop. That was later accompanied by a frozen pizza and a couple of beers he un-crusted from the back of his fridge, before he passed out that night.

On Monday morning, he went in for work by 7:30 a.m. as usual. Already people were trickling into the bullpen of the Homicide division, and the Captain had his office door open. It was like he was waiting to hear Mark’s boots cross the threshold, because his gaze slid up and zeroed in on the detective.

“Meachum,” Dan called out.

Mark inhaled deeply. Here we fucking go.

 He dumped his work bag on his desk and made his way to the Captain’s office.

“Shut the door,” Dan said.

Mark obliged him, then followed the other man’s gesturing hand to sit in one of the free chairs in front of the desk.

“Something’s been brought to my attention, but I prefer to hear it from the horse’s mouth,” Dan began, folding his hands in front of him. “Now, man to man. Did you go against my direct order to stay away from my daughter?”

Mark quirked his head. “Well, news does get to you quick. Guess I gotta send Vance an Edible Arrangement or something.”

“Answer my question,” Dan said. He was calm, deceptively so.

Mark knew he was taking his ass into his hands, but he wasn’t lying to you when he said he respected your father. He wouldn’t lie now, especially because that wouldn’t help him with you in the long run.

“I don’t think I have to tell you that she has a mind of her own, sir,” he pointed out.

Dan snorted in response. Then, he took in a deep breath of contemplation. 

“You in particular have amassed a reputation in this office, both professionally and…socially. While you know damn well that I’ve gone to bat for you on the former, I usually don’t have the time or the patience to make another man’s personal business my business,” he said. “However, in this case, you better tread very carefully. She’s been burned before, and she doesn’t deserve it from you.”

Mark took in that last tidbit with a nod. “I understand, sir.”

When Dan was certain, at least for the moment, that Mark really did understand, he grabbed a few manilla folders off his desk. They were case files—thick ones.

“Hanson broke his damn foot playing pickleball with his kids over the weekend, but I trust you to pick up the slack on his cases,” Dan said, with a hint of satisfaction as he handed Mark the files. “Even if that means working overtime, maybe even a few double shifts over the next few weeks.”

A wry smile tugged at Mark’s lips. At least he’d be getting paid for it.  

“No problem, Cap.”

You loved to cook. You had a weakness for Top Chef and The Great British Bake-Off. You even had a secret dream of visiting all the Hells Kitchens in the world—even better if you got to see Gordon Ramsay lose his shit over a half-cooked rack of lamb.

But tonight, you and Sarah ordered in from your favorite Korean fried chicken spot in Oakland, getting (sugar) high on their strawberry lemonade and watching old episodes of Motel Hell. She updated you on her boyfriend’s new job while you finished making love to your last chicken wing. The honey garlic sauce was particularly fire tonight.

“It sounds like IT is a better fit for him than Sales,” you said.

“Yeah, comes with a bit of a pay cut, but it’s less soul sucking,” she said. “I just want him to be happy, but it probably means we have to downsize or rent out the second room.”

“Nooo, not my guest room,” you playfully complained. “Where am I gonna escape when Rachel tries to invade my apartment every time she has a fight with our parents.”

Sarah shook her head in amusement. “You’d think she just band up with Lauren or Yesenia and split an apartment.”

“That would mean paying the rest of her bills herself. But actually, you’ve got a good point. That would be good for her,” you said, slurping down the rest of your lemonade. You’d thrown a couple shots of tequila in for razzle dazzle. “She told me she’s dating a production assistant from that firefighter show, California Fires or something.”

“Hmm, that doesn’t sound right.”

“Oh shit, wait. It’s coming to me… Yeah! Fire Country. That’s the one.”

Sarah looked both impressed and approving. “I do like me a sexy firefighter.”

“A man in uniform. My fucking weakness,” you shook your head, chomping on another fry.

She slid you an amused look. “Right. First a sergeant, now a detective.”

Your lips unconsciously tugged upward. “Mark was a sergeant too. An Army Ranger.”

Sarah huffed a laugh.

“Girl, you got it bad, bad. I can smell it in your pheromones. He must’ve turned you the hell out that night,” she said, stealing a couple of your fries. You were tempted to throw one at her.

“Please, we just started seeing each other. Haven’t even gone on our second date yet,” you said. But when your phone buzzed on the table, both your gaze and Sarah’s narrowed in on Mark’s name on your caller ID.

Her smirk spoke volumes.

“Shut up,” you said, trying to beat down your smile as you answered the call. “Hey.”

“Hey, sweetheart. How’re you doin’?”

“I’m good, just having dinner with my friend Sarah. Too bad we couldn’t make it work tonight,” you replied.

“Yeah, you know I’m sorry about that too.”

He’d called you around lunch time to apologize, telling you that he’d been given a few extra cases since his coworker called out unexpectedly. You took the news in stride, even though you had to wonder if he was telling the truth just to let you down easy. He’d made up for it by making new plans with you.

“Does tomorrow at 7 still work?” you asked.

“Actually,” he said with a sigh, “this week might be a wash. It’s looking like I’m gonna need to pull a double shift tomorrow. But I’ll tell you what, let me take you out this weekend. I promise, on Melinda’s life.”

Disappointment made your shoulders sink a little, but you still tried to play it cool.

Melinda? Sarah mouthed questioningly.

His car, you replied, smiling a little.

Then you hummed. “Well, if you’re willing to stake the Bronco as collateral, then I guess I can trust you.”

“That’s right. You know I wouldn’t play with her life that.”

You heard the smile in his voice, and it was infectious.

“That’s fair. She does have a nice rack,” you said with a smirk.

His laughter echoed through the phone, making you more than a little proud of yourself.

“Well, that’s something you two have in common,” he said. The rumble of his voice was doing things to you, but you were reminded that your best friend was sat directly across from you at your small kitchen table, smirking at you.

 “SLUT,” she whispered teasingly. You did throw a fry at her this time.

“Flatterer,” you accused, both at her and Mark. “But okay, what destination you have in mind?”

“Plan to be surprised, sweetheart.”

Well, he got his wish.

“You really must be allergic to traditional dates,” you said, just before you pulled the trigger.

Click. You hit the faceless man’s right shoulder. 

“Dinner and a movie.”

Click. 

“A nice walk in the park.”

Click. 

“Brunch at the green market.”

Click-click-click.

Amused, Mark took his hearing protection off as he nodded at your aim. You managed to get all of your shots on the board at least: one in the corner, two on the right shoulder, one in the gut, one to the chest, one to the head. He wouldn’t want to run up at you in a dark alley. Not without a vest.

“I’m not exactly a brunch and mimosas guy,” he said. But he stepped in from behind to correct your grip slightly. He spoke near your ear, where you could feel his warm breath. “Good form, though I can’t help the feeling you’re imagining me on that target.”

A blush bloomed in your cheeks.

“Well, that’s what you get for taking me to a shooting range,” you said. “I’m a visual person.”

But you turned to look at him over your shoulder with a growing smile. Was this really one of his moves, the “let me fix your aim” cliché bullshit?

…And why was it kind of working on you?

“Is this your way of making sure I know how to protect myself? Because I’ve been taking self-defense lessons since I was ten years old too. My dad made sure of it,” you said, putting the safety on the gun and setting it down on the ledge. 

Mark smirked and pressed the button to wind in the target for you. 

“I’m glad to hear that. I’d be interested in a demonstration one day,” he said, patting you on the ass. You shook your head in amusement. 

He switched out the target for a new one, letting you keep yours if you wanted it. 

“Is your little sister as well-rounded as you?” he asked. 

You snorted. “Rachel has her own talents, but the gun range has never been one of them. She was more interested in theater and guys, and parties with guys.” 

“What, you weren’t interested in guys?” Mark asked.

“Sure. I just tried not to let them make me an idiot.”

He grinned. “Well, we tend to be good at that, generally speaking.”

You watched him load his gun with practiced ease. He told you it was a 9x19mm Smith & Wesson, the model used by the LAPD. It sounded impressive, and he let you feel how heavy it was compared to your little .22 pistol that you always kept in your nightstand. As a woman living alone in a dangerous city, your father hadn’t had to convince you too hard to get one.

“All right, show off your skills, Army Ranger,” you said, gesturing at the target. It was twice as far back as he set yours.

“Distinguished Expert,” he said, and intentionally cleared his throat before he fired off a few rounds. They were quick and precise as they formed a cluster around the target’s heart.

You squinted, as if you couldn’t believe what your eyes were telling you.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “That guy would not be having a good day.”

He snorted. “Nah, he wouldn’t feel a thing.”

It was a little disturbing when you remembered that this man certainly had practice on the real thing—living and breathing targets. Not only as a policeman, but as a soldier. Your father had served in the military as well. He didn’t tell you many stories though, and that alone told you all you needed to know about what he’d seen, and what he’d had to do. Your mom told you once when you were a kid that your dad worked so hard because it was easier than sleeping. That thought had stayed with you all your life.

You wondered if Mark had a little too much in common with your dad.

“Distinguished Expert, huh? I’m assuming that’s for marksmanship,” you said instead.

Mark tossed you a grin as he reloaded. “Happens to be the highest ranking. Just saying.”

You smiled faintly. “Is that why you got recruited for a federal task force?”

Mark inclined his head at you. “Partly. I’ve done my fair share of undercover work.”

“What did you have to do?” you asked.

“Honestly I shouldn’t give you the details,” he said, but seeing your genuine curiosity, he decided to give you the main tidbit. “I had to infiltrate a white supremacy group. It was a year in goddamn Nazi hell.”

“God, the fact that fucking Nazis are still a thing…” you shook your head. “Were you successful?”

Mark nodded, his lips quirking with a note of pride. But it wasn’t arrogance, you thought, just pride in his work.

“The top dogs are going away for 25 to life for the shit they’ve tried to cover up over the years. Weapons deals, hate crimes, indoctrination, especially of kids, even kidnapping.” 

You frowned, but you slipped your fingers down the line of his jacket, and over his hand. That calloused hand that was clearly capable of many things. A hand that had strength, but also gentle moments too, when he touched you.

“Then, thank you for your service, Sergeant,” you said.

He smiled and held your hand a little warmer in return.

“All right, you wanna get out of here?” he asked. “I’ll take you somewhere with a little more ambiance if you want.”

You perked up at that. “Ooh, I have an idea. Not sure if you’re gonna like it though…”

“Try me,” he said.

Pacific Park was a wild place to go to on a Saturday, even in the middle of winter. It lied on the Santa Monica pier, and it was home to overpriced street vendors and carnival rides, including a Ferris wheel. Mark didn’t have any chance of getting you on that rickety death trap, but it was nice to get some burgers for lunch, followed by ice cream on the pier.

The gentle tumble and crash of the sea competed with the sounds of kids laughing and distantly screaming on rides. There were a couple of teenage boys throwing a football nearby, but mostly there were couples and families and friends out on the pier. Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” played on some overhead speakers.

A seagull almost stole your ice cream, but you zealously defended your cone and shoed the opportunistic bird away from you. It had Mark chuckling, then wrapping an arm around your waist to guide you away from the wind whipping your hair into his face.

He already finished his cup of mint chocolate chip. It freed up his hand to tilt your chin up, so he could steal a taste of caramel off your lips. His second kiss lingered, then deepened, drawing a small sigh from you, and your fingers curling into his jacket.

“Bro, heads up!”

Mark’s spine tingled with awareness and his reflexes kicked in, allowing him to break away from you quick enough to stop a projectile from hitting you on the head. It was a football, and one of the teens who threw a wide right trying to get some spin on the ball.

“Hey, watch out!” Mark said, sharp and stern. He half a mind to confiscate it, but he tossed the football back. “Take it down to the beach, and put a little more wrist on it.”

“Sorry,” each of them said, though one was a little more sincere than the other.

Mark shook his head. “Kids.”

You laughed and playfully tugged on his jacket to reclaim his attention.

“Relax, officer. You’re off duty, remember?”

His annoyance faded into amusement.

“Hey, I just saved your life. A little gratitude might be in order,” he teased.

You nodded. “You know what, you’re right. My bad.”

Smirking, you used his jacket as leverage to lean up for another kiss. He pressed you against the pier railing and accepted every part of that little thank you.

Moments of near decapitation and making out aside, you two spent the afternoon mainly talking as you walked from the pier down the boardwalk of the beach. After everything you’d told him about your family and childhood, you wanted to know more about his.

“So you’re an only child?” you asked. After he confirmed it with a nod, you hummed in thought, trying to imagine what he was like in his teen years. “You gave your mom hell, didn’t you?”

He chuckled. “Guilty as charged on that one. But she did her best.”

“And your dad?” you asked.

His lips quirked. “Well, he tended to favor the belt. When that didn’t work, he tried other ways to knock some sense into me.” 

Your amusement faded. “Did he hit you?”

He clocked that look of concern on your face, but only then did he realize he said more than he meant to. 

“Never hard enough for anyone to care,” he said. “But uh, around seventeen, I got big enough and mouthy enough that Dad kinda gave up for a while. Like I said, the military was his last-ditch effort to straighten me out.”

By the way you were still looking at him—like you wish you could spin the clock back 30 years and call Child Protective Services—he could tell this kind of thing was foreign to you. 

“You probably still do Sunday dinners with your family, huh?” he said. 

“Tuesdays,” you supplied. “We alternate on days when my dad and I don’t have lunch together… He was a hard-ass, but he never raised a hand to me or my sister. He’s a gentle giant, really.”

Mark huffed. “He was going to let you two stay the night in jail with the street walkers.”

You had to concede that fact, nodding. “Well, he’s not an easy man to please, but he had a point that Valwell might hear about that night at the club. It’s not a good look for any job candidate, let alone someone who might work for the DA’s office.”

“Don’t worry about it. The club dropped the charges,” Mark said. 

You bit your lip in worry. “Would it still come up in a background check?” 

“Doubtful. You didn’t even get processed. But even if this guy asks you about it, and he doesn’t like your explanation, then it’s not worth working there to begin with,” Mark said. “I’ve got some experience with that.” 

“Yeah? When?” you asked. Because of course you wanted to know.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?” he said, pausing on the boardwalk to tuck a flyaway strand of hair behind your ear. He smirked. “And not just for stories.”

“Oh, look who’s talking,” you snipped. “This from the man who hounded me for an entire month—”

Mark saw no other recourse of stopping your mouth, than with his own. 

He tugged you in by your waist and kissed you to the tune of an ocean breeze, Billy Joel, and kids’ laughter. Whether he realized it or not, something inside him started to untighten at the possibilities here.

Goddamn it, Harmon.

He’d left Mark with case notes that were brief at best, and a shorthand that clearly only made sense to the officer in question. The other departments must have a cipher, because otherwise, Mark didn’t know how the Lieutenant let this fucking fly.

On top of his normal caseload, he had Harmon’s chicken scratch to contend with on no less than five open homicides. Mark’s head-scratching, research, and follow-up calls on leads bled into overtime in the late afternoon.

Eventually, he was almost the last one standing in the office. Even the Captain casted a glance over at Mark’s desk on his way out. Mark met his gaze, but neither man had anything to say that wasn’t being communicated in silence.

After the glass doors glided shut behind Dan, Vanessa came up on Mark’s left as she finished closing up her jacket, adjusting the purse on her shoulder. She smiled at him. He gave her a brief nod as he kept Harmon’s notes in focus on his desk.

“You’ve been working hard this past week,” she remarked.

“Crime never sleeps, so I guess I’m not allowed to either,” he said wryly.

“Well, as long as you’re not sleeping,” she said, propping her hip against his desk.

It caught his attention enough for him to pause in what he was doing. He almost sighed; he had a hunch on where this was going.

“Want to grab a drink with me?” she offered. Her smile curved, and he recognized the flirtatious glint. “Or…maybe we skip to the part where I help you relax.”

Mark quirked his head. Why did his gut always have to be right?

Speaking of said gut, it made itself known with a grumble, reminding him that he’d been surviving on protein bars and shit coffee since this morning.

“Jesus,” he said, more to himself than Vanessa as his hand went to his stomach on reflex. “What I need is some fuel.”

“How about we make it dinner then,” she suggested. “There’s a great Chinese place around the corner from my apartment.”

Mark hesitated, rubbing a hand over his beard out of habit.

“Uh, you know what, I’ve still got a lot of work to do here. Plus, I um, got stuff to make back home,” he replied.

What he had was a fridge full of beer, DiGiorno’s pizzas, and a couple of Hungry Man frozen dinners.

Vanessa seemed to get the hint though. Her face fell with disappointment, but she hid it behind a half smile.

“Okay. Don’t work too hard,” she said.

He gave her a half-salute as she walked away. He went back to it, typing away on his computer as he worked on pulling a potential suspect’s LUDS. His phone vibrated on his desk, lighting up with your name. Again, he paused to unlock the screen.

He found himself smiling as he answered you.

Two weeks later, your L-shaped couch was seeing more action than your usual post-work state of vegetation.

Journey bled into a Prince ballad on the nearby Bluetooth speaker, providing a smoother soundtrack for the way Mark’s fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, flirted up the curve of your spine, then back down to quell the little goosebumps he raised while your lips danced with his in a slow-burning heat.

He brought over the chocolate mousse cake he now tasted on your tongue. You’d stuffed him full of your homemade mashed potatoes, asparagus, and a pan-fried salmon. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal like that in a while. And his bones were settling into this couch, even if he’d like to be taking advantage of the way your hips were grinding against his. 

He groaned low in his throat, feeling delicious friction down below. Your nails scraped gently against his scalp as you ran your fingers through his hair. He had to reward you with a squeeze of your ass through this breezy skirt you had on, and a teasing graze of his teeth down your neck that had you moaning in his ear.  

But even with a throw pillow wedged under him, the alignment of his neck against the arm of the couch was starting to shoot some pain down his spine. All the extra hours at his desk had made his back and shoulders tight. He shifted underneath you with a grunt. 

“You okay?” you asked quietly. You kissed his cheek while you waited for an answer, then along his jaw—a sensuous path back to his lips. He hummed in response.

He did have to stifle a yawn though, his chest expanding with a deeper breath. He mentally cursed when he felt you pause, then literally slow your roll. You parted from him softly and quirked your kiss-swollen lips. He blinked his eyes open.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” you asked.

He gave a wordless denial, even though your fingers running more gently through his hair was like scratching a dog precisely in the right place. He cleared his throat and moved his hands down to your thighs. 

“I’m good,” he said.

“You’re falling asleep,” you accused, though a smile played at your lips. “You’re not getting bored of me already, are you?”

He smirked lazily, but he let his hands wander higher up your skirt and squeezed there, with purpose.

“Definitely not,” he said. “But to be honest, this couch isn’t doing my back any favors.”

“Hmm, I think there’s an easy fix for that,” you teased. And you pushed off his chest to sit up and slide off his lap. You helped him stand, smirking a little at his tired groan. But you didn’t let go of his hand. “Come on, old man.”

“Hey, don’t pin that old shit on me yet. I’m not even 40,” he said, smacking your ass in recompense.

You jumped with a gasp, but you laughed as you led him into your room. He was willing to push through the exhaustion pulling at his mind and body when you reached for the hem of his shirt and helped him pull it off. Then you kissed him into submission while you unbuckled his belt, getting him out of his jeans. He thought he had an idea of where the night was going next, until you guided him to lay down first, on his stomach.

“What’s happening?” he asked in amusement.

He didn’t expect you to climb on top of him, after you pulled something out of your nightstand.

“Just relax,” you said, squirting a bit of rose oil into your palm. “I’m going to give you a little massage.”

His head tilted. “Really?”

You heard the grin creeping into his voice, and you suspected what was about to follow.

“We talking happy endings included?” he asked.

Yep. You snorted. Predictable. 

“Oh, I’m thinking you’ll want to give me a big thank you at the end,” you said, beginning to rub your slick palms over the broad, tense line of his shoulders. “Maybe even a standing ovation.”

Already he was groaning into your pillow, his arms crossing underneath. You dug deep into the knots near his neck, then smoothed out down his shoulders.

“Jeeesus Christ,” he muttered. “It’s like you knew where to go.”

You tried and failed to stifle a giggle.

“I get neck pain like this a lot too,” you said. “Sarah’s an aesthetician, but she’s also a really good masseuse. She’s been teaching me some things.”

“It fucking shows, sweetheart,” Mark uttered, half on a groan when you moved down between his shoulder blades. He’d never had a woman offer to do something like this for him, not even as a precursor to sex. But it was quickly climbing up the ladder on the list of his favorite things, certainly about you.

Meanwhile, you were having fun with your canvas—working your hands over planes of male muscle and a dusting of freckles. You were starting to count the tiny clusters while his breathing grew deeper, his body relaxing more fully under your touch.

Eventually, you worked your way down his legs, massaging thighs and calves, even his feet. You weren’t even sure he was still alive by that point, until he flinched at your nails playfully grazing the arches of his feet. He grumbled a half-hearted warning. You smirked.

But after you toweled off the oil from his skin, you let him relax while you changed into something more comfortable to sleep in, even if you didn’t think you’d be wearing it all that long.

Biting your lip against a smile, you slipped into bed with Mark and laid a hand on his arm. He was still lying on his stomach with his arms pillowed under his bowed forehead.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked.

A light snore was your response.

You covered your mouth to quiet your laugh. But you leaned in, just to press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Goodnight then,” you whispered in amusement. Guess I’ll have to cash in that happy ending in the morning.

The problem was that he was still on top of the covers. Instead of waking him, you went and grabbed an extra blanket from your closet to gently throw on top of him. When you came back to your side of the bed though, Mark finally shifted more onto his side, facing you with a sleepy, crooked smile. He uncurled an arm and slid it around your waist, pulling you in closer.

It was a shame Rachel couldn’t make it to the next family dinner. It meant her torrid affair with the P.A. couldn’t distract your parents (your mother) from being nosey with your personal life.

Normally you wouldn’t mind, but you’d been careful not to mention Mark around your dad. You two still hadn’t spoken much for the past month, since the clubbing incident, but you had a feeling he already knew. You didn’t trust Officer Vance to keep that tidbit of information to himself.

“You still haven’t heard back from the DA’s office?” Dan asked you.

“No. They told me the process could take a while. Apparently Valwell interviewed a lot of people. The HR rep told me he’s really particular about his assistants, wants to find the right person,” you replied. At this point though, you weren’t holding out a lot of hope. You’d already had another interview that you felt good about in the meantime.

“That’s the city for you. Moves at a glacier’s pace,” Dan remarked, as he carved into his chicken. Lisette made a mean carbonara.

“You’re always talking about work,” she said, lightly shoving your arm. “What else have you been up to? It’s been weeks since we’ve seen you.”

A sprinkle of Mom Guilt always made the truth spill quicker, but you hesitated. She noticed that too.

“Ooh,” she said, with a growing smile. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Your lips twitched upward. It was hard to lie to your mom. She was sweet as pie, but she rarely missed a thing.

“Well, actually, yeah,” you said, silently steeling yourself. You glanced up at Dan, who stopped chewing altogether. He was taciturn at best.

“His name is Mark,” you said. Well, here we go. “Mark Meachum. He’s a homicide detective in Dad’s division.”

Forks stopped scraping ceramic. Clinking ice stilled in their cups of peach tea. Lisette looked between your braced expression, and her husband’s worsening mood.

“Something tells me you already knew,” you said to him, while sipping your tea. “Is that a problem?”

“Listen, I know him. And I’ve known him longer than you,” Dan pointed out. “He’s not a Peter, put it that way.”

You frowned. Peter may have been good at his job, but that didn’t mean he did well with your heart. Of course, your dad only saw Peter’s photogenic, commendation-winning side.

“You must at least trust Mark to do his job well, because I know you won’t tolerate anything else,” you said. “And you’ve probably been approving all the overtime and double shifts he’s had to pull over the past few weeks. I wonder who loaded him up with all that?”

“That’s not the issue here,” Dan said, quick and with a sharp measure of annoyance. “The man has a reputation, namely with the women of the office—hell, the goddamn county district.”

“I’m aware,” you said wryly.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, but you know what, he’s only ever treated me with respect,” you said. “So please, stop penalizing Mark. It’s not going to stop me from seeing him.”

Lisette once again glanced between your firm-held ground, and Dan’s silent, stubborn obstinance. She held back her smile of amusement. It was like watching two moose at a standoff.

But eventually, Dan let out a deep breath and went back to eating before his food got cold.

He didn’t concede in words, but in his silence, you considered the matter settled.

For the first time in over a month, you stepped through the heavy glass doors of the Homicide Division during your lunch hour. As usual, you were greeted by the sound and smell of cheap coffee percolating in the break room, printers whirring, phone chatter, and the drone of typing.

You crossed paths with Vanessa on your way in, but your greeting was somewhat strained when you remembered what Anette from Billing told you about the office manager and your…almost boyfriend.

“Hey girl, been a while,” Vanessa said, with a friendly hand on your arm as her eyes lit up. “Ooh, you smell good. Yves Saint Laurent?”

“Yep, good guess,” you nodded and glanced over at Mark’s desk. He was already grinning at you in surprise.

“Ey, love that for you,” Vanessa said, gesturing at the Captain’s office. “Your dad’s still in a meeting, but he should be out in a few minutes.”

“Okay, thanks,” you said. That gave you time to swing by your…Mark’s desk.

You unknowingly had a pair of eyes on you when you went over to him.

“Hey, sweetheart. You didn’t tell me you were coming in,” he said.

He pushed away from his desk to get up and greet you with a kiss.

“Well, I’ve got some good news,” you said. Though you noticed your dad had just gotten back from his meeting, and he nodded at you from the doorway of his office. You acknowledged him back.

“Let me just check in with him first, see if he’s ready for lunch. Maybe we could all go together…” Your gaze cut back to Mark, slightly hesitating. “If you’re not busy.”

Mark rose a brow. “You told him about us?”

You bit your lip. “I did. He’s still not all that happy about it, but he’ll get over it.”

He chuckled, but he did rub the back of his neck uncertainly. 

“Uh…all right. Lunch is fine,” he said.

“Yeah?” you checked. Even after a month, you weren’t totally sure how he felt about this relationship—or about you.

But he assured you with a nod. “I can make some time.”

“Okay, thanks,” you said, discreetly squeezing his hand.

Your little smile of excitement amused him as he watched you go over to the Captain’s office.

Fuckin’ cute. It wasn’t a thought Mark had often, let alone about you, but it was there. You had some high defenses, but once someone managed to make their way through, you had a softer center, as it turned out.

He settled back at his desk, running a hand over his chin as he tried to refocus on his computer screen, but there was something unsettled and churning in his gut. He knew what he just agreed to, and it was more than just a burger at the In-and-Out across the street.

Mark could admit, he wanted to keep seeing you. The risk to his job had always been there, but this was a different kind of warning label—one that actually made him a bit uncomfortable to consider. It meant lunch with your father today, and probably a Tuesday dinner with your mother the next. There was a part of him that hadn’t totally disagreed with Vance’s little assessment of him.

This ain’t the guy you wanna take home.

Mark had tried it once. Bella Hastings, a fucking pistol and a good cop, one of the only partners he’d been assigned who’d never slowed him down.

She ended it after four months, just before he took the federal assignment.

How had she put it? Oh, yeah.

“You’re the guy I want beside me in a firefight, no question. We can keep fucking it out after, sure, but you’ve got no follow through, Meachum,” she said. “You don’t even want to meet my parents on my birthday. Do you even know what it means to be a partner? Build a home? Are you really gonna be the guy to shave my legs when I’m too pregnant to see my fucking toes?”

His lack of an answer spoke for itself, and they both knew it.

She shook her head. “No. I think not.”

He hadn’t put up a fight, because not so deep down, he knew she was right. When he got back from UC, he was glad to hear that she’d transferred over to Organized Crime. She’d do good work there, and it was probably better for both of them.

Now, where did that leave him with you?

“So that’s what’s had you busy,” came a wry voice.

Mark’s head perked up, his brows raised to find Vanessa standing there in front of his desk. She didn’t even have a batch of paperwork on her arm as a pretense this time. Her gaze flicked over to where you were talking to your father within the glass walls of his office. Half of them were grayed out, but the top half were transparent. Your conversation with him looked strained, but no projectiles were being thrown just yet.

“That’s insane, even for you,” Vanessa said.

Mark’s lips quirked. “You know me. I thrive on a little insanity.”

She huffed. “I do know you.”

She rounded the corner of his desk, letting her fingertips skim the laminate surface.

“The question is, does she know. About you and me?” she asked, raising a challenging brow. “And half the women in this office, for that matter.”

“She does,” Mark said curtly.

Vanessa’s head tilted, her eyes calculating.

“So it’s casual then,” she said.

Mark took in a breath, leveling her with a firmer look.

“I think that’s our business, Vanessa,” he said.

Her mouth evened out into a line.

Her lips pursed, until she noticed you leaving the Captain’s office when the man himself remained on the phone. You were already heading back over to Mark’s desk, looking irritated as you shook your head.

Maybe Dan wasn’t ready to break bread just yet. He wasn’t convinced about your choices, and Mark couldn’t exactly blame him. 

Vanessa shrugged, adopting a smile. 

“Okay,” she said. Then she bent down to whisper near his ear. “Good luck with that.”

Before she left, she allowed her hand to trail up his arm and over his shoulder. Mark frowned at her in annoyance, especially because you stopped short in front of the bullpen. Shit.

Your stare cut from Vanessa’s retreating back, to Mark’s face. He read it all flicker in your eyes, confusion crossing with disappointment, and a bit of anger too.

With a hard sigh through your nose, you turned to walk out. Mark got up to follow you, grunting in irritation. He called your name, but you didn’t stop—not until you were pushing through the doors with your shoes clacking swiftly down the hall.

Mark called after you, more insistently. His longer legs still caught up with you as he reached for your arm and got you to slow down. You reluctantly turned around, but you were already done with the way men were deciding to test your patience today.

“Hey, that wasn’t what it looked like,” he said.

He could say that, with his voice sounding like three glasses of whiskey deep and his eyes staring straight into yours, but you forced yourself to remember that this man was a professional liar when he needed to be.

“And what do you think it looked like?” you challenged. “Like she just propositioned you for a quickie in the storage room?”

“It wasn’t.”

“It looked like you’re still sleeping with her.”

“I’m not,” he said, more firmly. 

You crossed your arms, not yet convinced. 

“I told you how I feel about bullshit. That definitely qualifies,” you said. 

“Relax, okay. Frankly, I haven’t had the fucking energy between you and my job to keep up something on the side, even if I wanted to,” he snapped. 

You paused, because that hurt you. Your face flashed with it, making an inevitable guilt coil in Mark’s chest. His mouth firmed with it.

“If I’m such a distraction, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” you said.

Mark sighed, but he hesitated a bit too long. Frowning, you began to turn away from him and head toward the elevator. His quick reach and grab for your hand stopped you.

“All right, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant,” he said. With a gentler tug, he winded you back in. He held you by your arms and brushed his thumbs there. He thought through it first before he said anything else he’d regret. But he also knew it was now or never.

“You’re not a distraction. These past few weeks, you’ve been…” He could almost taste the words on his tongue as he found them, one by one. “You’re the beat I should be taking. The one good breath in my day.” 

You blinked in surprise. Part of you softened, more willing to hear him and actually listen. 

His lips tugged at a crooked smile. “I’m gonna be honest. The last half-decent relationship I had barely lasted a few months. She probably had every right to give up on me. I’m not exactly cut out for Sunday brunches and family dinners, but uh…you make me want to try.”

God fucking help me, he thought.

You warmed with a slow smile. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he said. It surprised him too.

His lips tugged at a grin.

You hesitated, but then, you nodded in acceptance.

“Okay,” you said. “You know that makes you my boyfriend, right?”

He huffed in amusement. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart. Gotta warn you though, you might regret it.”

“We’ll see,” you quipped.

His hands glided down your arms, and you eventually held his hands in return. He had to pull you to the side of the hall though, when Finau walked by with his partner, Caplan. They didn’t say anything, but their brief glances taking perceptive notes made Mark wish you two were having this conversation somewhere else.

Too late. He had to reenact The Notebook with you right outside the fucking office full of eagle-eyed law enforcement.

“Um, so I did have some good news,” you said. “I got a call from the DA’s office this morning. I got the job as Valwell’s Executive Assistant. I’m giving my two weeks’ notice at work later today.” 

Mark smiled. “Hey, congrats. I’m guessing you told your dad, or uh, was that little argument about this?”

He squeezed your hands to punctuate his point. Your expression turned wry. 

“He’s been questioning my decisions a lot lately, but that’s his problem. Despite what he’d like to believe, I’m a grown ass woman and I know what I want,” you said, meeting his eyes as you smiled a bit softer. But it faded slightly. “He’s been the one piling all that extra work on you on purpose, isn’t he? You have a right to complain, you know.”

Mark just shook his head as he collected you in his arms, his hands molding to the curve of your waist.

“Don’t worry about it. Been through a lot worse than a few late nights and double shifts,” he said, smirking. “Long as you come through with some more of those full-body massages, I’m good.”

Your smile grew. You raised up on your toes and twined your arms around his neck, guiding him back down to your level. Other cops and staff were occasionally passing by in the hall, but at this point, you didn’t care. 

“You’re willing to deal with all that for me?” you asked.

“You’re worth the trouble,” he teased, “and I’m a stubborn bastard. You know I don’t quit easy.” 

That, you certainly did know. 

“Yeah, well, neither do I,” you said.

He gave into that compelling pull of you, bowing his head for a kiss. It was slow as he breathed into it. Your fingers played with the smaller hairs at the back of his neck, your nails grazing his scalp until a small shudder ran down his spine. He kissed you again, this time laced with an undercurrent of heat. Probably too much. 

He eventually pulled back with a sigh, but not too far from your enticing lips. 

“All right, fuck it,” he said. “Let’s go to lunch. I’m fucking starving.”

You laughed, nodding in agreement. “How about that burger place across the street?” 

“Sweetheart, you read my mind.”

AN: There's just something about these two that I keep coming back to lol. 😘

How'd you like their first time, and navigating those "what are we" feels? Would you want to see more of their early days? Let me know in the reblogs/comments! ❤️

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reporting bias: yet another confounding factor found in both placebo and placenta effect studies; while the placebo effect is often noted by those conducting a study, for those experiencing the placenta effect, parties who are close to the non-committed partners will often learn of their initial inept compliance; it is also not uncommon for one or both of the non-committed partners to realise their errors during the reporting bias stage, and as a result become distressed

Thank Chuck for a darkened room, even if the curtains let a little too much in from the outside world. It was still far better than walking across the floor in only his boxers and a shirt, with it all lit up the way it’d been before he’d entered the motel bathroom. 

Dean hadn’t thought to pack anything other than the clothes on his back, what with the sudden rush to leave the bunker. He didn’t think you’d be out on the road this long, let alone this far east of Omaha. Nor did he account for the motel’s lack of a rollaway or sofa-bed, either, when you checked into the room. 

But there he was, him, you and Jody, bunking together again because even he wasn’t capable of driving that far in one day. Him and you sharing the bed, which, perfect. Missouri’s words still hung over him like the stench of soured milk he’d likened them to.

“Don’t you lose her, too.” Yeah—thank Chuck for a darkened room again. He’d have settled for the hot-tub he’d slept in at a Knight’s Inn once if it meant he got some shut-eye. He’d give his organs up to protect you and Jody if he kept what dignity he had left. But he could see that wasn’t happening. Not with you sleeping next to him, that is. 

Missouri’s words weren’t the only thing getting him bothered under the collar. He’d say hot, but that was more dangerous than thinking ‘bout the lacy number he’d glimpsed at the gas station earlier. He was outnumbered, three to one with you and its partner, which was why he insisted you and Jody take the first showers. 

Two weeks on from the sewer pipe and the purity spell had given him a lot of grief. The hustle with the wraith hadn’t helped when his leg twisted the wrong way, and Missouri’s words? Well, he wasn’t getting any younger. Finding you already settled on your back on the side he wanted also wasn’t helping, even after the dose of Jack he’d taken to ease the burn.

“Move over,” he whispered, preparing to shove you if you ignored him, knowing full well you weren’t asleep, yet. There was only one lot of snoring going on. It wasn’t yours. No, he knew the sounds you made in your sleep. Not once had he thought to perform an exorcism on your airways with a pillow and a bucket of holy water. Though he sure as hell wanted to when you questioned him.

Your eyes popped open before your mouth did. All creepy, like at any moment you’d screech or jump out at him, only to give him a rather short, “Why?” 

And really? “Just.” Dean raised both arms, straight enough he could roll you over, stiff à la morgue style. “Door’s my side. You know that.”

“Sam’s not here.”

“Don’t matter. Move or I’ll sit on you.” 

And with the threat said, he lifted the covers and moved in on top of you like he’d warned. A smirk of satisfaction, beaming on his face as his right ass cheek grazed a flailing limb, only to be taken away just as quickly by a sharp elbow to his shoulder once you’d scrambled to the other side of the mattress like he’d wanted. 

“Hit a guy while he’s down, why dont’cha,” he said, but a rather tumultuous snort from Jody made you both still—for all of one second. 

You rolled to your side and drew in against his arm, lifting your head to stare at him, a Cheshire cat grin contrasted against the darkness, thanks to your teeth catching on the very light he’d been not so grateful for. 

“Keep it at and I’ll even it out,” you said. He didn’t doubt it. Your bite was more vicious than your bark, but in his case, at least, he knew it was all banter. 

Just like siblings, he told himself. Nothing sexual about it. No matter what Missouri said, you’d shared a room with him plenty of times until now and nothing had ever happened between you. 

Dean had seen a lot of you and your body over the years. Patching you up, gashes and scrapes. Popping a finger back into place. Hell, he let you bite his arm while he’d done that; carried you unconscious a separate time because you were his partner in the working sense. You, a hunter like him and Sam.

Yet, for a fleeting moment through the curtains’ soft glow, and you, almost on top of him, there was something different behind the sneer and familiarity. 

Wide-eyed and challenging, your hair was messy and unkempt from the day’s drive and the pressure of the pillow. Like the blankets over your waist were supposed to be, you and an exposed shoulder, teasing him with the slightest sliver of skin, were soft and unguarded—almost. 

It’s as if he were seeing you for the first time—really seeing you, but in his defence, it had been two weeks. He was only a man, red-blooded and still re-hymenated. In Hartford, he’d met Carmelita at that chastity group, and well, he’d broken that record—you were there. He’d meant what he’d said when he gave those women that very detailed exposition on why he was reclaiming his virginity. He knew even before he recognised Suzy that he wouldn’t last all that long. History had a way of repeating itself, and you were here now—with Jody in the room.

What was he thinking?

“Just go to sleep.” He relented, shutting his eyes and you out of mind, out of sight. His skin had to be a different shade because his heart was pumping all the blood in his veins down to little Dean, the traitor, twitching in his boxers. 

He raised his leg. “Annoy me all you want when the freight train’s not roaring through the room.” He wriggled his ass into the mattress below to make his point—conversation over. Tucking his arms to his sides had his hands up in the air like tiny T-Rex ones had replaced them, but he didn’t feel so large and powerful now. His head sank into the pillow, a grunt escaping him, low from his gut. 

You rolled over then. You, on your back, as he was. The sounds of Jody, dead to the world, filtered around you both until you said, “You think you’re gonna sleep through that?” 

“Not with you talking.” Not with you watching him either, but he wouldn’t say it. He just kept his head straight and his lips straighter, ignoring the feeling of your eyes scoring into him as Missouri had done, even though he wanted nothing more than to steal a glance at you as you settled yourself. 

Your breath was hard to ignore, but he ignored it. 

Your hair, so close to him, overpowered the unfamiliar detergents and stains in the room.  

Your movements rocked the mattress until they didn’t. 

And the last thing he remembered doing was shifting onto his side before the spell of sleep overtook him, too; waking to the feel of you pressed against him and his name questioned on your lips.   

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters. While he can hear the trill of your phone, he can’t see you, and that’s not ominous at all. 

He’s lived through way too many horror films for his blood pressure not to spike. His heart may as well have stopped altogether. The beats, few and far between, pulse sharp and heavy against his ribcage even as his veins continue to rush the blood through him. A will to constrict or break it—but at least he’s breathing. 

His rasps course into the mic in his hand. His chest rising and falling, the only thing keeping him upright as he somehow propels himself across the empty lot, knees and ankles threatening to splinter from his weight opposing his speed.

There’s no one around. Too late, too cold out. Most folks are at home already or in the warmth of their cars on their drive back to them. 

It’s where he’d rather be right now. Even if you weren’t talking to him, he’d know you were safe in any case, because heading towards a damn bush tells him you’re not; has him pushing harder, and though it won’t make a lick of difference, no matter how fast or slow he takes the descent, his boots coast over the dirt beneath him and out from under him as he drops to the ground.

The sting as his palm smashes the dirt ricochets up his arm and into his shoulder, but he’s reaching into the bush with the other, fishing for the strap of your purse he can just make out through the gaps in the leaves.

Spindly branches thwart him, but after a few sharp tugs, the bag falls free, and Dean’s soon opening the flap to shut off the offending chime. But if Dean, tracing your phone to an alley at the back of the local drugstore, had his heart pounding; it’s the packaging from said drugstore that grinds it all to a halt. 

Any warmth he felt; his flight or fight. It drains from him, seeping into the earth below. 

He doesn’t need to open the bag to know what’s inside. He recognises the shape through the paper. Still, he does so with trembling hands, unraveling the fold at the top. It might not be digital. Might not cost the same as a beauty, but the ClearBlue label is clear even under the darkened sky. 

That familiar blue and pink merges all his fears into one, screaming at him for not seeing the signs, because he should’ve. He should’ve noticed the changes in you. The way you were acting. The way you avoided him. He should’ve checked your period had come, but his message is still there on the screen in his other hand, still unopened, staring at him. 

Just checking your period came right?

It’s too little. It’s too late. 

Just checking.

He was an idiot. A fucking dumbass. 

“You look out for her,” Missouri had said. “Even when you feel she’s done you wrong, don’t let her go.” And he shouldn’t have. He should have never left you out of his sight, but here he is, sitting defeated in the middle of the lot, too little, too late. 

You don’t even need to have taken the damn test he’s holding for him to know, just as Edith and Mr. Humphries and all the others have been, you’ve been snatched, and he didn’t protect you. His own flesh and blood slipped through his fingers because you are pregnant, even if you weren’t sure you wanted to be. You’re having his kid, and you’re out there somewhere, a catheter in the back of your hand, draining you of the blood you need. 

And that’s on him.

He sniffs; reels the frustration back in. His hand swipes his eyes and cheeks, fingers digging deep against the sockets. Though his world is spinning ‘round him, and he can’t understand why you’d go down a street like this, he pulls himself to his feet and dials Sam to get the search in motion.  

“Hey—”

“I need you to bring up any street cams on Twelfth Street. Grafton Drug,” Dean barks down the line. “Gonna see if I can get you an exact time.” He takes a step back, searching for any sign of a camera, and satisfied he’s given enough info, he’s on the move, hanging up before Sam can so much as question him. 

There’s no time. He needs a time, and he needs a license plate—now.

Son-of-a—

Fuck.

Dean’d jump up and away, but then things really would be obvious. Jody would wake if she wasn’t already. He couldn’t tell, just couldn’t see her. Wasn’t about to go looking for her either.

She certainly wasn’t ready to see him in all his glorious detail, and as there were no more rumbles rattling up his spine, at least, not the kind that he needed to worry about, there was no way he was risking it, because outside that Memphis motel? Trucks rolled past. Which meant it was indeed time to be up. Just…not like this.

His whole body had flooded with warmth. Concentrated, centralising in his nether regions, leaving him frozen and startled, stiff as a board and hard as steel. His name on your lips, would’ve added more to the former effect with his newfound lack of composure, but his dick seemed to like the way you said it when it came with your ass flush against him.  

He should’ve cleaned the pipes, not settled on simply checking them. Should’ve worn his jeans for extra protection. Of course, he would’ve felt worse, painfully tight and or constricted, but there’d be no chance of you feeling him, every time you fucking moved. 

Boy, did you fucking move.

Didn’t you realise how every little shift sent signals through him? His balls pulled tight, fingers and toes tingled. His gut flooded with a warmth that was not a good thing when you were the one doing it.

“Dean,” you said again. And what the hell did you want him to say? You shouldn’t have said a guy’s name like that and then expected him not to react. 

All he could do was mutter an apology, but it wasn’t like he could help it. 

It was natural. Some would say a beautiful thing and a compliment. He shuffled his ass back away from you to make some room between you, because there was no chance he was rolling over until he’d sorted both his heads out and calmed them both down. Only you did roll—onto your back to look at him, and soon traced your eyes over the blanket and the blank space he’d created beneath it by the curve of his hips.  

“Y’mind,” he muttered. Voice like gravel through the strain at both ends. “M’not a piece of meat.”

“Never said you were.” Your brows raised. “But I’m not the one who was doing the poking.” You bit your lip to stifle a giggle, clear, you were enjoying his pain. “Was that your gun in the bed with us, or were you that happy to see me?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Though the shake of your chest wasn’t helping his resolve, especially with your nipples straining under your clothing, almost as much as he now strained his clothes further at the sight. 

“Might be a virgin now, but we both know you’re not,” you said. 

It wasn’t fair; his arousal was strikingly obvious. Guys really had the rawer end of the deal with their junk. Still, “I bet I got you wet without even meaning to,” he said, controlled and coolheaded, like the pre-cum that dripped out of him onto his boxers. Not at all how he felt under your scrutiny.

There was no easy way to hide anything now. He’d definitely pushed things way too far with that last comment, but you were asking for it. What with teasing him for something out of his control. But he couldn’t help but notice the flicker of something unspoken and new flashing through your eyes once. It pleased him to see you squirm. 

And for another fleeting, rather long moment, he wondered if his words were true, because he’d guessed—hoped for his ego even. Until he caught a shift in your thigh and the covers, shifting with it when you hummed. 

“Well, it has been two weeks. At least I beat your record.”

“Suzy was a given. Wanted me just as bad.” In truth, he was hella persuasive on his part. It wasn’t one of his best moments, but she did not feel bad at all. Far from it.

“Only ‘cause of the way you delivered your little speech,” you spat back.

Dean looked you square in the eyes, then down to where the tent in his crotch remained covered. His smirk followed and covered his face. “What I’m packing ain’t little, honey.” He winked. “Maybe next time I’ll let you see it.”

His fingers gripped ‘round the edge of the blankets, teasing, watching the way your tongue swept out over your lips. 

He had to wonder what they were like down below, but at that opportune moment, the bathroom door opened, and Jody walked out, seemingly unaware.

Dean’s phone is out and on his ear before his heels have escaped the pharmacy’s doors. When Sam picks up, he doesn’t bother with the pleasantries. “She checked out at four-twenty eight. Left the store straight after.” 

He continues to rattle off details. The alley; how you got jumped ‘round the back of the building. As hard as it is for him to form the words, if he doesn’t say something? If he doesn’t concentrate on Sam on the other end of the line, he has to see the moment you got jumped replaying over and over because that’s all he was doing as he walked back through the rows of shelves and products. 

The clinical smell, disinfectant and the stale, mothball tang he gets from visiting old people’s houses cling to the hairs in his nose, and not even the gas from the station across the street can clear it out.

He gives Sam ample time to get his hands on the keyboard. To do his thing. The rhythm of fingers tapping against computer keys clacks in time to Dean’s steps as he crosses the road to Baby, who’s parked out front of a neighbouring house. “Tell me you got something on the street cams,” he says, slipping in behind her wheel.  

“There’s a van. Looks like a dodge. Left about five minutes after she left.”

“Got a license plate?” Dean opens the door and slides in behind the wheel, placing your purse next to him. He closes his eyes and drops his head back against his neck, waiting. His free hand can’t force his skull any further down, but his fingers try. They drag through his hair, like they’re fighting the images of you inside the store from creeping back into his mind.

“Yeah. Just running it now—” Sam trails off, too slow, too relaxed—not like you. No, you walked briskly when you stepped through that door. A soldier on a mission, though your arms wrapped ‘round your body tight, seeming to keep your worry shielded from the world. 

But Dean didn’t miss the way your brows neared your lashes or your lips parted when your teeth weren’t holding them up. He saw you reading the signs above each aisle as you located the family planning section. He saw you pick up multiple tests to read the labels, too, only to change your mind and put them back. 

You were distracted. He couldn’t blame you.

The night before you told him you were late was the same as any other in the bunker. He was just as distracted. Hell. He thought you were checking up on him by not minding your business, like usual. Him, nursing Ketch’s rare and unspeakably expensive bottle of scotch, like he nursed his jaw and ego, still battered, bruised, and a little bloody, all thanks to Rowena’s expired piece of arm candy. 

Bernard had packed a punch; it still hurt to swallow, but it wasn’t just the juice running down the back of his throat that soured his gut. There had to be a piece of tooth or a chunk from Bernie’s fingernail floating ‘round in there ‘cause something was scraping ‘round in his head that made it hard for him to sleep. 

Mary and Jack. Charlie. Even Ketch and his stupid antidote. His drinking was a tribute—a thanks for the asshat’s sacrifice. The early hours, the best time to do it. 

Dean often found solace at the kitchen table, and only the bunker’s many machines to keep him company. The buzzing and distant hums in the foundations, and not the ones caused by his grenade-launcher, were a comfort. As was the low lighting on his eyes, even when they flickered.

There were no ghosts, though. The kitchen had no cold spots, unless you counted the way his spine tingled at your arrival. The glare from your oversized t-shirt nipped at your smooth skin and bared thighs went through him alright. 

He hadn’t heard your bare feet padding down the hall, but he sure heard your voice break into his quiet. “You go to bed at all?” 

“Nope.” Dean sat back on his stool, parting his knees further apart as he threw back another long swill through his newfound slackened jaw. “You planning to go back to yours?” 

You folded your arms, and the worn fabric pulled tight across your breasts and raised the hem higher. “Only if you are.” Your eyes flicked to his glass.

“Oh, I’d have come to yours, honey,” his little finger raised from the crystal in his hand and tipped towards the door, “if only you’d offered first.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You scoffed. It wasn’t his intention to invite you to join him, but you took his words as invitational and moved across the kitchen floor, taking up the stool next to his.

“That’s not what I meant,” he repeated.

“I know.” But then you attempted to take his drink away. Though it may’ve been innocent on your part, even with your bed-head and pillow marks ingrained in your cheek. You were a slight against his dram; he was quick to withdraw. If you wanted your own, you could get your own—from a different bottle. This was his. If you wanted him for another reason? Well, that was a different story, but you’d need to do a lot more than swipe at his hand as he withdrew it from you. 

He’d laugh, but teetering his weight out to the side of the table like that was‌n’t his idea of a good time. His foot closest to you raised off the floor to counter himself. His pre-burdened gut somehow held him steady until he gave up and stood up. He collected his incredibly rare booze and moved it to the safety of the kitchen bench, which he rounded and leaned over, folding his arms on the icy surface. 

A smug look on his face; a tilt of his head, jaw clicking. He took another sip. His fingers, gripping the tumbler as if the risk were too grand, even with a hunk of stainless steel now standing between you.

“Child,” you said.

“Cart’s accessible to everyone.” He shrugged. 

“What?”

“Get your own.” He swung his head to the door you’d walked through and downed the rest in his hand so he could pour himself another. “Library’s less than fifty feet.” 

“I didn’t come here to drink.”

“No? Then why’d you come then?” 

The glass ground against the metal when he set it down. Dean’s fist wrung along with his throat when he swallowed back the words he didn’t say. He didn’t mean to yell at you, but history and genetics liked to repeat themselves. You were no longer just the one who fulfilled his physical needs. 

“I—” He shook his head, slinking further into the bench before him. If his skin could meld into the steel, he’d have gladly let the stuff take him, ‘cause at least he’d no longer feel any burden or pain. Then he could skip those thirty years of waiting for his mom to age, assuming she was still alive, like Jack had seen all together. Solidify his death. Rid himself from the people he hurt.

But “Couldn’t sleep,” you said, as if you were resetting the scene and ignoring the few lowly minutes you’d been in the kitchen. As if it were true, you stood up and stepped over to him, arms wrapped tight over your chest, shielding you from his stone-cold stare.

He was in disbelief, but he was still a man. You, walking towards him with that hem kissing your thighs again, drew his attention higher to your chest when you stood opposite him, leaning forward just as he had done.

“Wanted to see how you were doing.” You shrugged the same, too. 

“M’fine,” he relented for the sake of you hearing him say it. 

You were well aware of what Winchester-fine meant, but “I’m not,” you whispered—apparently, you didn’t. Only then did he really look at you, dipping lower to catch the glimmer of tears in your eyes.

If only he hadn’t been so eager to take on a case so soon after the damn test. He wouldn’t be here in the car again, chasing after you, kidnapped. He wouldn’t be hoping on pure luck; he was heading in the right direction because you wouldn’t be missing. No, you’d be safe. Exactly where you’re supposed to be, in the bunker. You and his kid. 

He swipes his hand over his mouth again for what must be the umpteenth time. Sniffs—just as many; he’s thankful Sam’s not in the car with him, while also counting on him jacking a car and meeting him at the warehouse. 

There was no time to pick him up. No time to waste when he’s thinking of Humphries’ body in the same breath he’s thinking about yours. He’s seen enough stiffs to guess what a person might look like on the morgue table. Yours is not one he wants to picture regardless of his position in your life. 

You’re family first—family always. Seeing you like that ain’t an option. Not even on a pyre. Of course, creeping over Baby’s deafening rumble as he steers her towards the address Sam sent him, Missouri’s words replay along with everything else that’s already been spiraling through him since he left the pharmacy. 

“You’ve had some great losses. Don’t you lose her, too,” she said. Ironic that it was her words that got you into his head like this in the first place.

“You look out for her. Even when you feel she’s done you wrong, don’t let her go.” But he had let you go. At least he hadn’t fought for you, simply backing down when things got too real and too raw.  

“You’re a good man, Dean Winchester. Remember that.” But he wasn’t. He was vulnerable, a failure, a grunt. 

“You know, silent treatment is a form of emotional abuse, right?” That wasn’t a good man. That was weak and petty.

You didn’t have to talk to him if you didn’t want to. “Sam found a case,” was one of the first things he’d said to you the morning after the negative test. Just because he didn’t know what else to say was no excuse when there were so many things he could’ve said that weren’t that, yet he didn’t. Just as he hadn’t protected you now, he didn’t have your best interests then, either.

The tears in your eyes were new. If only you hadn’t gone from zero to sixty on him. He’d have thought the reflection in them from the stainless steel counter below you made them rather pretty, even in his current state. 

“You’re not?” Dean’s eyes blinked rapidly. He’d had a few, but he wasn’t at the point of not hearing you correctly. The way you said you weren’t okay, definitely wasn’t taking advantage of his Winchester-fine line. “So you call me a child for not giving you a drink?” he said.

“No.” Still leaning, your arms drew out in front of you, elbows hanging over the edge of the bench, teetering like he’d done in his seat moments ago. You’d tried to pry his glass from his fingers; now yours flexed, palm against palm. 

Their subdued flounce held your words back, gears grinding somewhere in your head. The clock on the distant wall ticked away the seconds faster than you did as he waited for you to do or say something more, but, “No,” you repeated. Another followed it, softer. 

“No?”

“I dunno, Dean.” You looked up at him, voice louder. Swiped a hand across your face and brought it back down to the bench to smooth it over. “You keep getting injured. Don’t tell me something didn’t happen to you over in the other world, ‘cause I can see it. There’s a reason Rowena’s toy boy got you so badly. I’m just—” 

You stopped yourself. Your shoulders shrugged again as you dropped your chin back to your chest to stare at your hands. You smoothed the bench under your skin with a gentle caress. If the metal were an animal, it’d be purring. 

Dean watched on, cheeks hollowing as he pulled his tongue across the back of his teeth. His body’d wound up tighter than it had been before he came into the kitchen. Or perhaps it was more that he let himself notice it then. 

The scrapes settled in his head, keeping him awake? The chunk of Bernie floating ‘round inside him? They were all excuses, of course. It didn’t take a genius for anyone to see through them, let alone you. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered when you always called him out on the bullshit. 

He pursed his lips, chewing them from the inside. His grip on the glass, loosening. “I, ah—”

“Don’t tell me you’re fine,” you snapped.

“Alright, I’m not.” But the tail from the animal he’d seen in the bench, stuck between his legs now, though he did his best to hide it. 

He straightened up and, gripping the hem of his undershirt, moved ‘round to where you stood so he could show you the still healing wound from one poisoned bullet.

“What—”

“Ketch made some antidote.” Dean grunted as your fingers moved round the edge of the wound. The muscle itched as far as the black veins had exuded. “S’a little tender.”

“A little?” you scoffed, but at least your eyes flicked to his with some concern. “Why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, rather endearing compared to how you had been.

“Y’want me to bitch about it?” His brow raised with a smirk that pushed through his battle scars. Like all the previous ones, in the moments that gained him attention with the ladies that weren’t you, he laid on the charm, thick and boastful. “Gonna offer to fix me up? ‘Cause I thought there weren’t any offers on the table tonight.” 

His hands reached for yours, then he pulled them down and out to the side before looping them ‘round his middle and setting them on his waist. 

“You’re impossible. You know that?” Your chin pointed at him. 

He knew, but it didn’t stop him from doing whatever the hell he wanted. You’d come into his time and space and interrupted his peace. There was retribution required. A tax for giving him shit and attempting to steal his drink, even if it was all just you seeking him out for comfort for a change.

He should’ve felt enamoured that you seemed to care about him in that way. Chuck knew it was rare for him to let anyone fuss over him, including Sam. After the past few weeks he’d had, though, he definitely deserved a piece of you a second time. “Remember last week when you found me on the floor over there?” He nodded to the wall where he’d been far better hidden. “Think I had you dripping f’me before we even made it to your room,” he leant into your ear. 

“I think I had you on your knees.” You let go of your position on his back and traced his belt ‘round to the buckle, pulling him against you.

“You had me in your mouth.” He leaned in and captured your lips with a teasing kiss. Barely any pressure, barely even touching them, he ghosted over you, his warm breath mixing with yours. “Wanna take this elsewhere?” he said, before he swooped in and kissed you properly. His broad palms on your cheeks drew the heat right outta you and settled deep down in the pit of his stomach. 

Grafton and its surrounds are scarce of many trees, but his adrenaline floods his veins like a wildfire rips through a forest, anyway. Each nerve beneath his skin, alight and buzzing, but at least he’s out of the Impala and moving now. 

Dean closes Baby’s door and feels the clip of a breeze on his cheek. It’s too cold for his liking. Too nippy. Though he’s still in his coat, he’s also still in his fed gear. It may be light as far as Dean’s wardrobe goes, but it’s too bulky. Too many loose layers’ll impede on his arms and his blade as it cuts through the high-pitched cackle of laughter, travelling on that same breeze. 

He rounds the back and opens her up, quick to reach for two machetes and a couple of vials of dead man’s blood. A flash of headlights, sweeping over the discarded machinery littered along the road, tells him Sam’s caught up. Or he’s about to get into a fight a lot sooner than he expected.

The place is like a salvage yard. Like Singer’s Auto, if the old hunter had lined his property with silos and shrubbery amongst the balanced piles of scrap metal. Nature creeps out from underneath the metal frames and caterpillar tracks here, and Dean’s eyes flick to the old flare gun.

Sam pulls up just as Dean shuts the trunk. “Dude.” He spans his arms in the air like wings, but his tone didn’t convey the sentiment. 

“Just—” Dean hands him a weapon. 

Just what, exactly? 

Please? He can’t lose you? Don’t give him that crap, ‘cause it’s not like he planned this? He’s feeling guilty enough without his baby brother throwing his two cents into the mix.

“Okay.” Sam nods, at least, Dean thinks he does. 

His back’s already turned, and his ankles and knees are moving his weight again, but they’re not splintering like they did before. Each step he makes now, practiced in precision, even in the darkness. 

With vamps and his heart the way it is, he needs all the advantages he can get.

He had the advantage in the kitchen. Even after the expensive scotch, blood coursed through his veins as he deepened the kiss. His lips pressing against yours, moved back and forth, parting, gaining whatever access he could with the slip of the tongue.

Sloppy? You betcha, but so were his hands as they traced your body. Fumbling up your sides, pulling at the shirt you didn’t need. 

It was inconvenient when yours were still on his belt, but he wasn’t about to stop you. His hips pressed closer, if anything, bucking up towards your touch involuntarily. You, giggling into his mouth, had him grinning between his next onset on yours. Noses hitting each other, he had to stop what he was doing lower to hold you still. 

The look in your eyes was full of mischief, pupils blown, irises brighter under the light overhead. But your head tilted, and though it was only slight, your teeth also pulled your lower lip in before he could take it again. 

It had him pause. More than he was already at that moment. He swallowed. His own amber greens flickered over your face.

“S’everything okay?” he said. His hand stilled on your waist, gripping your skin tight through the fabric. His fingers pressed into your flesh, pushing the edge of his nails further, to the point where they could bruise. 

He didn’t mean to grip you so firm, it was more that he had to hold himself together. He was needy now. Desperate to feel you both beneath and around him, because the last few weeks had taken their toll. 

It wasn’t just missing his chance in that other world, seeing Charlie, or losing Ketch. His shoulder ached; he was getting older—he wanted a win, but what he wanted more was a piece of normal. To feel more skin beneath his fingers and experience another’s touch on his. Yeah, he was touching you now, but it wasn’t quite the same ‘cause he could do that with anyone. Maybe not as close; certainly in the same areas, though his dick getting wet was extra.

That build he spoke about in Hartford made him feel alive. Sex was sticky, but it felt too good to grind and move against another person. To cover the expanse of his hand, fingers and all, with them. To grab and not be hindered by anything. No barriers aside from the wet heat and the owner constricting him. That’s what he needed. His crotch couldn’t help itself but press against you again. 

“Dean,” you said. He was still close enough to feel your breath on his cupid’s bow. Warmth and moisture clung to the five o’clock shadow. Long enough to be classed as ten or a further spin ‘round the clock. 

“Yeah?” he husked. Closed his eyes and ghosted another kiss into the corner of your mouth ‘cause he couldn’t help it. 

You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.” Your lips returned the gesture. Their heat spread further than the place they’d landed upon. The soft skin caught on his own. 

His hand on your cheek moved round to your ear, and there he fingered through the strands, always soft compared to his own, neither laced with greasy products he either took from Sam or swiped from gas stations. The ones that lived in Baby and still seemed to show up years later. 

That fragrance he recognised on the road outta Omaha. That taste that’s unique to you when he layered another kiss on you. 

“Y’sure?” he spoke over you, but his hand, not in your hair, was now under your shirt, scratching up towards your panties with no intention of stopping even though a part of him knew he should’ve.

Blame the alcohol. Blame the shoulder. He needed to heal, and he knew what’d make him feel better. 

His nails scraped, skin against cotton. Dipped a little lower to just above the apex of your thighs, tracing the little dip where your folds joined. Felt the fabric damp and warm. And though he knew the answer, “Or is she dripping f’me already?” he said.

“Could use some persuading.” You hummed. A chuckle laced through it. Quiet, not amused, but more a hitch. A simple announcement of pleasure over amusement. 

But Dean was one step ahead of you, having lifted the edge of the elastic at the top. “Yeah?” He scooped down over your mound and twisted his wrist to access you better, finding the thicker nub above your opening, slippery to the touch. 

“Think I can getcha there like this?” He dug deeper, spreading your slick and coating his own skin. His dick twitched through the denim still covering him, throbbing at the thought of doing it again when he got you to his bed.

He’s lucky it’s the scales and not the pointy end of the machete that digs in close to his ribs. If his skin weren’t thick, he’d be a shish-kabob as well and soaring across the warehouse floor. His body makes a great substitute for the feathers of an arrow as it is. 

Dean lands with a grunt, though. The table edge, almost just as sharp. He scans for his weapon as he stands, but the big guy wraps his arms ‘round him in a wrestler’s hold. Fangs on display and looking like they want a piece of him.

“Sorry, tiny. I don’t kiss on the first date,” he says, ‘cause apparently he’s at the acceptance stage of despair now. Big grin, even wider, as he wraps his arms around the expansive frame. “Not when you stole a chunk o’ my pie,” he grunts. 

He curls his lip up as he tries to take hold. Fists the vamp’s jacket, airing a chuckle as their eyes meet and lock. “It’s not your colour.” His grin falters, and—he’s in the air again…until he’s not, rolling over rough concrete that brandishes him, missing a foot to his junk. 

It’s just as brittle now as it was earlier that day. Skin sticking on skin’s gonna be the death of him, if not you. That’s the thought that pulls him out of it.

As if he’s newly bitten, with a strength that’s born from the midst of a fight, he strikes his elbow into the nook of the shoulder. His skull busts its nose. John would hurtle in his grave if he had one. The hustle is a poor excuse for all the years of training Dean underwent, but his father’s dead—so is this monstrosity. Sam’s machete severs the neck above him and hauls the chunk of undead flesh off‌ him.

“Thanks.” He swallows the exertion. His throat’s drier than it’s been in a long while, and the lump that keeps forming ain’t helping none.

Sam lends his hand down and hoists him to his feet. If only that were the least of his worries. 

“No problem,” Sam says, just as out of breath. His hands follow Dean’s to his own sides; his glare isn’t as mutual. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“What?”

“Do you have a death wish or something? ‘Cause being reckless like that won’t save her.” 

And neither will standing around like this, but here they are. Dean says nothing in response. He steps over Tiny and reaches for his weapon, on the move before Sam can say another obvious. 

As much as the point affects his ego, there is a point to be made. He can’t help you like that. He needs to keep on his toes—literally. They’ve come across four bloodsuckers already, and the last two weren’t easy. The trail of heads, not to mention you and the other four victims, won’t be an easy cleanup, especially if something’s happened to you. 

There was a trail of clothes that led to his bed, but Dean couldn’t care less if Sam found them or not. The last thing he should’ve thought about during the moment you pushed him backward onto his mattress was what his brother thought about you both fooling around.

If the guy wanted to get laid, there were plenty of women out there who’d take his money. Dean ignored the niggle in his chest that reminded him he’d found you living under the same roof as him. 

It was Missouri’s fault, and those sweet thighs that moved to straddle him. Your hands came down to his chest, just below his nipples and the bullet wound with sweet, sweet pressure. Why did something so simple as the gentle touch of a woman do it for him? If you’d been the one to do the first-aid instead of Ketch, he’d be a goner for sure.

He had to stop thinking ‘bout all those other people. He was raging hard, and he did not want to lose it, especially after a couple of rounds of scotch. You’d never let him live it down.  

His hands raised ‌in surrender. Opened to you, he brought one palm to your head and the other to your folds.  

Soft and wet; his callouses ran over strands while he dipped a middle finger lower. Strands picking up under the callouses. He dipped a finger into your entrance, also sweet, and oh so slick and warm. He swirled over your clit and dipped his middle finger lower. “S’wet,” he inserted and curled it through your channel, “S’all from the kitchen?” 

“Mm-hmm.” You shoved his hand away and wrapped a firm fist around him. “Need you, Dean,” you said, lining him up and inching yourself closer. 

The way you clung to him when you sank yourself down, parting both sets of lips and drawing a perfectly rounded “oh” from the top ones, had him bucking into your heat with an urgent need. And a groan that turned more guttural when you looked into his eyes.

The warehouse is larger than it looks. Dean’s eyes scan through what little haze the moon shining through the skylights allows. Each foot of concrete flooring alternates between shadow and light as they move through the remaining hall that runs down the centre. The metal of his machete, not covered in blood, flashes like a flashbulb with each corresponding step.

He holds it close to his side. The worn leather on the handle sweats against his palm, but he grips it tighter. Fingers and arm now locked from the extensive hold will no doubt stay the way they are for days to come. 

Dean’s more determined than ever when Sam taps the elbow with his free hand and nods to the right side of the split in the hallway ahead.

He reels his focus in. Pictures your face as he scales the left hall, checking each door and open space. Aside from the soft creak of his soles curling as he shifts his weight from toe to heel, however, the place is devoid of sound. At least with Sam still next to him there were two pairs of boots, stressing that life was surrounding him. 

Now, even his breathing has him on edge. The blood, thrumming in his ears, warms the empty spaces in his head, threatening all the progress he’s made with his focusing. 

Be here. As horrifying as it is that he’s praying you’re here in a place like this, you just have to be, because this isn’t just another day at the office. The universe can’t give him the world and then take it away from him like this, even if he didn’t jump at it from the start. His mind flicks to Cas, but with him hot on Heaven’s ass, how can he ask for his help when he’s the one who let you slip through his fingers? When he’s the one who pushed you away? 

“Should I be expecting a proposal next?” He sees his error. He saw it the second he said it. Who’d wanna marry a guy who only proposed because he thought he’d knocked you up? Any other guy that treated you that way would meet his fist.

“You said you were on birth control.” And anyone who said that to you, too. 

So why did he?

“Fuck.” Dean’s fingers bunched the juicy globes of your ass beneath them like a thick piece of meat, made to be eaten. They were. Just not when his cock pistoned in and out of you.

He spread you wider. Each cheek tucked up and out by his fingertips sinking further into your skin, all so he could marvel at the way he disappeared and withdrew from the mess. His spit and pre-cum mixing with your slippery slick was oh so sticky and wet—a chemical reaction. The dirtiest dissertation on yin and yang. 

His name left your lips as you burrowed your face into the sheets below you. A halo of hair spilled ‘round the edges of your crown and over your balled fists, messy, as it had been that night in Memphis. Dean leant down and freed your ear, tucking a chunk behind it and holding it in place until you twisted back to look at him. 

Mouth parted, eyes half-lidded, your expression was unreadable, aside from the clear exhaustion in your brow. 

You’d never looked at him like that before now. Not during sex, nor throughout your regular days. Not even when he patched up your scrapes and popped your bones back into place, did you ever seem to stare beyond the meat-suit?

At least, that’s what it felt like. It was something ‘bout the way you held your eyes. Intent. Stubborn as Missouri had been when she reminded him of his losses. That he shouldn’t lose you, too. That he was a good man.

And though his thighs were tight, and his ass clenched, and his balls were thrumming. Close to the point of no return, even. Dean slowed, and still connected, heaved you up so he could reach you. 

Holding your head in place when it dropped back to his shoulder, his arm wrapped ‘round your middle; cradling you into him. His, “Hey,” was audible enough for you to hear him, but to a fly on the wall your breaths and the soft slaps his pelvis made as he continued to rut up into you would mask it. 

With a sloppy rhythm, he refused to falter, and his tip, still hitting all the right places, “Hey,” you said just as quiet and breathless as he had done. 

While he should’ve asked what was wrong earlier, that moment was no better, what with the beginning flutters of your orgasm creeping over him. “Y’kay now,” he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. Placed a kiss, then another.

Being so tender wasn’t new to him by any means. Maybe a little out of place after throwing lewd remarks in that moment. It was a first with you, though. Maybe what Missouri was suggesting in a very round-about way.

“You’re a good man, Dean Winchester.” He’d try to remember it. 

“I’m good,” you said, half whine, half airy laugh. Cunt to chest and legs, your body shuddered against him, and his fingers dipped down to hold the rest of your body through it. 

If he is a good man, then why is he traipsing through the old warehouse with a machete in his hand? A good man has a respectable job and spends his weekends watching football on a big screen TV. A good man listens to his partner’s complaints, then ignores them when she’s left the room. 

The little things, of course. The stuff that doesn’t matter ‘cause it’s not all that important. Rings on coffee tables. Staying out late with the guys. Alright, he never did that to Lis’…but it’s the cute things that make up sitcoms. The apple pie life stuff with trivial problems like what colour you’re going to paint the nursery—

The nursery? Dean scoffs, though he shouldn’t. He’s supposed to be all stealth and nimble. Supposed to be concentrating on the task at hand. 

There’s been no more run in’s with bloodsuckers since the scuffle with Sam, and he starts to lose hope. They found Humphries on the other side of town, yet there are still no signs of actual living people aside from himself down here. Just rows upon rows of shelving that he passes. Empty crates and pallets. A female, appearing between a gap in one of the taller racks. 

And a heavy sliding door, the kind often hiding a cool room behind it, closed and latched behind her. 

His eyes narrow on it and then hers. Why else would a loner be here in the hallway if not to protect whatever is behind it? They’re not running a catering business. Can’t be. Catheters and a smorgasbord of blood types, all with that damn hormone? 

Is the universe working with him for once? 

She’s smaller than Tiny. Her long hair, a godsend when she launches at him. For a few brisk steps, he carries her. The bitch’s chest presses into his. 

His arms stretch to get her off him. His stomach muscles and lower, pull tight as he clings to his machete’s handle, desperate not to slice himself or drop it on the ground.

If he loses it, Humphries ain’t the only one ending up on the riverbed. HCG or not, her fangs are out and she’s clawing at him. 

It’s the concrete wall behind him that does the trick in the end. He spins and grabs her by the jacket she wears, throwing her to the ground. 

That she’s here of all places, separated from the others. That he spots a door he hasn’t checked yet is all Dean needs to know. 

His hand is firm, and his arm is straight as he takes his swing. He aims for her neck and drives the metal down into the skin. Muscle, flesh, bone, reverse. The sharp blade cuts through it all. Jarring his body from wrist to shoulder; tingling through his nerves like his heart just jumped a foot across his chest.

The burn is real, but the head is rolling. He watches it tumble, hair wrapping ‘round it in a tangle of stands and knots the further she goes. 

Stopping only when the bristles of a broom head catch the chin. The thing magnetised to the one object that can fix the disaster of blood and tissue, now strung through the edges.

Dean kicks the limp body in the waist as he steps over her and moves to the door. Adrenaline still from the fight pumps through him, once again threatening to break through his ribcage as he drops the bloody blade and brings his hands to the lock. The clang of metal against concrete echoes through his spine, but Dean’s focus remains on his grip. His knuckles white as the bones beneath them—probably. If it weren’t for the darkness that’s only foil is the beams of light still filtering down from the window’s glass in the ceiling.  

He puts all his effort into the latch. The rust, brushing his skin like sandpaper. Flaking under his fingers, scraping and slipping beneath them until he gives up and readjusts his footing, taking on the handle from the other side.  

His grunt is long and drawn out. Breath and tongue clip his teeth. He gets it open, though. Arms like jelly. His shoulder, protesting at him for daring to do any more with it as he grips the edge of the door and slides it open. 

His eyes try their best to adjust to what little light the moon allows from the angle.

He hears a soft sigh of surprise, though. Someone’s whimper of terror.

And then the thing he’s been looking for. The one thing that’s kept him going. Whose thoughts of, almost had him done for at the hands of Tiny.

“Dean?” your voice carries through in question. A you-shape figure sat in what he soon realises is a chair, second from the left. Another three bodies sitting on your right.

A/N: One more chapter to gooooooo!

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“i am well aware, sam,” you huff again, shaking your head. “witnesses say they saw a black figure, but nothing about the hand-knife you know a wraith has. dean’ll know.”

“no he won’t,” sam snaps back, rolling his eyes. “he’ll just side with whatever you tell him ‘cause you said so. he’ll take one look at you and make a stupid puppy dog face, and—”

“shush,” you mutter, your face feeling hot. because deep down, you know there’s some truth to that—but you also tell sam to shut his yapper because you hear music coming from the room.

and not the kind of music dean usually listens to.

the familiar beat of NOBODY’S SON by sabrina carpenter slowly gets louder and louder as you and sam approach dean’s room—you recognized the tune from claire and alex’s pop playlist, and can’t help but wonder if dean knew this song from the girls, too.

you shoot sam a look—and he already has a shit-eating grin on his face, the kind that tells you that dean will be hearing about this periodically until he’s dead. you hesitantly push the door open, right in the middle of dean doing air drums to the bridge of the song. he turns, then freezes with his arms mid-air when he realizes that not only is the door open, but you and sam are standing right there. he blinks, then blinks again.

“dude,” sam says as dean pauses the song, raising his brows. “seriously? and you give me shit for celine dion?”

“what? s’catchy,” dean shrugs, and one look at his red face signals you don’t have the heart to mention that dean is most definitely every bit of the boy sabrina’s singing about.

“it’s catchy.” sam repeats dryly, already turning and shaking his head. “unbelievable.”

dean gives you a smile you know all too well: the kind that makes you want to kiss him and punch him at the same time. it’s like he’s saying yeah, i’m an idiot, but you love me anyway without uttering a word.

and you do love him.

so you smile back.

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response bias: another confounding factor found in both placebo and placenta effect studies; including low values that contribute to the mean regressing, the response bias considers how the non-committed partners continue to traverse through their day-to-day lives, including any attempts at empathy and/or concern shown from one half of the pair to the other

The drive to Grafton was long, just not because of the distance. Like Omaha to Lebanon, Dean could do that with both eyes closed—if it weren’t for lack of sleep. Of course, he was driving, though. Still suffering the aftereffects of his dreams that morning and the events that had led to them, and as such, was in a terrible state. 

Anyone would think his period was late. If he had one. Maybe he was experiencing whatever it was those fake ones were called when the guy experienced what his girl was going through. Cramps. Bloating. Heartburn. His shoulder still ached. He was certain after all that fake running around that he’d been doing mid dream had caused his old knee injury to flare up, because his legs sure were stiff, and his head was—

Hang on. 

Hold the fucking phone. His girl? Had he just… 

Did he just refer to you as his girl?

Wow! 

No. Seriously. Wow!

Last he checked you were still just friends with the benefits going off of last night. Fuck Buddies. Dangerous Liaisons, maybe? That was a thing and a movie, right? That was all about deception and seduction and John Malkovich in a wig. Honestly, he only remembered sneaking into the cinema when John had left him and Sammy alone at a motel in Colorado. He’d snuck himself into the local theatre because the trailer made the thing look raunchy as all hell to a ten-ish-year-old Dean.

It wasn’t. He got his ear clipped, and it rang at the thought. Or was that your laughter coming from down the hall?

Yeah. No. Definitely your laughter. His gut flipped at the trill as you chattered ever so casually with Jody. It was her house after all.

Unlike his dream, Jody’s bathroom was familiar and real. He felt the water run over his hands when he dipped them under the stream. He felt it run down his wrists when he splashed his face. The vanity at his hips, his toes, and his socks wrapped around them, inside his boots and no longer bare. The smell of something floral in the soap he recognised from being here previously, but couldn’t name in the wild or in a supermarket. 

It screamed Jody as much as the worn carpet in her living room screamed family whenever he passed through Sioux Falls in his later years. Strange, yes, that you weren’t at Bobby’s. Familiar, again, in that the township never changed, even though the ties to his uncle had burnt to the ground years ago. 

He dried his hands on the small towel she kept on a rung by the mirror. The fabric, soft compared to the ones you kept in the bunker. The ones he’d selected from a box store. Not stolen from the last motel he’d stayed in like he would’ve in the past. 

It was surprising how the cost of something made it last longer. Much like…

He snickered. He was still thinking about the cost of that damn test? He supposed it was only natural, though his cheeks burned because the stretch of his smile was unfamiliar. It’d only been a day since he’d made the comparison between his skin mags and the test. Maybe a little over if he considered the time and the drive to get there. Not to mention this morning, but—

This thing costs more than a Beauty? The crows feet by his eyes seemed more prominent in his reflection. 

And he thought the distance to Grafton was long? Well, the distance between you was longer. May as well have left you back in the bunker with the way you felt so far away in Baby’s backseat. 

You weren’t talking to him, except out of politeness in front of others—well, Sammy and Jody—and the attendant at the pump in Hastings. Of course, he understood why. He should’ve come sooner. Should’ve gone after you the night before and stormed into your room. Told you to listen to him because that morning had been too late. He’d lost his window. 

Your laughter from down the hall sounded a second time. He finished up, determined at that moment to find the time to pull you aside and talk to you before you hit the road again, even if it meant doing so in front of Sam and Jody. Just because he couldn’t make a move in front of Jody all those months ago meant jack with what you’d both been through over the past twenty-four hours. That test made you closer. Bonded. 

You were in Jody’s living room when he returned, sitting down next to Sam on her plaid couch, having a great old time, it would seem. With Jody, to your left in the armchair he’d sat in back when Alex patched his knee up. 

“Hey,” she beamed up at him, her body leaning on the diagonal and into the chair’s back, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. 

He couldn’t help but smile back at her, though his eyes scanned you and how close you were to Sam. Not jealous. Never. Just annoyed at how casual you were with his brother. His knee touching yours. Your shoulder, leaning into him as if he were the chair’s backing, even though you shared the large couch. 

“Guess this means you guys are leaving my presence again?” Jody sat up and leaned forward, clapping her hands together to lean her arms on her thighs. “Missing people to find, cold cases to solve?”

Cold case? Dean’s head tilted to the side at that remark. He wouldn’t call a little over a week a cold case, but, “Okay,” he said, voice raised higher than normal. He was still waiting for the joke to drop, assuming there was one. 

Sam licked his lips, also leaning forward as Jody had done, a slight to his face, proud of himself for something. “Yeah, I was looking over the case on the way here. Was just telling Jody that it’s following a pattern similar to another string of cases a few years back, also in the Red River Valley.”

“Also?” Dean blinked. He understood all the words Sam had spoken, but it was his first hearing about a pattern, let alone the Red River. Last he checked you were heading to North Dakota, not Texas. 

“Well, I don’t know if they’re connected, but there was a string of disappearances a few towns over that were never solved, and—”

“In Texas?” 

“In North Dakota.” Sam scoffed—because it was so funny, apparently. You sure seemed amused, looking up at him with your own crooked smile. “Where we’re headed,” Sam added, neck sticking out further like the giraffe he was. “Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “the circumstances are similar, but we still don’t have a lot to go on until we get there and talk to their sheriff.” 

He turned himself to Jody, torso and all, who pointed back to him, her hands still clasped together, both index fingers sticking out.

“Right.” Her brows wagged up close to her bangs 

“Right,” Dean muttered before turning his attention back to Jody with another of his broad grins. “Guess we are hitting the road,” he said more clearly, meeting Jody halfway for a goodbye hug. 

It didn’t take long for all goodbyes to be said, and for the three of you to be waving to Jody from behind Baby’s windshield. Her engine purring beneath you, you in the back, and Dean still unable to pull you aside. 

He may as well have accepted his fate then and there, because with Sam still in your midst and no doubt sharing a room with you tonight, Dean couldn’t see himself getting you alone anytime soon. Unless he pulled you into another bathroom and locked the door. 

Maybe there was a significance to his dream after all, because he sure couldn’t see it meaning anything else besides chasing you. He was already doing that with an imaginary tail between his legs.

Like he did in Omaha, he pulled Baby out onto the main drag to Grafton. Zeppelin once again in the tape deck—Black Dog, just to hit him in the chest harder. 

He couldn’t see you stealing his money when he had none, but he could reflect on the obsession because maybe that’s all this was. You told him having a kid with him wasn’t feasible, and all of a sudden, he wanted it. Wanted you and dragged back into that idea of white picket fences and apple pies. 

He threw one wayward glance after another as he drove out of Sioux Falls that day, lips twitching, threatening to form his own pout each time his eyes dragged up. You couldn’t have a kid, at least, he couldn’t have a kid with you when he was practically one himself. His face screwed up, scowling with a complex amount of emotional constipation he didn’t realise he was doing until he noticed Sam not only staring at him, but throwing his own brief look towards you—none the wiser. Until you caught Sam doing it. 

“Everything okay?” you asked, unsure. Your mouth forming its own pout as you queried them further with your own tilted glare.

“Yup.” Dean’s hands gripped the wheel beneath his fingers tighter, drawing the blood out and turning them white. He himself stole another shot at Sam who, while no longer looking at either of you, smirked, then swallowed what Dean could only assume was a sound he didn’t want to hear. 

“You said there’s been similar cases?” he asked, figuring talking about the case would get Sam’s continued focus.

“Yeah,” Sam took the bait, pulling ‌his laptop out from beneath the seat. 

Whether he knew what Dean was doing didn’t faze him so much. No doubt he did. Didn’t stop him rambling on as Dean wanted—or didn’t. It was a matter of surviving the rest of the journey to North Dakota, point B to point C, or D, depending on when you asked for another bathroom break. 

Dean flicked yet another glance your way as Sam booted up the machine. Your eyes, catching him this time. 

They narrowed. Your brows challenged him, but Dean had nothing to say that he could in front of Sam. Nothing but the case, at least. “Any more before it?”

“Ah—dunno. There’s been plenty of disappearances in the area like everywhere else, but it’s hard to tell if it’s localised. The area’s covered by a lot of farmland. Population of Grafton specifically is about four thousand and declining.”

“So what makes you think they’re connected?” you said, also placing your focus on Sam. It was the most you’d said about the case, aside from agreeing to come with them.   

“The circumstances.” Sam looked over his shoulder at you. 

It made Dean twist his wrist on the wheel for a different reason altogether, as opposed to what came with you or other women. He had to focus on the case over what was happening in his life. The case was most important. People missing. A guy, dead. But what could there be besides that? That was their normal, and he said so. “People who don’t show up to work the next day? Come on, man.”

“Hey, I told you it was a stretch. You jumped at the chance.”

And yeah, okay, that was true, he did, but, “I also thought the Red River was in Texas,” he muttered.

“It is,” you and Sam said in unison. Sam, further informing you both, it was also a song because that was also important.

Son of a bitch. Seems everybody's pregnant. Well, everyone but you—but that’s not the point! No. The point is, the universe is fucking with him, and if it’s fucking with him? It’s no doubt fucking with you, too.

Why else would you still be in the bathroom if not because of what happened at Edith’s or because of your damn period? You’ve been in there since you returned from the Walsh’s, and that has to be it aside from the not talking to him part. 

Truth be told, he accepts it for what it is. You’re mad. He shouldn’t have listened to Sam at the morgue this morning. Worst idea ever, forcing you into his presence to do the interviews. 

No, Dean should’ve just left you at the motel. He should’ve insisted on it, but why else are you here if not to help on the case? You came after all. You don’t just get to mope around the motel, not that you were—are. Research was important. Lore was important, as much as the morgue and dealing with the sheriff was. Just as much as visiting all the families was. 

He should’ve let you go off on your own and interviewed Marjorie. Sam got the raw end of the deal either way with dealing with the other three families you didn’t. Maybe then, most definitely actually, you’d be closer to solving the mystery and finding where the nest is because so far there’s been no footage of the missing being taken. Like you in the bathroom, they disappeared without a trace. 

Now he has to pry you out of there. Or, at least, risk getting his head bitten off so he can tell you, him and Sammy are leaving. 

He stands up, and Dean follows, grabbing his coat and throwing it back over his shoulders. Only, “Meet you at the car,” he says. “I’ll just—” He nods to the same chipped wood you’ve been hiding behind, avoiding Sam’s stalled look. 

Whatever he’s thinking, he lets it go. Says nothing. Just grabs his coat, too, and his phone. Closes the lid on the laptop and picks it up, striding to the door with his freakishly long legs. 

Once again, Dean was alone with you. Sort of. 

He runs his palm over his cheek. Stubble, shaven this time, having made a point to, as he’d planned to before he and Sam left for the sheriff. Just part of the reason the weather’s been affecting him so much.

What does he say this time? Is he asking you to come? Would you even answer? Because you refused to talk since leaving the Walsh’s. The drive back to the motel, awkward just as much as it is standing here now and deciding.

The walls are thin, like most rooms are. Same as a bathroom stall. Like the ones in the bunker, only he still can’t hear any noises because technically the gap between tattered carpet and chipped paint ain’t all that much. He can’t even see a shadow moving beyond the door, blocking the light like many others do. 

No groans from the pipes or hums from the exhaust. What could you possibly be doing in there for so long, and does he want to know? Bathroom doors are there for a reason, and aside from needing to know you’re taking another test, he doesn’t need to. 

Still, he wonders. You really are a world away from Omaha and Memphis. A world away from Missouri, telling him not to lose you. Kind of seems like he is. Or he’s just being dramatic.

Yeah. You’re being dramatic, Winchester, he tells himself. The biggest dumbass there is. Falling for you and fucking it up by opening his big fat mouth.

He sighs. Drops his shoulders. Rolls the ever aching one. Damn bullet wound’s giving him as much grief as his sack is due to the icy temperatures. All that going in and out of them. Having to do it again now. 

His steps are cautious and slow as he moves around the table and past the beds. Fist on his right side, already forming. 

Like your room, he knocks with the same one he used on you yesterday, with the hope you’ll reciprocate. Like his steps, it’s slower, though. Softer. Almost light enough to be unheard. All he can do then is wait. The words he thinks he wants to say caught in his throat until your, “What Dean?” filters to his ears.

You’ve said his name in worse ways before, but this is…well, he’s not sure what this is. The lump blocking his airways, heavy. Disappointment, even though he should’ve been expecting it so. 

It’s quiet. If he had been standing further back, if he wasn’t leaning on the door, he wouldn’t have heard you. He rubs his lips together, taking the time to moisten them and the rest of his mouth the best he can before he replies. And come on, man? This ain’t him.

“Sammy and I are heading out,” he says with much more confidence than his gut is giving him. “Gonna talk to the boyfriend. See if we can get Edith’s last location,” he adds with a little more conviction. A little more authority. 

For a moment more, he’s left standing there, waiting still on a delayed “Okay,” which is rather purposeful as his pout and your ‘only if it’s intentional’ line was regarding silent treatment.

If this isn’t silent treatment, he doesn’t know what is? He doesn’t know what to add to it either besides repeating your exact wording. “Okay?” into a question. 

“Do you need me?” you say, and while it’s not exactly sarcastic, he hears the annoyance. If you were seventeen, it’d be your ‘do I have to’ tone.

His jaw stretches; cheeks draw inwards. They don’t need you. Not exactly, though “Not really,” is what he says defeated. “I’ll, ah, we’ll see you when we get back, yeah?” He cringes because this is getting pathetic. 

But you don’t say anything, and, fist still on the door, he removes it, taking a step back. 

Okay. Yeah. No. It’s okay. That okay doesn’t mean anything. You just acknowledged what he said, and he acknowledged you. Done. Dusted. 

He picks up that tail that continues to hinder his gait (along with his icy sack) and heads to the door. He can bitch and moan all he wants later. Get a six-pack after they see this Jake kid. Maybe drop Sam off and leave him with you while he heads to a bar. This place can’t be that small that there’s no dive. 

Even the diner on the corner he got breakfast from—Granny’s? Whatever it’s called. The server, Meghan, was rather nice. The kind of small-town girl he went for. 

He’d only look, of course. He may be a dumbass, but he’s not an asshole. Any guy or girl who did anything more than look deserves more than Dean’s fist to their face. 

As he steps outside the main door and shuts it behind him, Sam’s face is rather unimpressed. Brow quirking up, he’s sat in the passenger seat, head tilting. His eyes narrow when he sees Dean looking back at him, and as Dean reaches Baby and climbs inside, he’s expectantly doing so. 

But the Impala, shifting beneath Dean, is a comfort. Her scent warms him like the tendrils from a steaming cup of coffee curl past his cheeks. Like any other time, the slight you left him reeling in seeps off his shoulders and into the air as he settles. 

He steals one last glance at the door he’s just left before his hands have even touched the wheel or keys. Baby’s engine, pulling him out of it as he turns the ignition over, and shakes his head. 

He’s gotta get his head in the game. Stop moping. It’s not like you’re going to disappear while he and Sam are gone. No doubt, you’ll slink out of that bathroom the second you hear the rumble leave the parking lot. 

As always, he shifts the car into gear and, turning himself to the side, raises his arm to the backrest to reverse, and finds Sam still staring at him.

“What?” He allows one flick of his eyes to Sam before easing her out of the space. His concentration on what’s behind him. His ears burning on account of the continual glare. 

“Is everything okay?” Sam says, and Dean knows without checking his peripheral that his baby brother finds whatever he thinks is going on hilarious. 

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Sam scoffs. That ever-pompous chuckle where his lips cover half his face. “Gee. I dunno, Dean.” And Chuck, does he hate it when he says his name like that. “Maybe we can skip to the part where you tell me what’s going on between you two, unlike this morning,” he says next. 

Having reversed, Dean turns back to the front. His arm, slow and floating as his eyes pass over Sam’s face one last time. “Unlike this morning, your advice was a load of crap.” He shifts Baby into drive. 

Sam scoffs again. It’s not so hilarious now, is it? 

He nods his head, said head now facing the front, too. That peripheral of Dean’s again notes it as well as his flick of the tongue over his lower lip.

Clearing his throat, as he always does first, Sam seems to consider his words, which, perfect. Dean shoves the tape sitting in the deck, back into the stereo. Though he considers turning it up, too, Metallica was more for his benefit on the drive back from the Walsh’s when the silence was more obvious on account of the proximity.

Part of him wants to ask Sam straight out what he should do, but the other is still dealing with his pride. There’s no doubt he knows there’s something going on between Dean and you. How could he not? If it ain’t obvious, then it’s a question of Sam’s intelligence. Dean just sees no point in telling him about the test. Not yet. Not now, when the world is throwing hCG wielding adults at him.

So, still—again, he’s lost on what to say, so he goes with the first truth that comes to his mind. Surprisingly, it makes some sense. “I asked her out,” he says. Pauses. Takes that brief second between his thoughts to twist his jaw. Make sure it’s working. “She wasn’t interested.” He shrugs, pressing his foot into the gas to end the conversation ‘cause that’s it. That’s all there is to it.

You’re friends, family. That’s all he can ever ask for because you’re important to him. Always there for him, like he’s gonna be for you when you decide you’re no longer mad at him.

His heart was pounding in his chest. Mary. Mom. His mom. She was working with the Brits for them? The same jerks that’d tortured Sam and rammed his Baby? That crazy bitch Bevell who’d played mind control games on him? Made him hallucinate he was dating her under a spell, only to burn his feet and slice him with a knife? Those Brits? 

So what if they helped them escape the feds? It didn’t change the fact, they’d done all that other stuff. She was their mom. She was supposed to stick up for them. Support them. She was supposed to support him, but she never did. She never wanted to be around.

It made Dean feel like there was something wrong with the man he’d become when she was the one who wasn’t there to raise him.

Well, she wasn’t. And it wasn’t his fault. It was hers for making that deal and leaving them the way she had. 

Why’d he have to suffer when she should’ve known better? Why’d he have to miss out when he was so excited to have her back? 

“So there’s the door.” Dean’d made his point. Adrenaline still coursed through the arm he’d used to do it as he spun on his heels, unbothered to wait for a response or see the shock on Mary’s face—if it was ever there. 

He’d had enough. He’d had enough ten minutes ago. Couldn’t look at her after she’d spewed all that crap about Wally. 

But he did the dutiful thing for Sam until he high-tailed it. His steel caps scuffed over the polished floor as he stormed away. Rabid scrapes, bow legs, they ground bone against bone on impact. His tendons didn’t stand a chance.

And neither did the liquor cart. 

He needed a drink—he needed twenty. He’d head to the local bar. Drown himself, down and out, but that risked another pass by, and that wasn’t happening. There was no way he could keep his mouth shut, knowing what she’d done. 

That’s not what family did. That’s not what moms did, yet here they were.

He passed ‌through the library. Pulled out a bottle of whiskey, never looking back, even as Sam mumbled something about himself needing time. 

Dean heard the scrape of his chair. He wasn’t far behind him, but even Sam was the last person he wanted to see. How could he continue to pretend that woman was the mom he lost? In another thirty years, maybe. Then she’d at least look the way his mom was supposed to look, and he’d be too old or dead. 

He could only hope he would be. He was off to a right start, needing to calm down because his heart was now in his throat and choking him. The blood flowing through his veins—her‌ blood, throbbed through his arms and beneath his fingers as he clenched them tighter ‘round the glass and raised the lip to his mouth just as he made it to his room. 

Dropping to the floor at the foot of his bed, he chased the smokey liquid down his gullet, jarring his ass against the icy concrete and his tooth against the bottle, which was perfect, because you appeared, curious. There was no chance for the sting behind his eyes to do anything more than be present. 

With your hand on the door, you leant in, not crossing the threshold just yet, but twitching. seeming to wait for his invitation, or for him to say something first. But what were you expecting when he was this close to actual tears? He could choke up the sudden emotion and pretend the booze was more potent than he remembered, but what was the point? You knew better than that. He was a thriving alcoholic. Often running on the fumes of the last drink. He wasn’t ashamed to say it. 

There was a reason you were here now, though, having been nowhere near the vicinity of the war room when she’d waltzed in unannounced. Even the burgers she’d brought with her to butter them up hadn’t pulled you from wherever the hell you’d just come from. 

“You heard all that?” he muttered into the bottle. He took another swig and blinked away the burn still threatening his tear ducts. He was rather calm, considering. Too shaky and shocked to raise his voice any higher than he had back there, aside from the fact it was red raw like his face must’ve been, because your brows softened. Your head tremored, just as. 

You stepped into the room and moved to sit beside him without a word. Your hand, held out to take his whiskey from him. Dean swallowed as you did. 

Your swig was much smaller compared to his; still, you let out a cough that didn’t match the amount you’d taken. You closed your eyes and breathed out of your mouth like you were birthing another tinier scotch for him. 

“Weak,” he smirked, stealing it back.

“Mhmm, maybe,” you said, watching him down another mouthful. Out-smirking him with, “Just don’t make me be the asshole and call out the double standards here.”

“What? I’m weak for showing emotion now?” he sputtered, lowering the bottle back down between his knees. 

“No,” your hand touched his arm as you said the word a second time. “You left it open. I had to.” You paused, forming the broad grin across your face that you always wore when you were trying to make him feel better. 

If it had been a cinematic moment, he, as the hero, would’ve said something witty to continue the banter. Locking the sidekick in a headlock. Pulling the love interest in for a kiss, but Dean took the opportunity you’d given him. He blurted out what he knew you were fishing for, just to get it over with, he told himself. 

“Mom’s working for them.” His fingers picked at the edge of the label, focused on his fumbling fingers instead of waiting for the surprise to overcome you.

“Them being—” Your free hand waved for him to continue, but it was hard enough for him to say the first part aloud. 

Who else would she be working with? Who else had been on your tail of late if not Crowley or the feds? 

Lucifer was in the wind, racing against you to find Kelly. The other angels were minding their own business for now. 

“The fucking Brit’s.” He took another gulp, larger than the first few. Anything to stop himself from saying more about it. About Sam and what they did to him. It was hard to watch him sit across from her and hear it as it was.

Dean dropped his arms to his thighs, resting the bottle between them. He mightn't have been a child, but he sure as hell felt like one. He continued picking at the label, waiting for you to fill the silence. To tell him it was okay to be angry or something along those lines, but your hand just took the one doing the picking and squeezed it instead. 

Call it a tantrum, whatever the fuck you wanted. This type of thing was supposed to come from her. He was supposed to go to her, or better yet, her to him. 

“She’s supposed to be my mom,” he whispered, and your arm was around his neck, pressing yourself into him without another word. Your chest half on his back, chin on his shoulder. Your fingers, smoothing down his flanneled sleeves, massaging what you could reach with a gentle touch.

He should’ve come to you from the get go. Your presence, calming him enough, even if you said nothing more. No apologies. No ‘I told you so,’ or badmouthing Mary, though he was certain you wanted to. He appreciated it. You had a way of knowing what he needed in the moment, even when his own mother didn’t, and she was supposed to know him or, at the very least, get to know him.

“That him?” Dean says as he and Sam walk closer to Grafton High School. Honestly, Dean’s certain it’s Jake. He’s just a little surprised to see Edith’s boyfriend’s arm sitting rather comfortably around another teenage girl, so soon after her disappearance. 

“Think so.” Sam pulls out the printouts they got from the clinic’s security cameras prior to this. Jake Hart’s mug on it. “Kid moves fast.” 

“So much for young love,” Dean mutters. 

The sheer luck of finding him like this right as school lets out says more about the town itself than their detective work, but here they are, honing in on the teen-player as he walks out the school gate. Here they were expecting to talk to the principal before finding him, but this is where his parents said he would be, albeit leaving.

The fact that he’s walking out in a group of four or five other teens is perfect. Dean could use the chance to play up his bad cop act. If only he weren’t wearing his coat, he’d adjust his gun and raise his arms enough that his Colt caught on his jacket.

Best he can do is stand taller, though. He supposes Sammy’s height is an advantage sometimes. They trek across the grass out front, covered in leaves and twigs that crunch beneath them and announce their approach. Not that any of the teens are paying attention to the two old guys approaching them.

“Excuse me, Jake?” Sam calls out. He pulls himself into a light jog to catch up with him, now mid-laugh and heading in the opposite direction to him and Dean. “Jake Hart?” he calls a little louder. Only then does Jake turn around.

His grin is as broad as the acne covering his face. It falters when he takes in the clothes they’re wearing. Realisation, seeming to hit as both Sam and Dean whip their badges out from their coats and flash them at him. 

Dean’d say he’s guilty right there on the spot, but he’s also seen enough teenage vamps in his time to know this jock turned timid little boy ain’t one. 

“Federal agents?” Jake reads the lettering. His eyes, flashing to the girl now hanging off him. His tongue swipes at his lips, and she leans forward and up. Must need glasses if she can’t see the craters, but then again, Dean never judges. Can’t say he never had a zit.

“Bonham and Jones.” Dean hollows his cheeks, voice stiff. His arm waves between him and Sam, before stowing the badge away in his coat pocket. “You got a minute?” He couldn’t care less that Jake’s friends are watching their exchange, paying particular attention to the girl when he adds, “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Edith Walsh.”  

Dean’d laugh at Jake’s sudden lighter shade, but he is a professional after all. He wags his brows and clicks his tongue. 

“Ah, yeah.” Jake looks back at his friends; Dean exchanges one with Sam when Jake leans in and plants a kiss on the girl’s cheek, heads tilting all round. Jake even gets a throat clear from Sam. 

“You guys go on ahead,” Jake says. But as if nothing’s amiss, he turns back to them, fed suits and all, and dares to ask, “What about her?” His hands go to the pockets of his varsity jacket. The green colouring isn’t a good look for him. 

“Do you know her?” Dean lowers his chin. Blinking, not bothering to keep his tone in check in favour of intimidating the kid. It’s a shame he’s not wearing his usual gear. As much as he didn’t like Gary, Dean’d love to give the punk a shiner on the father’s behalf.  

“Yeah, I knew her,” Jake says, shrugs, but he doesn’t seem all that worried, even to be talking to them. 

“Oh, you knew her?” Dean folds his arms across his chest and looks at Sam again, half twisting, half bending his back. “You hear that, Sammy? He knew her.”

“Do you know what she was doing at the hospital about two weeks ago?” Sam’s eyes flick to Dean’s in warning as he hands Jake the printouts. “That’s you there with her, isn’t it?” Sam points to the closeup of his face.

It’s not the best image. Though the security camera caught him at a bad angle, all the angles are bad in Dean’s opinion. 

And why is life imitating the cases he does again? You don’t treat a baby mama poorly, no matter how young you are. Even if you thought they were your baby mama and then you found out they weren’t, you don’t treat them shitty and hook up with other chicks the next day, either. 

Except if you’re this kid; he nods his head. “She thought she was pregnant. Begged me to come with her.”

“She is pregnant,” Dean corrects him. “We spoke to the clinic ourselves. But you knew that.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s mine.” Jake shrugs. “Edie could’ve slept with someone else after me.” 

“Regardless if that’s the case, she’s missing,” Sam says. Rather aggressive as far as Sam goes, which is great, because Dean’s got nothing. The kid’s ability to maintain a social life grander than his in Grafton is impressive. 

How old is he? Sixteen? Seventeen? As Gary had done, Dean unfolds his arms, only to refold them again. “When did you last talk to her?” His chin drops again, too, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Ahhh—Thursday, I think.”

“The day she disappeared?” Sam doubles down. He was shuffling through his papers as he said it, but he’s now giving Jake the look he gives Dean when he’s at the end of his tether. 

And when Jake replies? His “Yeah, I guess so,” is tacked onto another shrug? 

Sam’s knees bounce at the audacity. His hands, coming to his hips like he wants to pull his jacket up and show the kid his gun instead of Dean.

It’s Dean that deals with it though. “You guess so?” He releases his arms to stick his hands in his pockets. His thumb, tracing the edge of his phone to keep at least one fist in check, because he’s had enough. “Your girlfriend’s missing and you guess so?” 

“We broke up. I wasn’t exactly happy to see her when she showed up.”

“At your house?” gets him a nod in reply, and that’s it. Dean’s tapping out. He’s letting Sam take the reins on this one. Aside from the fact that it’s not his place to do so, Dean’s not gonna stand ‘round and listen to Jake’s crap without going off on another tangent about how shitty a boyfriend he is to a girl Dean doesn’t even know.

Edith might not be Claire or Alex. She’s no Krissy or even Patience either—he hasn’t even met her, but he can’t do this. He may not be the best role-model, sure, but at least he offered to stick by you and take on his responsibility before you’d found out. 

He’ll ignore the part that asking you out when he did wasn’t the best time.

Besides, Sammy’s the stable one. He can keep Dean outta jail for child endangerment this way. Maybe it was a good thing your test was negative, because Dean’s definitely not father material. Though he sure as hell would make any son of his deal with the consequences of their actions. Just as John would’ve done to him now if things had been different. 

Maybe after this he and Sam should pay Jake’s parents another visit? Get him grounded at the very least. 

Dean keeps his eyes on him, unmoving, unforgiving. His thumb still plays with the edge of his phone as Sam goes through every detail.

But then he asks a question that has Dean pause and grip his device mid-flip. “What do you mean the first test was negative? She got tested at the hospital?” 

“Yeah, but we took one of those home ones first,” Jake says, and now Dean’s paying attention. 

Again. Life. Imitate. Case. Thank Chuck, Dean’s not strong enough to break another phone without the Mark’s influence. Luckily, his stomach is in on the conversation, because the contents inside take over his fingers, flipping whatever remains there from lunch over for him instead. 

“And that first one was negative?” Dean asks, and though he can feel Sam staring at him, he keeps his focus on Jake. There’s been too many damn coincidences throughout this case, and he’s not liking the latest one. Not one bit.

All it takes is for Jake to say the word “yeah,” and Dean excuses himself. 

If Sam protests, Dean doesn’t see it. Wouldn’t even know if he’s confused him—doesn’t care. 

He turns his back on both of them and moves a couple of yards away. His now tingling fingers are whipping his phone out, wasting no time unlocking it and finding your name in the contacts list.

He’s overreacting. Has to be. But moments and conversations flood through his head.

Taking the test in the bathroom. What happened after. How you’ve been treating him like asking you out how he did is the same as chasing you through the bunker with a hammer. He never threatened your person. Just wanted to do the right thing and offer you more than the situation you’d landed yourselves in. Nothing wrong with that, even if you don’t know the real reason behind it.

It’s safe to say he’s no Jake. Though maybe he is for not making you go see a second opinion. If history tells you anything, Dean is exceptionally virile. His swimmers have broken rubber barriers; it don’t matter if Lydia was an Amazon. His male genes were the ones that hit the target.

But you don’t answer. The phone rings out, which, there has to be a logical explanation for. There always is. Only the second and third times has him equally pissed and left with a racing heart. 

He should check on you, right? Swing by the motel just to make sure you’re still as pissed at him as ever? Make sure your period did come and isn’t still late because now that he thinks about it, he just assumed.

He opens his messages. Goes to shoot you a message. Starts typing: Just checking, your—your what? Your period came? Shark Week going well? Is your lady garden bleeding yet? No, no, no. He can’t say that. But what the hell does he say? It’s not his business, let alone send it in a text, but—

“Dude,” Sam says, now in his peripherals again. Not close enough to see what he’s typing, but close enough that he needs to finish and hit send—now.

—period came right?

Without further thought, he hit the little arrow and shut it off, running his free hand over his mouth again. Out of habit? To keep himself busy? Or to hide the ticks he’s doing with his teeth and tongue as Sam moves beside him.

“You, of all people, should know contraceptives don’t always work,” you’d said in the bathroom. 

It was more a dig at him, of course. Didn’t mean there was meaning behind it, even if at that point you hadn’t seen the results. There just couldn’t be. 

Problem was, again, the universe liked to screw him over, and this just didn’t sit right. 

You were on the pill, and yeah, it didn’t always work, just as rubbers didn’t. He’d put up with Jody bombarding Claire and Alex over that very thing a few years ago. Even if that was more a focus on STDs (he thinks), it worked with the other stuff, too.

What’d Lisa tell him once? That time she’d taken a test, she’d been worried because she’d skipped one and he’d had to suit up for a week afterwards?

Right?

Right?

He runs his hand down his chin. Sam’s watching him again now, and he can’t continue with Sam up in his face like this. 

“What?” he says, shaking his head, blinking just as fast. Dean knows there was a question there. Sam was thumbing behind him towards the Impala, but with his eyes narrowed now, looking at Dean in both disbelief and a concern that didn’t need to be there because there’s nothing concerning about this, right?

“Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, shoving his phone back into his pocket before giving Sam his full attention.

“Really? ‘Cause you went from Starsky to Hutch in under sixty seconds,” he scoffs, “What was so important?” He flicks his chin towards where his phone now lies.

“Just something he said. Thought I had a lead.” Dean looks over to Jake, now much further away than Dean first realised. Hand still in his pocket, thumbing the side again, waiting to feel the vibration of a reply, he gestures they get a move on themselves. 

He’s not sure what Sam’s next move is, but a part of him really wants to swing by the motel, just for his own peace of mind. If you don’t send a text back, he’ll make you talk to him this time. There’s a niggle in his throat that won’t go away until he does. 

Call it his spidey senses tingling. Call it delusional. It’s not that he wants it to be the case, and he can’t help but ask, “So what’d I miss?” as they cross the asphalt to where Baby is still waiting for them. His head to the ground most of the way.

“Not a lot. Kinda concerned for Grafton’s next generation, though.” Sam’s grin is wide—he snickers at his own joke. That giant grin plastered on his face again. Dean snickers with him. 

So does Dean’s stomach, even as he pulls on the door handle and gets into the car.

Of course, unless Sammy has picked up some x-ray vision from the same store Dean got his discounted radioactive spider bite from, he’s none the wiser to any of it. He joins Dean from the passenger seat with a grunt and the other obvious. 

“Still doesn’t help us, though,” he muses. “You think we should go back to where Humphries was found?”

Dean has to think carefully about how he can suggest otherwise. Too quick off the mark and Sam will know something’s up aside from his Hutch act. 

“Why? Because the first time was so successful?” He turns the engine over, grateful for the purr and the leather beneath his fingers. If he just focuses on his Baby and not some hypothetical one that doesn’t exist, he’ll get through the rest of this case until you reply, and—screw it.

“You know, I say we go back to the motel. Check the lore.” ‘Cause the lore is Sam’s weakness. “At least get out of these monkey suits.” ‘Cause that’s his. “Didn’t you say there were creatures who fed on pregnant women? Maybe it is a blood thing and not vampires being picky? I mean, when have we ever seen bloodsuckers be selective about their food?” 

He gives Sam a quick glance to hide the fact that he’s talking way too fast. Thankfully, “We haven’t,” Sam says in agreement. Though his eyes are as suspicious as Dean feels they are, and Dean himself is suspicious. But he pulls out of the curb before Sam can say anything against him otherwise. His mission? Confront you.

“Smartass.” He drew you in by your wrists and a crooked smirk. Then he raised your palms to his shirt, doing as you’d dared him to, only at a loss on what to do next.

You had been a smartass when you’d asked him if he was going to dry your hands, and he’d done it. Two your-sized paw prints now sat smack bang over his stomach. Dark enough, they were almost a design.

But you? Your arms were limp under his fingers. Spaghetti noodles? Or just not aroused enough ‘cause he shook them, and you only went limper. Your half sniff, half snort was gonna be the best he could get. 

“So…you good?” he said again.

“I think so.” You pursed your lips, flushing their appearance with a subtle sheen that in any other circumstance would leave Dean with no other choice than to kiss you proper. 

There was something about the way you were less hardened in that moment that had him settling for your temple, though. He leaned in close to place a chaste kiss there. It seemed more sacred that way. More belonging to a couple over how you’d been in the past and up until that morning, even if you hadn’t seen it that way yet. 

“Yeah, me too,” he said. His mouth, still against your skin, when he wrapped his arms further around you. 

There was something still beating beneath the surface. That softer side he’d seen in your eyes as he continued to lean over you, seeping through your clothes and into his. 

Whatever it was, that feeling, he reeled it all in, squeezing you tight. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said. 

He almost believed it. 

You were both adults. You could do this. It had taken you a while, but you’d told him; he’d gotten you the test. You were being more adult-like than some people he’d known in his life, taking on the responsibility to do the right thing and make sure if you were or you weren’t. 

It’s why you were there in that bathroom. The bunker was no roadside dump or rundown hole you’d squatted in. You had a home base—a roof over your head that you then shook beneath his chin. 

Dean pulled back to look at you, seeing the woman he’d known all along. Still determined, mouth still flushed. How he found this softness in you attractive was as terrifying as the glow he’d seen before when he considered what hung in the air. 

That little piece of plastic you were both waiting on was either a blessing or a curse to your working relationship. It could and would hurtle you into the awkwardness of something else he wasn’t ready for, if it were positive. Or not. 

He should’ve wrapped it. He should’ve stayed a virgin, and though he didn’t know it at the moment in time, you agreed.

“We can’t have a kid, Dean.” You reinforced that rational side he needed to hear. Only telling him he couldn’t have something was the worst thing you could do when there was a spark poking its ugly head out of a book he’d locked away a long time ago. 

His time with Lisa. His shorter time with Cassie. The list could go on if he thought hard enough about it. He ran from all of them because he was never in it, though he had plenty of opportunities. He assumed he was the grunt he’d been running from all along until Sammy waltzed back into his life and roped him into the things his own father chased. 

It reacquainted him with you. You’d known each even then. He’d considered another slice of apple pie with you now, in a matter of hours. A carrot in his line of vision, encouraging him to take what he once gave up, like it were golden and would feed him forever. Not just a once off thing. 

You stood there before him, still in his arms, only at a greater distance the more he stared at you. He nodded to the test, still sitting above the sink. It hadn’t even been three minutes, but there was a deep pull in his chest that wanted to reach out and flip it over. In that moment, he dared the thing to be negative.

“It’s a little late for that, honey,” he mumbled. Audible for you to hear, but unsure of the words himself. It was too late. Having sat down and pissed on it already, it was non-refundable. 

“It’s never too late.” Your head tremored, and Dean didn’t like the way you’d emphasised certain words. The cogs in the back of his mind worked harder than ever as he considered them. 

“What’re you—” 

“This life; the job.” You pulled back a step, too. Hands coming together to pull at the tips of both sets of fingers. “I mean, we’re not even dating. We—” But you trailed off yourself. Those hands of yours, now bobbing in front of your still very flattened stomach as you tried to make a point, Dean still wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. 

The job? Well, the job he could understand. The life? Sure. He guessed. He wasn’t the only one ‘round here that had a history in the family business. But dating? He was expecting a different word altogether, and hey, that was your choice. Maybe that’s what you were trying to say and even you’d backed out. 

Of course, he went the high road. 

“So what?” He licked his lips. “You wanna date me?” He’d cling to that if he didn’t have to deal with the A word before you knew the test results. You could avoid an awkward conversation if you just held off a little longer. At least he hoped he could. He didn’t want to think about that because that little niggle in his gut was still festering. Still considering the possibilities, he wasn’t supposed to want. 

Even if this was only ever a temporary thing, it’s not like the two of you weren’t good together. The last words Missouri’d said came to mind.  

He took a step back and opened his arms out to you, shrugging like the answer was obvious. It was obvious to him. “That’s an easy fix.” He just wasn’t expecting the reaction he got,

“You’re serious?” Your eyes narrowed.    

Damn right he was. Though he didn’t appreciate the edge of a smirk that came to your lips. 

You didn’t appreciate his offer either. “I don’t want to date you,” you said. You could’ve at least made your tone a little lighter. Not look at him like it was all a big joke ‘cause wow! The smile you’d been holding back had his jaw tick and his eyes fluttering like he was trying to take off and follow old patterns. If only his lashes were long enough. 

Should he be insulted? He should be insulted, right? Was he not a good-looking fella? 

He folded his arms and stared down at you, his forehead stretching with the weight of his brow. “So I’m good enough to be the stud and let off a bit of steam, but I’m not boyfriend material?” 

“You’re saying it like I wanted this to happen.” 

“I’m giving you an option.” His vocal cords shrilled. He was insulted, alright. Wanted to take the whole thigh back. “Kinda regretting it now.” 

“You should be. What’s next? A marriage proposal?”

“No,” his voice raised higher, catching in his throat. Though he can see how you got there. Maybe. That’s what the guy in the movies always did, right? Made things official by making someone honest. He needed that more than you, but it wasn’t the point. 

“Then why’d you offer that?”

“You said we’re not dating,” he said, but your head was shaking for real that time, and “What?” he said next. Could he be any more insulted than he wasn’t supposed to be? There were no subtle tremors in sight. Everything, obvious and dismissive until you stopped to rub your fingers across your temple, turning away from him like you were the one struggling to understand him. 

“I meant we’ve been careless.”

Careless? “You said you were on birth control.” And that did it. May as well have dropped your jaw like your tongue was a tape measure because you stared back at him like he’d told you he was the one who was pregnant and you were waiting on his test results. 

Your head snapped to him like the measure had wound back and startled you. “You, of all people, should know contraceptives don’t always work.” 

Your face held there for a pause. Eyes flickered back and forth. His were doing the same.

Dean felt whatever it was you were measuring deep within the pit of his stomach. There was that fear again. The one that’d been circling around him ever since you’d told him, circling back over you to a familiar scene. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay.” Even after you’d cut him down over that very line moments ago, he meant it now. Believed it.

“Maybe,” you muttered. Dean reached for you again. He pulled you towards the sink and the reason for all the back and forth. His hands on your arms, itching and ready to take it.

It had to be three minutes now, right? At least close enough that the line would’ve changed had it been one of those other ones that weren’t digital. He’d been foiled by pretty packaging and a gimmick that hindered the result. He still didn’t know how it worked. Hadn’t read the instructions. But he doubted the letters in the plastic window would appear like an alkaline test with the gradual swell of liquid on the paper. 

He wasn’t that stupid. 

He tilted his head to the side and tried to see yours at a better angle. “Let’s just find out first, huh?” ‘Cause that was most important here. No matter what happened, there were nine months left to decide if it was positive. He said so. “S’not like we have to decide anything now.” 

“Just in nine months,” you scoff. Right on the money. You were smart, too. One step ahead of him.

He hadn’t said it for a reason, but he could go on about Lydia. You think months aren’t enough time? Try days. Hours even. Finding out he had a monster Hannah Montana for a daughter a day after shacking up with her mother still made his skin crawl.

He’d had a daughter, though. She was…if he looked past the wanting to kill him thing, Emma was beautiful. Her mother sure was a looker. There’s a reason he’d hit on her in the bar and said he was an investment banker.  

If it weren’t for Sam dealing with Emma on his behalf, though, Dean’d be dead as a doornail. And you? You wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure. And maybe that would’ve been for the better? At least you wouldn’t be so unlike yourself as you were now. The usual spitfire; the heat he saw in your eyes and the lip you often gave, gone behind one that was being chewed. 

Dean looped his arm around you further, grounding himself, hoping to ground you, too. A part of him still wanted to cling to the notion that this could happen. His skin was crawling, yes, but his gut was churning at the thought that the words he’d read when he flipped it over would say the words he’d admit he was hoping for. He couldn’t see any other possibility. The universe had those ways of messing with him. They could bring in the negative, and honestly, that’d screw him over more. 

He was in his head so much, you took control of the situation, though; the grounding having worked. You picked up the test before he could lift a finger. 

Like some cliche moment in a movie where the camera honed in on the character’s face and the music playing in the background slowed before the hook came in, you flipped it over with that same flip of the chords. Words waiting for you both on the screen.

Not pregnant.

All the hope and groundedness in his body hurtled out the nearest exit. His blood evaporated into nothing.

The words, clear as day. 

But that was okay, right? That was a good thing. You dodged a bullet. You couldn’t have a kid, just as you’d said so. The evidence was right there. In your hands. In his because he’d loosened his grip. Fingers barely clung to you. His arms now heavy and floppy like yours had been. 

Not pregnant.

“Not pregnant.” Your hand startled him. A soft touch on his good shoulder. 

The air that escaped him, laced with the start of a chuckle that never formed. “Yeah,” he said. Licked his lips to moisten the dryness. Did nothing for his throat. Eyes, lids, lashes, brows and frown lines raised, hoping to do something more than staring at the test in your hands. “You, ah—” 

What? He wasn’t going to ask if you were good again, when he wasn’t, was he? Talk about hypocrisy. 

Like Winchester-fine, good was a copout. You could answer in the affirmative and not mean it. It was the signal that the discussion was over, or at the very least, there was no pressing on it. So again—what? What did you say after something like that, aside from going back to your separate rooms? It’s not like sex was on the table.  

“You know I meant what I said about datin’ me?” He’d just been terrible on the delivery. 

“Yeah, I know,” you whispered. If it were possible, your chin dropped lower. 

You moved your hand off his shoulder and took a step backward. The warmth he’d been feeling, sucked away with it. 

And that was it? That’s all you were gonna say to that? “Guess it’s still off the table, huh?” he chuckled. His smile, forced. It didn’t reach his eyes, though they crinkled just the same. 

It was the kind you made when you were trying to hold your head high from a rejection. He should’ve been insulted, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice it. Not quite the way he wanted, at least.

“Look, I know it’s not the answer, but I—well, we’ve got a good thing going on here. Care’ta, at least, join me for a drink? S’not like you can’t have one now.” Chuck knew he could have another drink. 

You were still holding the test in one hand. Your fist held it tight on one end. But you tucked it into the shorts you were wearing, no longer just underwear below the oversized shirt.

He hadn’t noticed until now. Too focused on everything else.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed.” 

Your tone was a little louder that time. More certain than you had been minutes ago.

“Okay, yeah.” Honestly, Dean couldn’t believe it. “Yeah.” He brought his thumb up to his temple just to do something over stammer. “Yeah. Last thing you need is to wind up in the sheets with me again.”

It came out way too butthurt. Too denounced even for him. He sighed and took another step back. It wasn’t much. Your silence, or at least, lack of anything substantial besides going to bed, was telling. You were running away. Now, saying his name and only his name.

You were about to say something else but stopped short—and after he’d held you close and kissed your temple like that? That was boyfriend material right there, and…once again Dean—wanting something he couldn’t have.

So maybe he was a child? Didn’t matter now with you not being pregnant. He didn’t need to take on any responsibility anymore, aside from getting his mom and Jack back. Easy. Then he could enjoy his life. Take on an occasional hunt when he got bored.

He could sleep around—eventually. Go to bars and not worry if you were gonna get insulted. Jealous. He could sleep around; or go back to Miss. Itchi-gatsu when he was deprived of human touch. 

“I, ah—” He shook his head—once. Choosing to focus on you then. “Least you know the contraceptives do work.” 

“Dean, that’s not—” 

“Woah. No, no, no.” He swiped his hand through the air. Palm raised high in the sky, more than flatlined. A talk to the hand, except he was stepping around your hand coming back to his body. A toreador, if he had a cape in his hand. “I—you go to bed. You need it after last night. We got quite a workout in.” 

In any other circumstances, he’d be struggling to hide the grin that came with the thought of you, split open for him. His palms on your ass, spreading it further as he ploughed into you. But no, no. He had to stop that. Get a load of Itchi-gatsu into him or onto her. That’s what skin mags were for. 

“Dean,” you said, and you were louder. All because he was walking out on you. 

He strode across the bathroom tiles, empowered. That you were trying to call him back and hash it now left him reeling. Maybe you’d do the chasing for the time being if you wanted a piece of him. How stupid was he to think you ever might’ve been? 

Stupid Missouri. Sweet…deceased Missouri, but he never trusted psychics, and this was why. They got in your head. They made you see things that weren’t there. Well, now was too late.

“It’s all good, sweetheart. I got a bottle and a bed to lie in.” He thumbed to the door, now only a foot behind him. His hand was on the handle the next second, yanking it down with his ever aching shoulder. “I’ll—” He had nothing more to say unless he went with the low blow he wanted to go for. 

He didn’t, though. He didn’t have anything other than the need to get one back for the red face he guaranteed he had. 

So he walked out on you that night, which was funny, because if anything, he thought he’d be comforting you, but apparently, you didn’t need it.

Dean is just as quick at shutting off the Impala’s engine as he was at turning it over out front of the school. It took five minutes to get to the high school from Jakes’s house and another five to get back to the motel, but it’s still not fast enough. The whole point A to point B thing really hits home. Not bothering to play the part of calm and collected, he’s more dazed and confused as he jumps out of the cab. 

The first to the door before Sam has even closed the passenger side, Dean notices nothing weird out front. Though if Sammy has in his behaviour, it can wait until after. 

Dean barges in and scans the room, but at first glance, you’re not there. Not at the table. Not in the bathroom—neither’s your purse. 

But that’s normal, right? Things move. People use them. Your purse could be on the other side of his bed. Shoved in behind the toilet, for all he knows. He doesn’t know what you do with it. Women’s purses are about as functional as Mary Poppins’ magical bag was in his eyes. You could have a whole ass lamppost in there. A Baby? The Impala, to be clear. 

He takes a deep breath. Pulls his phone out—again. Hits call and waits. 

As Sam enters the room, Dean’s thrown a cautious glance his way. He feels it reach straight into his skull. His world, spinning out of control with each unanswered buzz and the call that drops out. 

“Son of a bitch.” He checks his texts. You haven’t left him on read, either. The tick in the message he sent you mere minutes ago, ten, fifteen max, still greyed at the bottom.

He’d throw his phone on the ground, but then where would he be, besides having a cracked screen and the dents in his palms to prove he once had it? No, it’ll only prove there’s something wrong when any second you’re bound to walk through that door behind him and not talk to him again. 

Sammy’s taking off his jacket. You’ll do the same. You’ll stare at him just like Sam is, head tilting to the side and laughing at how worked up he’s become over nothing. Except Sam’s not laughing—you were late. You did the test together. Dean saw the negative. The words read Not Pregnant. That was it. Final.

Yet, here was that same feeling washing over him again. The cliche moment. The music, slowing as the hook came in and stole the show.  

You weren’t answering his calls. You hadn’t opened his text. You weren’t in the room, and this case? This fucking case was dealing with pregnant women. HCG. Whatever. You weren’t here. You ain’t here. And he just needs to know that you’re walking ‘round, still breathing. Your neck, still intact and not in a river somewhere or having a catheter stuck into the back of your hand right now. 

He ran his hand over his face. The same hand then runs through his hair as he thinks. Frets. His forehead lines with trench marks that’ll set if he doesn’t right them.

“Dean?” Sam says, still standing. Still staring—but Dean ignores him. Can’t focus on anything other than you. 

You have to be on your period. Why else would you be acting so harsh towards him if it weren’t that you were moody and hurting a little extra? That’s how the bleeding thing worked, right? You bleed later, you get more blood? 

Does he Google that? Does he ask Sam that?

Nope—not asking Sam that. 

He shakes his head. Mutters the same word, “Nope.” He goes over to your gear that is here. Pulls it up off the floor and drops it onto your bed, ransacking through it like a common thief on a jewel heist.

He’s been through your stuff before. If you catch him red-handed, so be it. He looks at the door, looks down again at the bras and the shirts and the panties. A pair of jeans. The sleeve of a jacket. Just no little pouch you keep that stuff he’s looking for.

“Must be in the bathroom,” he says under his breath. 

And while Sam comes over, Dean spins on his heels. “What’re you doing?” doesn’t stop him. Not even his name being called more aggressively does as he strides to the bathroom door. 

The light flickers in the small space, having a fit of its own at being turned on, but Dean’s body is lunging forward. His fingers, peeling open the zipper on the prize waiting for him. Only then does he realise he doesn’t know how many tampons or pads he’s supposed to find amongst the packet of pills and Trojans. 

He stoops as low as going to the trash, which is where Sam steps in and draws the line. He yanks Dean’s hand away from lifting the lid up after he’s picked it up off the floor, the same as he did with your duffle. 

“Dude! What the hell are you doing?” His voice bounces off the tiles. He should feel lucky that he stopped Dean before he dumped the contents into the sink. Looking at Sam and having to explain that is worse than just coming out with it, though. 

“I, ah,” Dean scrubs his face with his hand; Sam screws his up in disgust. But Dean’s too far gone to think it has anything to do with him when he hasn’t even said what he needs to say yet.

How does he put this irrational fear into words? ‘Cause any second now he’s still expecting you to walk through that door so he can laugh about it. 

“She—took a pregnancy test two days ago.” He looks at his boots and not at his brother’s newfound stare. Sam could catch flies with that hole; Dean could shut his own up and snip off his junk while he’s at it. Still, he tries his best to explain further before Sam does it for him. 

“It was negative—but she’s not answering her phone, and what Jake said got me thinking.”

“Do I wanna—” Sam cuts himself off, waiting—no; hoping for a logical reason behind Dean’s sudden bathroom assault. It’s hard to win anyone over when the evidence stacks up against you. 

Dean shuts his eyes before relenting, “She was late, but I never checked if she actually got her period.”

“So you’re checking the trash for evidence?”

“She’s not answering her phone,” he says. It’s the most logical thing he can think of. Sammy’s gotta see that.

“Gee, I wonder why?” Sam’s hand points to the trash can like it’s the small bucket at fault.

And what does a guy say to that? It’s not like he did anything to deserve the silent treatment. “That’s what I wanna know,” Dean says, but the pitch is rather high. Sam was already questioning him in the car earlier. Asking him to just come out and say it over fretting like this. But how could he? It’s ridiculous enough now, yet his gut is flipping and his skin is starting to crawl. 

The only difference between this being you and Lydia is that you are family. A matter of you being harmed in any way whatsoever over a kid he’s not trying to think about. 

He wanted this in the bunker’s bathroom for a fleeting moment, but not like this.

Sam doesn’t react, though. He pulls out his own phone and, from where Dean is standing, brings up your number, dials, and puts the call on speaker. 

Dean holds his breath on the third ring. The cliche kind. The music slowing; the wait for the upbeat rhythm that tells the audience everything’s okay—or the hero is way out of his depth.  

What hope does he have if Sam can’t get through to you either?  Because the dial tone soon rings out.

Though Sam tries again, it still doesn’t get through—and then Dean catches the moment panic sets in Sam’s eyes. Only then does Dean let the panic settle in his own gut. Butterflies, crawling caterpillars—whatever. 

He clenches his jaw. “I’m checking her GPS,” he says.

A/N: Dun, dun, duuuuuunnnn. What can I say? I feel clever ✌️ With this chapter posted, I've hit the minimum 25k word count required (I'm sorry judges) -but there's still two more to go -❤️

Dean Taglist: @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @artemys-ackles @aylacavebear @bejeweledinterludes2 @deans-baby-momma @district447 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean

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In every sense, really, but mostly when it comes to you. Sam reminds him daily, how much of an idiot he is for you. Dean’s been head over heels for you as long as he can remember—just pathetic for you, honestly. He’d do anything you asked, anything you wanted him to do. He’d walk on hot coals, believe anything you told him. That’s dangerous, especially in his line of work. It’s a liability, a weakness to have someone you care about close. It’s almost a death sentence. And Dean knew it.

Dean also knew something was wrong when you’d abruptly left the bar last night without so much as a look in his or Sam’s direction. The waitress was talking his goddamn ear off, and he knew you were getting bristled. For God’s sakes, he was, too. He tried to put his heart into the flirting with her, but it’s been so difficult to lately, especially in front of you. 

With flirting, it’s mostly reflex for him. It’s easy. He’s been doing it as long as he can remember having a conscious thought—whether it was to get information, to get a bed for the night, or just for fun. It was one of the few things he was good at in life. Dean could flirt with anything, if he tried hard enough, but the past few weeks, months, hell, maybe even years, Dean’s head hasn’t been in the game when it comes to flirting someone’s pants off. Even if you’re not sitting next to him, he still feels like he shouldn’t be doing it. 

He’s actually turned down people, which isn’t how the night’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to chat up the bartender, waitress, or whoever, ask them what time they get off, then kick Sam and sometimes you out of the motel for the night. But Dean hasn’t done that in a really long time. He just can’t do it anymore, not with the way he feels about you. He knows how he feels, but he won’t let himself have it. Have you. Yet everything else feels half-assed. Empty. It’s a vicous cycle of self destruction only Dean knows how to do. 

Now, it’s finally come to bite him in the ass with this case.

He’d almost blew it when that stupid sheriff’s officer was talking to you. Dean took one look at him, trying to talk to you in a non-professional manner, and wanted to strangle him. Wanted to kill him, for even looking in your direction. He could do it, too, no problem. He’d do it quick, get you safe, obviously, just so he could have you all to himself. He’d gank that son of a bitch into next week for even having the audacity to fucking breathe in your direction. Was that normal? No. Couldn’t be. But Dean would’ve shot him without another thought, in that moment. Then his nose started bleeding before his hand went to the butt of his gun. And he knew.

He was in the bathroom while you and Sam were waiting for him, trying to stop the nosebleed—and somehow, Dean got it under control. He doesn’t know how. But he knew he couldn’t let this happen to him, not right now. There was a case to be solved—even if he was the next killer. Even if he ended up shooting off the head of the next person that looked in your direction. He fought the urge, plugged his nose, and sucked it up, the way he’s always had to do things. No time for his own personal feelings. He’d figure it out after you guys went to the shithole house that is quite literally your only lead.

So now, you know, thanks to the demon from the bar, that Dean’s ass-up in love with you. But what he wasn’t expecting in his entire lifetime was for you to feel the same. 

See, Dean knew he’d always love you. He’s been prepared this entire time to love you in silence, to push it down deep, even though it hurts. You deserved someone better, anyhow. It wasn’t his place to keep you from getting away from him. Even though he’d sell his soul, again, if it meant spending one more day with you. You’re in his Heaven, and you make his life seem like it means something more than just hunting monsters. You make life seem not so bad, even though Dean has spent the past 3 decades of his life living and believing otherwise. 

He knows he doesn’t show it, these so-called feelings he has. He never shows the people he loves that he does, in fact, love them. He’s gotten reamed out by Sam, Bobby, and sometimes even you yourself when he disrespected you. The first time Dean saw you cry because of him, he wanted to take a swan dive off the nearest surface. Because you were crying over him. He wasn’t worth that. You’ve cried multitudes of times since then over him, over something he said, something he did. He doesn’t necessarily see it, but your face is all puffy and cute the next morning. It softens something inside him and stabs at him all at once. He didn’t deserve you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any fucking lifetime. And yet, you felt the same way about him that he felt about you. All this time.

So that’s why he was shell-shocked, when that demon told you that she’d been trying to get to both of you, but didn’t prevail. He was even more surprised when he kissed you the second time—all he wanted was to make you feel better. He thinks he did a good job, judging by the way you melted into him the second time. You just looked so nervous, so uncomfortable, and he hated that. So he wanted to fix it, like he always does. 

But you did instead.

There’s steam rising from where Envy fell to the ground, the demon-trapping bullet putting her down for the count. Dean stands there, more useless than a sack of potatoes as you finish the job with the demon knife, just… staring. You really are his dream girl: ganking the demon after kissing him senseless, looking hot as fuck. Jesus. And all he did was just sit there and watch. 

You don’t look back at Dean right away, don’t let him see you—because now, he knows. He knows that your feelings for him are strong enough to take advantage of, knows that there is not a single thing that is platonic about the way you feel about him. You killed the demon, and now? You have to deal with your feelings.

You’d take the demon any day.

Somehow, you finally get the courage to look at Dean. You don’t know how, but you do it. But he doesn’t look upset. Or mad. He just looks really, reallysurprised. Like you haven’t been tripping and falling for him since as long as you can remember.

He takes a step towards you after you rise up from the ground. You take a step towards him, too. Dean swallows hard, looking down, then up at you again. It’s like you’re magnets—because soon enough, you’re inches apart again, and not because of a demon this time. You just… click together, like you always do. It’s like your bodies can’t bear to be far from one another for too long, always wanting to be as close as possible. It seems like for as long as you’ve known him, it’s been like that.

Dean can’t think. Can’t fucking speak, can’t do anything but look at you, into your beautiful eyes that are looking right back at him. He thinks you’ve put him under a spell, half the time. You’re lulling him to you, but he’s going willingly, anyway. 

He gets lost in your eyes often, and he’s well aware that he does, but he can’t seem to care. You’re looking at him like you did that one night when he asked you to stay with him, when the nightmares were just too bad. You came to check on him, and you looked at him not with pity, but you looked almost tortured that you couldn’t do anything to help him. You looked at him like you cared, like you saw him for the man he could be, cracked open against his will by his ghosts that lurk in the shadows. You stayed that night, and he’d held you so close and tight that he thought you might pop in his hands. But you didn’t. You just held him too, looking at him with those eyes.

The same ones looking back at him now. 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You look between Dean’s eyes, a million words to say, but none actually spoken aloud. You want to say how you’ve felt about him all this time, that ever since that night you stayed with him and even since before that, you want him. Even if he’s not perfect. It doesn’t matter to you. It feels like you’ve spent the entirety of you frindship with Dean trying to prove to him that maybe, just maybe, you like him for who he is. 

Dean knows, too. Deep down, he knows that you’re the one for him, and some small, hopefull and goddamn childish part knows that you love him. He’s just been too scared to accept that. He’s been too terrified of the cost to admit it to himself—but now that it’s all out in the open, it’s all he wants to do. All he wants to say.

Sam’s muffled voice rings out before either of you are able to work up th courage to speak, calling you both back to the present. You don’t move right away, though. Neither does Dean. You stare at each other for what feels like houlrs, both unwilling to break apart, but eventually, you do. 

You somehow silently agree on not telling Sam what happened. Just that the last demon of the Sins was killed. Sam is unusually quiet the entire ride back to the motel, too—and you’re too tired to ask why. Between running on a few hours of sleep and the emotional toll the case has taken on you, you’re dead on your feet as you slump in the Impala, but you can’t rest. Not really. Not with things left unsaid. 

You’re still tossing and turning an hour after you said goodnight to Sam and Dean, then showered. It’s conflicting—because while every part of you screams to just go and talk to him, you know he’ll close up like a clam. It’s hopeless, and the other part of you knows that it is. A part of your brain believes that tomorrow, Dean won’t bring it up. Won’t look at you any differently, and just pretend like nothing happened. Like he’ll dissmiss his feelings for you simply because they’re too complicated to deal with—because you’re too complicated to deal with. So it’s easier to just bury it down, and to not even try to make the effort to love you.

That’s what sends you outside at 1:28am. 

You’re sitting on the sorry excuse for a bench in the back of the motel—the mosaic of stones digging into the back of your thighs through your pajama pants. The entire charred-yellow lawn behind the building is filled with cigarette butts, strewn about among the weeds. The moon, however, is full and bright above you, high in the glittering starry sky—a dramatic contrast to the wasteland you’re sitting in. Your chest hurts, and it can’t seem to go away. 

So you let yourself feel it. Just for tonight.

Dean can’t seem to sleep, either. He’s been listening to Sam’s quiet snoring for the past 45 minutes, unable to rest—but not because of the lawn mower-like noises coming from his brother. It’s because he’s thinking about you. 

Not like that’s a new thing. He thinks about you all the time, especially when he can’t sleep and his mind wanders—but this is because of what happened earlier. How now, things can’t be the same between you two, no matter how much he pretends it hasn’t. And he can’t seem to get over it. 

Usually, Dean’s been able to move on, for the sake of not only the person he cares about, but for him, too. He’s done it countless times, most of the time before the relationship even starts—yet it’s not coming as quickly this go around. You’re still in his mind, still making him debate if he wants this. Wants you. Dean Winchester doesn’t debate relationships. He doesn’t have them with anyone, period—but you’re changing his mind, somehow. You have captured him in a way no one else has been able to, and have been able to see him, understand him, love him in a way that he craves more than anything on this planet. It’s why he can’t move on or sweep it under the rug, he realizes—because you complete him. 

That’s what sends him outside at 1:44am. 

He stops in his tracks when he sees you sitting on the bench—and for a split second, he debates turning around and going back inside. Dean’s scared, terrified of what to say to you. What happens if it all goes wrong? What if you’re finally sick of him and his bullshit? It’s all he can think, but something inside him tells him to stay.

Dean makes his way to your side. You don’t notice him until he starts to sit down—and you look up at him, then look back down. You can’t face him, not like this. Not when your heart’s being ripped in half. He’s probably here to let you down easy. Probably here to say that what you heard ‘doesn’t matter, because he’s Dean Winchester, and he doesn’t do relationships, or love, or anything remotely’—

“Y’kinda remind me of the moon.”

Dean’s voice rings out, bringing you out of your thoughts, but somehow launching you back into them at the same time with his words.

“Huh?” You say intelligently, blinking up at him again.

“Y’heard me,” He mutters, leaning against the back of the bench as he sits next to you. “You remind me o’ her.”

“Her?” You echo, mostly in disbelief. Who knew Dean Winchester referred to the moon as a woman.

“Yeah, ‘her’,” He mocks back, almost daring you to question him again. He glances over at you before looking back at the moon. “Y’know, pretty, beautiful... jus’ the brightest one of ‘em all. She’s gotta lotta craters, but she’s the best thing in the sky.” 

You look at Dean, your heart soaring, but he’s still looking up at the sky—and you think he’s doing it so he doesn’t have to look at you. He doesn’t look at you again, so you look at the sky, too.

“Yeah, but she’s all by herself,” You remark, noting the double entendre. 

“Yeah,” Dean lements. That backfired. “But don’t think for a second that you are.”

You close your eyes, already starting to shake your head. “Dean—”

“Jus’— Just lemme get this out, alright?” He asks, not looking away from the sky. “Then y’can say whatever. I just… really needa do this.”

You bite back the words in your throat, nodding—and you know Dean sees it in his peripheral when he takes a deep breath in.

“I uh, don’t really like… feelings. I mean, that’s a helluva understatement, but, uh, yeah. I just… I can’t do ‘em. Not good, I mean. Y’know, not in the way I should. Or the— or the normal way. But, uh— Jesus, this is harder than I thought.” He sighs, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Uhm. You make me… feel things. Yeah. Good things, obviously, but it kinda sorta scares the crap outta me. But, uh, I like it. I like bein’ around you. I like seein’ ya everyday. S’just… I dunno. It’s hard. S’like I’m bein’ pulled in two different directions. Part’a me wants to, y’know, feel those things, and the other part wants me to bail. Y’know, run for the hills. Am I makin’ sense?”

Dean finally turns to you—and his face is so vulnerable, so honest, it makes you want to kiss him. You’d been looking at him for a while now, watching him fidget with nothing. He looks smaller, in the moonlight. Reduced to just him, now that there’s no one to perform for. No one to galavant for.

You nod.

“Good. Uh. Well, y’know, I usually let the bailin’ thing win. Jeez, what the hell am I sayin’. S’not usually— ‘s all the time. Every time,” Dean chuckles coldly, the self-deprication dripping from his words. “I bail on everyone. ‘Cause I can’t let ‘em bail on me first. But you… y’stuck with us. With me. All this time. And I… I can’t ignore that.” 

“Dean—”

“What I’m tryna say is, you make me feel things that scare the hell outta me,” he says again. “But I… wanna keep feelin’ ‘em. I like bein’ around you. Y’make it better, bein’ here. Make me better. So I wanna keep bein’ around you. I wanna… well, I dunno.” He shakes his head, scratching at his jaw before straightening, a newfound sense of confidence overtaking him. “No, yeah, I do know. I wanna be with you,” He nods to himself, then looks at you. “I wanna…” 

Dean trails off when his eyes lay fully upon you, his gaze softening completely. You’re looking right back at him, no judgement in your face. No annoyance. No anger. You’re just listening to him.

And it is then Dean needs to say it.

“I love you.”

Your lips part open, his words crashing into you like a wave breaking on a rock. He said it. He said it, and he really means it, because he’s looking at you, searching your face a little frantically now as you stare at him.

You’re frozen, looking at Dean. You blink once, stuck in the same position you’d been looking at him in. You think you’re dreaming, because you haven’t heard those words ever leave Dean’s mouth in the entire time you’ve known him—and now, he just said them to you. After blinking again, you scoot closer to him on the bench, the warmth from his body soaking into your skin. He glances down at your lips when you lean in a little more.

“I love you, too.” 

Now it’s Dean’s turn to blink at you, his mouth parting, too. He short-circuts much like you did, swallowing when he’s able to, then looks down between you before scooting closer to you, a dopey grin spreading on his face when his nose brushes yours.

“Awesome.” 

Your own smile appears on your lips, your forehead pressing against his—and he sighs, melting a little into you at the contact. Dean’s hand finds yours when he looks at you again, his eyes glancing down to your lips.

“I, uhm.” He starts, and you take it upon yourself to scoot closer to him until your legs are touching. “Hey.” 

“Hi,” you murmur back, your free hand finding his shirt—not pulling, just resting your hand on his chest. 

“Hey,” He repeats again, getting a little more nervous once more. “You— uh.” He stutters, eyes flicking down to your mouth again.

“Can I have a kiss, Dean?” You ask, lifting your head off his just enough. 

“Y— yeah,” he nods, leaning in fully now. “‘Course y’can.”

Dean’s lips are soft. Warm. And soft. Softer than you’d imagined them to be—and he kisses you gently, holding you against him. You expected him to be a little rougher, but this is much better. You like Dean kissing you like this. Gentle, but still possessive. Like you’re his. 

Some part of you knew from upon first laying eyes on Dean tonight that you wouldn’t be so ending the rest of the night alone. You take him back to your room to stay with you, even though Sam’ll be asking all kinds of questions in a few hours when you all get up to pack and leave. But for tonight, you’ll stay with Dean beside you. 

Tonight, you’ll sleep soundly.

──────────────────────── 𖤐

Mere weeks after the horrors of harmony, you accompany Ben to his brother's burial and funeral reception—a large event considering he was beloved in the community and known as a hero. Seems the only person you actually recognize is your boyfriend, though he’s been understandably closed off and reserved since he'd gotten the news.

When you step outside for air as he talks to some people you don't know, his father comes to stand next to you on the empty deck, facing the massive yard.

A minute passes before he breaks the silence. "I've known about the apple since the day it happened. You are terrible at climbing trees, even worse at getting helped off 'em."

You turn your head sharply in his direction, eyebrows in furrowed confusion, and he looks at you in amusement. "You think I don't know what goes on under my own roof?" He clicks his tongue. "I thought you would be good for him, that maybe he just needed someone different to show him why he should aim to be the best man he could be."

You cross your arms in front your chest, more for comfort than defense, as you continue to listen quietly.

"Thought with you he’d have more motive to shape up and stop getting sent back from those schools, you seemed like a good enough girl. Your father built some benches for one of my factories, sturdy and reliable. Figured you couldn’t have been terrible bein’ raised by a hardworking fella like that."

He looks away from you and into the yard for a moment.

"I didn’t expect him to go anywhere near the army, after what his brother went through, how he came back. No I thought he’d finally wise up for good. He was supposed to get a respectable job, nice dame on his arm. Get married, have a couple rugrats running around callin' me grandpa. I would’ve handed over the mills to him, keep the legacy going, make our family proud..."

He sighs deeply, his expression dampening as he turns to look at you once more. "But of course, only thing he could manage is the lazy route, the easy one."

At that you can't help but speak up, "It was actually far from easy, believe me. What he went through—"

"Was entirely his decision." He interrupts sharply, and you bite your tongue.

"I don't know how you could've, encouraged that ridiculous train of thought. Super powers? Please. It's not natural, and it's a damn shame he took you down with him sweetheart."

Your jaw clenches, but you opt to keep your silence, mindful of where you were. He shakes his head, clicking his teeth again before taking a step closer.

"I'm telling you this now, he will disappoint you if he hasn't already. Not a matter of why, just of when. It's who he is, it's in his nature—the walking embodiment of what could've been."

A strong arm wraps around your waist moments later, the solid feel of Ben's embrace startling you for a second. He looks between the two of you, at his father's stoic expression, your tense form. "Everything alright?"

His father merely stares, at his son's face, yours, the arm snaked around you and back up into Ben's eyes again. He walks away without a word, but his expression told you both everything you needed to know.

Your eyes stay on him as his form retreats into the crowd, his words lingering in your mind and it takes a hand on your cheek to snap you out of it. "You good?" He murmurs.

"Mhmm." You manage, steeling yourself. Not the time or place to unravel. With a deep breath, you turn to face him and bring your hands up to his shoulders, rubbing them in soft circles. "I'm fine. How're you holding up?"

He wants to question you further, since he was unable to pick up any hints of your conversation outside with all the chatter surrounding them inside. Maybe if he had focused harder, but there's too much going through his own mind—the unit leader for his upcoming assignment let him know he'd be shipping out in a week for the war (or whatever it was Vought really wanted him to do).

You don't tell him what his father said that night.

Even when it's all you're thinking about the longer time goes on, as you slowly watch him slip away from you. Unknowingly proving the words true—not what you wanted, but what happened anyway.

Left with nothing more than the thought of what could've been.

Soon after the funeral and just before Ben got shipped off, the group gets summoned to the building they'd designated as Vought Headquarters.

He still hasn't said much since then, but he keeps a careful eye on you. Full of wonder and questions, surely. You think maybe he doesn't ask because of the lingering guilt he feels, at what happened to you.

The less he knows the better.

You're in a small room—several couches, tables with water and snacks among them filling the space. You watch the others walking around antsy, wondering what this was going to be about, but thankfully it's not long before someone walks in to explain.

"Alright if I could please get everyone to stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder, we have much to discuss regarding your image!"

An enthusiastic woman with an interesting outfit, strong voice and a southern accent sizes you all up eagerly. It's like she's already dressing everyone in her mind. "But of course, where are my manners? My name is Lottie, i'm here to assign your figure names and costumes, courtesy of Vought."

Everyone goes along with it, cautious but not questioning. She starts with names, going down the line that started with the blonde woman and ends with you. She reads each file, asks more about the documented powers, and brainstorms out loud in real time, then assigns the name.

So you can heal injuries? And you look absolutely ethereal my dear, we shall call you Private Angel. Our lovely healer, the perfect combat nurse.

Hmm...super underwater speed, you can breathe down there too, and you're very durable...like a Torpedo. The perfect coastal machine to aid our navy.

Extreme durability...wow. You can fly? It says you have a tendency to land heavy...the most accurate Bombsight we have if you ask me. Air force's best assist.

She gets to Ben, and you can't help but shuffle slightly closer to him. You don't like the way she's eyeing him at all, like she wants to devour him whole. Can't exactly blame her but, still.

Also extremely durable...tremendous super strength, great in combat, toxin resistant...everything a perfect solider should be. Soldier Boy.

Your eyebrows furrow the slightest bit, and she reluctantly turns her attention from him to you, side eyeing your proximity for a moment.

"And you...well the only thing in your file is 'unworldly durability' and 'teleportation'. Not much to work with there...how about you show me? Teleport to the other side of the room." She smiles, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Instead you zap across the space with a purple glow, and back next to Ben in seconds.

Her eyes literally light up with glee.

"Oooo okay okay, bright and sudden...a beautiful hue...unworldly durability...I got it! Like the formation of a new star, you will be known as Nova."

She claps her hands and gets ready to move onto costumes.

Everyone gets moved into the photo room after being given their new outfit—except you.

You're still wearing your black trousers, a silky plum colored blouse under a cute bolero jacket and black slip on loafers. Not that you mind, you're comfortable. Ben can't say the same in his fitted leather costume, but damn if he didn’t look good.

You're standing off to the side with him away from the others, helping with a few adjustments. He watches you quietly, fondness in his chest at the sight of you so focused.

"Mmkay, just gotta secure this here, I think, and—is that too tight? Can you move okay? Talk to me baby i'm flying blind here."

He finally smiles, grabbing your fussing hands in his gloved ones and placing a gentle peck onto them both. "I'm fine, thank you."

You soften in return, taking a breath and smiling nervously back. "Of course." You murmur. "Here, let me help you with these um, goggles?"

"Protective eye wear."

"Protective where, they're literally empty. Like glasses but just the frame." You tease, easing them onto his pretty face anyway. "You look gorgeous."

He huffs. "I do not look gorgeous, I look handsome. Dashing. Unbelievably good looking—"

"And don't forget incredibly humble." You deadpan.

He just smirks. "Of course."

For a moment, it was just the two of you like the old times. Playful banter and tender affection, exactly what you've both missed and needed. But it's interrupted by Lottie walking in with an excited squeal.

"Oh you guys look wonderful!! Fantastic, lets get your pictures taken!"

She ushers everyone except you to the photo backdrop in the corner of the room, and Angel looks in confusion. "Wait, why doesn't she get to be a part of this? And where's her costume? Doesn't seem very fair."

Lottie looks through her chart. "Well, she's not in the notes."

"I'm more behind the scenes, just here to get you guys from point A to B—think of me as your cosmic chauffeur." You explain, and she tilts her head. "So you don't get to be in the pictures?"

You assure her it's fine, and she reluctantly gets into place where Lottie is ushering her to. Ben watches with a slight clench in his jaw, understanding why, but not liking it. You were never meant to be a part of whatever Vought had planned for the group of survivors.

And they certainly weren’t trying to give you any sort of ammunition against them now, but you didn't mind the slightest bit, wanting no part of it. You're still only here to support Ben and for your own comfort.

After everything you just want to be close to him; you're not sure how you'll withstand the time apart. You'll cross that bride when you get there.

They follow Lottie's directions, smile and strike their poses. For about an hour it goes on, group photos and individual until they hear a final shutter and a cheerful clap. "Alright, I think we got it! It'll take about a day to get the results, but I'm sure they're perfect."

Everyone relaxes, wandering around the room, grabbing snacks or talking to Lottie, but Ben goes to bring you closer and stops the photographer from putting away his equipment just yet.

"I want one with her, but not for them. You give it to me when it's ready. Deal?" He hands over a wad of money, and the guy easily agrees.

Your heart warms at the gesture, and he holds you gently from behind, wrapping strong arms around your frame. Your hands lay gently atop of them, both of you smiling softly into the camera.

With a click and a flash, the moment is captured.

As he gathers his equipment up and leaves, Ben still holds you in his arms, turning you around and smirking at the sight of your lovesick face. "What?"

"That was sweet."

"Need something to hold me over during our time apart sweetheart."

"...Okay now it's less sweet, perv." You smack his arm playfully.

He laughs. "Hey I meant that sincerely, whenever the bullshit gets to be more annoying than usual I'll just...look at that picture, let it ground me or whatever. Your face is all I need to see for my heart to be at ease doll."

You snort, face warming up regardless at the cheesy line. "Romantic."

"I agree." He brings a hand up to caress your cheek.

You smile up at him, and he leans down to give you a tender kiss.

Bombsight catches the interaction from where he stands, smiling softly. He'd hope to find something like that someday, he thinks to himself.

After two extra pecks you finally part, and you take his hand in yours as you start moving closer to the group again.

"Okay everyone, if you can please gather 'round, we need to discuss next steps—"

Before Lottie could finish her sentence, something gets thrown through the window, crashing through the glass and releasing a loud and steady blare of high frequency sound waves, affecting everyone in the room.

For you it lasts a couple seconds, then it feels as if your body adjusts to the noise. Still ringing, still feeling some pressure on your ears, but you had enough stability to focus.

With an inhale you look for whatever was thrown in, a small grey device that landed in the middle of the room. You zap yourself over to stomp on it, and the ringing stops for a moment.

Everyone takes a breath, before it starts up again, but this time through the open window. They grunt, moving their hands to cover their ears again and you zap yourself outside in the direction it's coming from.

A burly man stands next to a strange device—looks almost like a record player—facing the building, producing those sound waves. He's startled by your sudden appearance, clearly not expecting you to pop up in front of him like that. "The hell—"

You don't let him finish before you're punching the device, your strength shattering it into silence before it even clatters to the ground. He picks it up, exclaiming angrily. "You dumb broad, look what you did!"

You roll your eyes and grab him by the arm, zapping the both of you back inside. He shakes your hand off and makes the mistake of sucker punching you. You barley even feel it, still, the damage is done.

In seconds Ben is crossing the space and scooping him up by the throat, choking him out. The gadget clatters to the ground, and you zap it onto the empty coffee table before placing a hand on your boyfriend's arm.

"Hey, he can't talk with a broken windpipe, put him down. I'm fine, m'sure his hand hurts more than my face." You say softly, and he looks at you, holding him up for only another moment before he lets him drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

The guy's coughing and wheezing, you take the opportunity to zap yourself and Ben a bit further from everyone, to his discontent. The abruptness of it throws him off. "Don't do that—"

"Are you okay? Your ears are bleeding—"

"Quit fussing, I'm fine." He grumbles but you just sigh, using a soft handkerchief from your pocket to gently clean the blood away.

Around the room, some Vought 'agents' had shuffled in to detain the culprit, Angel reluctantly healing him enough so he could talk on their orders. Another group in suits shuffled in soon after to collect the strange sound devices and take them for investigation.

Everyone was seemingly alright, no permanent damage, and you were all dismissed for the day.

It took some time for the strange phantom feeling of pressure to go away for the both of you, longer for him, taking the time to lounge at home. Something you hadn't done much lately; time with him you cherished despite the circumstances.

He observes you throughout it, when you feel better and start on dinner. As you're eating quietly with him at the table, eyes tired but full of love. You were being gentle with him, showcased especially later with the soothing feeling of your hands on his skin in the shower.

After so much grief weighing him down lately, it felt amazing having someone care for him so tenderly, wholeheartedly and sincere.

You took your time to wash him gingerly, extra careful when you get to his face, and by the time he's able to open his eyes again he can't take it anymore, sliding his hands up to cradle your jaw and bring you into a loving kiss. Not rough, not hungry, just...sweet. Words he'd hardly said lately pouring through his actions the rest of the night.

Calm before a storm.

The day before phase one begins and the team gets shipped off, Fredrick and Clara analyze the fresh photographs in his office, discussing their images and super personas, among other things.

"Everything is in motion, should go according to schedule. How did the fail-safe test go?" He asks his wife, skimming through the individual pictures, before looking at the group ones.

She smiles at first, "They are susceptible to the sound—it affects them enough to slow them down if the need calls for it." She starts to hesitate. "But...the machine was destroyed...and Ritchie was captured. He won't talk, I've made sure of it. We are down a man however."

He takes a deep breath. "Thanks to Nova, I'm assuming?"

She nods, and he clicks his teeth.

"We cannot risk losing everything on the chance that this girl might change her mind, Clara."

"I know, I have a plan."

He rolls his eyes, but she continues. "Isolation. We can't get rid of her, so she has to leave on her own—and the only reason she's even around is because of Benjamin. We separate them."

"Have you not heard the phrase, distance makes the heart grow fonder? Or do you choose not to remember?" He quips in their native language, and she sighs.

"Men like him are predictable, darling." She retorts carefully. "With enough power and distraction, he is sure to gravitate towards things she is no where near interested in. I assure you."

For a long moment, he's quiet, thinking. Looking between his wife and the pictures laying on the table. With a final nod, he simply responds with "We will see."

Saying goodbye was a lot harder than you thought it would be.

You knew it would hurt, but you didn't expect the deep ache in your chest to settle in so quickly at the thought of so much time apart, and the painful silence that followed his departure.

The entire night before had been spent in each other's arms—talking, thinking, feeling. Enjoying each other's presence and affection while you still could, much needed for you both.

Your picture together from the day of the photo shoot came in the mail that morning, and Ben shows you as you're plating breakfast. Two small 3x4 rectangles, one for you and one for him.

You smile at the sight of them.

Quiet music plays on the record player as he holds you close, settled on his lap. Perks of your power—you don't actually have to drive anywhere, which meant he could stay with you until roll call. But the time came eventually, and you parted with a tearful goodbye.

"Be safe, yeah?"

"Baby you realize I'm like, practically indestructible right?"

"Practically." Your pout gets to him, and he rolls his eyes to deflect.

But your hands are still on his cheeks, caressing soft skin, asking him to please come back to you.

And he can't help but soften, assuring you with a gentle kiss and a low murmur. You're stuck with me sweetheart, promise.

A part of you counts that as the last time you really saw your Ben. The version that came back was too hard, too cold. No longer did you see the warmth reserved for you in his eyes or in his demeanor.

Once again his father's words had come to haunt you.

The first few weeks were the hardest.

Without him around your mind was free to spiral, about what you went through at Fort Harmony, about what your life has become.

It's why you accepted small jobs from Lottie—transportation mostly. Easy to stay on schedule, no annoying road trips, no nausea inducing train rides. Just a flash and a brief moment of disorientation, well worth it if you asked her though.

Your first day, you accidentally bump into a guy who was rushing into the building like his ass was lit on fire, zapping right into his path. The box he carried falling—papers scattering everywhere.

"Shit, I'm sorry. You alright?"

He looks a little taken aback, maybe you shouldn't have cursed.

"Woah...where did you come from??"

Oh, right. Your powers.

You busy yourself with picking up some of the papers, helping him gather them back into a pile he plops back into the small cardboard box instead of answering him. He straightens up, clearing his throat as you finally meet his eye. "Sorry about that."

He shakes his head "Oh no problem, it's alright. Probably shouldn't have been rushing like that anyway."

You hum in agreement. "I'm sure they won't fire you for being a few minutes late."

His face drops, suddenly remembering the reason for his rushing. But he didn't wanna leave without introducing himself at least, it was the polite thing to do. "I'm uh, Theo, by the way."

You nod, "You work for Vought?"

"Yeah I'm their new creative director—gonna help them come up with their signature design." He smiles.

You squint slightly. "Isn't that what Lottie does?"

"Well uh, no. She works with the people under Vought, I'm working with them. She takes care of the asset personas and I'm in charge of the company's image as a whole." He rambles, adjusting the box in his arms.

You hum quietly in response, smiling politely as you bid him goodbye. "Well, sorry again, glad you're alright. Have a good rest of your day."

He seems a little disappointed, but smiles back nonetheless. "No worries, really, I'm sorry too. See you around!"

You watch him scurry into the building and sigh.

Barley day one and you're already messing up, you've got to be more careful. Get a firmer grip on your abilities.

The work isn't too bad, though sometimes you're bored out of your mind, which leads to thinking. So you try to multi-task, busy yourself, revel in the distraction. Taking the time to train, to get a better hold of yourself so you don't accidentally hurt anyone.

You're lucky that civilian wasn't carrying hot coffee or something.

Distractions only work for so long though, and you couldn't escape the loneliness taking root in your soul. You needed something soothing, something familiar. It's why you chose to go check in with your parents after weeks of radio silence.

You knew it would go poorly the moment you appeared on the lawn of the house you once called home. Your mother immediately scowling at the sight of you, your dad bracing himself for what he knew was coming.

"How dare you show your face here again."

Your eyebrows furrow, "Mom—"

"No, let me stop you right there." Her voice grows angrier. "You don't think we would've reached out after those suits came down here to tell us what had happened with you if we wanted to? But you made your choice, and it wasn't us. Wasn't a noble profession, or a life where we'd actually become grandparents someday. You took that from us."

A slight tremble in your small cracking voice appears. "I-I didn't—"

"You chose to be a whore, followed that man without a ring on your finger into something you were never supposed to be a part of, and now look at yourself. At what you've become. You were always difficult, but now, instead of someone honorable you're a complete and utter abomination."

That stops anything you had to say, eyes watering.

"The day you left, I officially lost both my kids. Because of you. And i'll never forgive you for that." Her voice wavers, but the venom in her stare remains. "And for what? A rich boy who doesn't give two shits about you. You think he would've done the same for you? He'll toss you aside once you've served your purpose, and you'll think of me when he does."

Your chest feels tight, a stubborn lump lodged in your throat.

"Get the hell off my property, I don't ever want to see you again."

With that she gives you one last tearful look of disdain, before turning around and walking back inside the house.

Tears silently stream down your face, lip quivering as you watch your dad step closer to you after a moment. "Dad..."

Without a word, he takes a small rectangle from his shirt pocket, warm hands placing it into yours before walking away, following his wife.

You unfold it.

It's a picture of you and Max, taken the day of his third birthday when you were only seven, a simpler time. Your dad had saved up so much for this photo, working extra jobs and holding on to the little memory in his shirt pocket, close to his heart, for decades.

The way he just gives it to you now, no hesitation, no problem...it hurts yours in a way you didn't think was possible.

You'd always been closer to him, especially after the accident that claimed your brother's life, and the resentment your mother started to feel towards you began to build. The annoyance, the hatred. For having the audacity to survive since her son couldn't.

He was always there to hold you, to remind you it wasn't your fault, to make you feel better. Now he can't even stand the sight of you in a photograph.

That's the last time you see either of them.

After a few months of working for Lottie here and there, a few members of the unofficial team come back to town—except for Ben.

He's still busy, one of the managers had told you. But it seemed strange. Bombsight and Angel came back, why couldn't he?

Your new assignment was transporting them to wherever Vought needed them to go. Meetings, events, more meetings, commercial sets, whatever.

You stayed hidden in the shadows, doing your job quietly. At first you did ask about Ben, when Bombsight introduced himself officially and thanked you again for helping him when they initially got to Harmony.

"They separated us, to be honest. Also I spent more time in the skies than on the ground. But I will say, when I was around the base I'd see him practically glued to Clara's hip. Not sure what that was about."

It made you feel sick.

You could teleport to him...you think. The problem comes with obtaining his exact location. In order to go somewhere, you need to know where you're going. You're still learning to navigate these abilities.

Slowly you start to bond with Bombsight—Robbie. Angel was polite but kept her distance for reasons unknown to you both. You didn't take it personally though, she was still nice.

Robbie was kind, very respectful. He'd listen to you talk about Ben, hearing you vent about how much you miss him. You'd be there for him too, hearing him out on his own issues; familial ones, frustrations about his love life. It felt like you were gaining an actual friend for the first time in a long while.

Then he randomly gets reassigned again, somewhere nobody wouldn't tell you. Makes you wonder if it was intentional. You're not stupid, you know the only reason Vought has kept their end of the truce is so you don't retaliate. Doesn't mean they can't be petty though.

Overtime you take less jobs, opting to stay home instead despite Lottie and her team's annoyance. They couldn't make you go though and the sadness was starting to drain your energy more with each passing day.

By the time Ben did come home, months later, you were almost a complete shell of who you once were. Of the bright eyed girl he fell in love with, the woman who followed him to hell because of what she felt for him in her heart.

Peace and quiet with your love was all you wanted, all you craved.

You didn't realize how hard he was trying to cope with the conversation he just had with his old man, you couldn't have possibly known that his first stop wasn't the house—it was his old one, where we went to talk to his father. Hoping to have finally made him proud like all the people cheering for him in the streets. But he was hit with a cruel reality when his father expressed nothing but disgust and disappointment.

Saying that he cheated, took the easy way out. Telling him those powers didn't matter cause he would let everyone down eventually, including you if he hasn't already.

And when he got home to you telling him that they should run away from everything he just accomplished? It struck a nerve you didn't know had formed. You didn't mean to. But there was no shaking the voice in his head reminding him of his father's words.

He hated that some of them rang true, worried him. Because if they all rang true, everything he's done with his life thus far, what he's accomplished, would mean nothing at all.

He just didn't realize what he was trying to avoid, became the reality for you. Everything you'd done, what you went through, for the sake of staying with him, reduced to nothing in a single night.

When you decided you wanted to disappear, you meant it.

So after you'd cried your heart out on an empty beach, you waited until you caught your breath. You checked that the picture of you with Max, and the picture of you with Ben were still carefully tucked into your pocket. The only two possessions you carried, only ones you cared about. You looked up into the sky, thought long and hard. Took one deep final breath, and zapped yourself onto the moon.

It worked, to your surprise. But beyond that, you took another deep breath as you stood on the new ground. You were completely fine.

As trippy as it was, it's a welcomed distraction. You were always fascinated by the stars, by space and the unknown. Now here you were, able to start knowing them. First hand, authentically, no limitations (within reason, of course). It felt freeing in a brand new way, like a newfound purpose with no barriers.

Who had jurisdiction on the moon? No one.

So you settled your affairs on earth, quietly. Took all the money you'd earned, bought a small property in California. It was really cheap because of the location—a small house surrounded by grass and trees, next to a beautiful lake. An isolated location, surrounded by land. Difficult, nearly impossible to get to by car. The roads that led to it super tricky to maneuver, it's why the owner wanted to sell so urgently.

Clearly getting to it wouldn't be a problem for you. And it gave you an extra sense of security, a win win.

From there you fixed it up, made it cozy, your home.

You took the skills you'd learned from your dad, built a nice bench to sit on outside and watch the lake. Even planted a tree behind it, making sure it was far enough from the water so the roots could grow comfortably but close enough to enjoy sitting near it.

Your teleportation was your greatest asset, your lifeline. You didn't feel trapped anymore—caged in a bubble or a pawn in somebody's game. Hidden from Vought and from anything that had to do with such a painful past, you finally felt free.

Certainly bittersweet, but ultimately better than you've been in a very long time.

Ben couldn't say the same about life without you.

At first he brushed it off, feeling odd but focusing on the attention he was getting. Everyone wanted a piece of him, even the proposal of a day being named after him floating around. Clara was all over him since learning of your sudden departure, pushing him to be the face of whatever project she was cooking up.

But it caught up eventually.

It was in everything. How the house was just silent all the time now. No jokes he could easily laugh at, no genuine conversations. Everybody around had a motive behind their words, all wanted something from him. He could see right through them.

Even within the team they were more formally putting together come the 50s, there were no sincere connections. Angel was polite, she never made any moves on him. Robbie was getting more annoying by the day and Torpedo, well...he never talked much. To anyone.

All he could think of the more years passed and the more shit went down, was how much he missed you. The regret eating away at him throughout the decades, after Clara broke it off for good because he "couldn't fulfill her vision", whatever the fuck that meant.

Long after the team disbanded, it's short but chaotic run.

Even during his time with Payback in the eighties, when he was with Countess trying to have a semblance of the life he once discarded, all he could think about was you. Your softness, your light. He could only hope you were having somewhat of a good life, wherever you were.

And when he's in captivity, it's not Countess or Clara he thinks about—it's you. Wishing nothing more than to see your face one more time, not only in his memories. He knows if he was given that chance, he would do anything not to fumble it, again.

back in the present

Your hand is still trembling a bit when you slowly ease it back, out of his grasp and close to your chest.

He looks like he wants to protest, but knows he has no right to contest anything. "Are you alright? The hell was that."

You nod. "M'fine, just used a good bit of energy." You start to walk past him, but he places a hand on your arm, uncharacteristically gentle.

Whatever he's going to say gets cut off with a tired sigh, as you carefully shake it off. "Ben I didn't come here for you, okay? If it had been up to me, we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now."

Ouch. Don't lash out, he reminds himself.

"I just...it's been so long."

A contemplative hum escapes you. "It has. Do you remember why?"