Books, Writing, & Random Things!

You had wandered back to the makeshift dinner table and were now clearing up the plate, spoon and cup that had been left behind in the wake of the meal. There wasn't a lot of mess, so you let your mind wander as your hands got to work wiping and cleaning and washing. You spare only a second thought to the mandalorian, you know he's up in the cockpit at the moment, he so rarely shows himself during the child's dinner time—he proves to be a distraction more than anything else, to both you and the child—but it's clear to you that he wishes to be more present during meal times. Sometimes you think about how heavy the weight of his creed must be, and how it must hurt that he can't sit and eat with his family—the child... and you hope yourself—at mealtimes.

A deep thudding stirs you from your thoughts, your eyes feel heavy and the whip of wind is rattling against the outside of the crest—you must have landed somewhere, too preoccupied to notice. You turn your head towards the sound and you see the mandalorian disappearing down the hallway. He pokes his head through one doorway, as silently as he can, checking on the little one. You can hear the lightest of snores if you listen closely, and a smile graces your features at the thought of the mandalorian watching over the child as he sleeps.

The door to the child's sleeping quarters shuts softly, and the mandalorian spares a quick glance over to you—although you don't believe he will actually be able to see you properly, you still smile—before turning the other way and disappearing down the hallway. You lose sight of him quickly, and although you hear the far away sound of a door opening and closing you don't give it much thought.

You've just about finished clearing up when the sound of footsteps comes back into focus again. You don't turn to look this time, you've just got one last glass to put back in its place and then you'll be free to put yourself to bed for the night. You hear the mandalorian scuffling around behind you, then a soft pat, and then the sound of footsteps continues and he's leaving again, disappearing back down the hallway as fast as he had arrived. You're puzzled, but don't pay it too much mind. He's tired, and you all have a busy week ahead, you need all the rest you can.

You sigh, a good sigh, one that says ah, finally, I have finished my little tasks and I'm free to rest. The wind whips against the side of the crest again and it sends another shiver over you.

God, when did it get so cold?

You stretch your arms out in front of you, trying to get your muscles to relax a little and–my god, my hands! they're freezing!

You turn, intent on getting yourself into bed as fast as you can, when a flash of blue invades your periphery. You look around, as if trying to find the owner of this mysterious blue square or perhaps looking to make sure they wouldn't catch you as you wander slowly towards it. (Of course, you know who the owner is, if it's not yours—and it isn't—then there aren't really many other options for whose it can be). It’s possible, you suppose, that it could just be an old rag used for cleaning, or maybe discarded material from one of the mandalorian's old capes, although it's more likely to b—

Oh.

Oh.

It's a blanket. Soft, navy, and a little tatty on the edges, but it's definitely a blanket.

You shiver again.

But... Did I forget that I brought that out with me? Surely I would've–

Oh.

A second realisation hits you.

Your cheeks warm and suddenly all of the Mandalorians shuffling and disappearing into doorways makes sense.

He was looking for this blanket.

Looking for this blanket, for you.

two, the breakfast —

Your eyes flutter open, and the gentle, warm light from the corridor floods your vision as you slowly sit up in your bed. You blink at the clock on the shelf next to your head, and it blinks back at you:

0822

You yawn. It's not late by any meaning of the word, but it's enough of a lie-in that your heart thumps a little faster than normal at the thought of the child patiently waiting for you to get him his breakfast. Mando would be busy by now; flying and plotting a course in the cockpit, talking with people about possible jobs on the spare comm-link in the far left side of the crest, cleaning his weaponry, or one of the other hundreds of things he busies himself with on the days he finds himself without a bounty to chase. You know he'd love to spend his mornings with the little fellow, talking with him and feeding him and cleaning up after him. But Mando's never been one for slow mornings, always preferring to get up and immediately start trying to provide.

You burrow to the bottom of the small cabinet by your bed, rooting around for a fresh set of clothes. You suppose it's possible that the child won't have even woken up yet, last night wasn't the easiest night for him. It was the first night in a while that bedtime had fallen while the crest was still mid-flight, which meant that Mando was tied up in the cockpit and you were on bedtime duty solo. And, to be fair to the little man, he had done well to begin with, you barely even noticed a change from his normal bedtime behaviour until the crest went through what you can only think to describe as a heavy patch of turbulence and then it all went a bit lopsided from there.

His blanket slipped out from his grasp, just as he was drifting off. The chill must have woken him up and even though the blanket was only separated from him for a few seconds it had snapped him back to being wide awake and you had had to calm him down once the ship began to shake again. The metal walls had been creaking, it had been loud enough to freak you out as well, so you tucked yourself up next to the child and ran your hand soothingly up and down his side while reciting to him his favourite type of story—a story about the brave, strong Mandalorian who fights bad guys and keeps his family safe on his big, fun spaceship.

You think you managed to get yourself to bed at just after 3 o'clock this morning. Mando was still flying the ship when you tucked yourself into your own bed and you had wondered briefly about when he planned to sleep before your tiredness had overtaken you and you had drifted off.

The smell of food is the first thing you notice as you slip out of your room. It's not strong, nor is it a burning smell, but it's there, and it's food, and it makes you uneasy.

Your emotions hit you in waves, first, the panic (that the child has somehow gotten his way into the kitchen and is making food on his own), then the anxiety (that he will end up hurting himself and all because you had slept in), next the guilt (that you had allowed yourself to be selfish and now the child was potentially in danger) and then, finally, the relief.

You sigh heavily when the kitchen comes into view. There is the child, happily playing with his homemade spaceship toy, there is a three quarters empty plate lying an arms length away from him on the table and there's a glass of juice placed next to it.

He is fine.

"Morning." Mando says. His voice is deep and it sends heat across your face.

"Good morning." You reply, smiling at them both.

Your eyes meet Mando's visor and he nods at you before turning away, busying himself once again. You walk gently towards the child and he coos as you sit in the seat next to him. You now realise that the scattered bits of food left on his plate are bits of pancake, blueberry pancakes by the look of it, and you feel your stomach pang with jealousy.

"And how was your breakfast this morning little one?" You run a finger behind his ear, which earns you a delighted giggle. "It looks delicious."

You turn your head back towards Mando, about to ask him if he has had anything to eat yet, and if he managed to sleep last night at all, but when you look over to where he was a moment ago you are surprised to find that he has disappeared. Your eyebrows furrow, a question ghosts your lips, and you're about to stand when your eyes glance upon something perched on the table.

A full plate of food is sat merely an inch from the tip of your fingers.

You glance around the room again, but you know Mando has already slipped away to some remote corner of the ship. Your stomach growls, and you suddenly realise just how hungry you truly are.

The food is for you, there's no question. The plate is coupled with your favourite caffeinated beverage and the pancakes are garnished with a singular piece of fruit—the one you had ogled at during your last market visit.

You didn't know Mando had gone back for that...

You had wondered that afternoon why he had left you and the child at the baked goods stall, he so rarely leaves the two of you unattended while you are out. You had thought maybe he was getting word on a bounty and didn't want the child to overhear. But as you stare now at the mouth watering piece of orange fruit in front of you, you can't help the warm feeling that blossoms in your chest.

I never even told him this was my favourite fruit. How did he know?

three, supply run —

There's something wrong.

You can't quite put your finger on it, but in the last few weeks you have felt… off. The bed you sleep on that usually has you drifting off within minutes now feels lumpy and hard. The blanket that never fails to give you comfort now makes you agitated and irritated. Your favourite part of the day, meal time during the evening, now leaves a sour taste in your mouth (and it's not the food).

Something is wrong. You just feel wrong.

And you know Mando has noticed. You catch him staring at you when he thinks you're not looking, when he thinks you're too preoccupied to notice him. He's always watched over you and the child, he's your protector, and he knows that if you’re safe then the child is safe too. But it's different now, not bad, just... different. His gaze isn't fleeting anymore, you think it watches you as you move about the crest, just trying to go about your day—help the child, prep the crest, sort through the mess of Mando's inventory—and it makes your chest ache.

You feel something tickle your cheeks as you move silently towards the cockpit. Tears sweep across your skin, as warming as they are confusing. The child is resting peacefully in his cot and it gives you some extra time to mull over your supposed wrongness. And, unsurprisingly, that makes you feel worse.

You can tell by how the crest is moving that you're about to land somewhere, you should probably pause and take hold of something for balance, but something deep inside you is spurring you forwards, telling you to keep moving towards the cockpit. And so you do.

The light is harsh as you enter through the doorway, it takes your eyes a second to adjust to the change. Mando huffs out a small greeting and you do the same. You take a step forward, about to ask where the pilot has landed the crest today, and what his business will be here, when your eyes finally pay attention to the view in front of you.

"Mando... are we in my hometown?" Your voice is thick with emotion, you swallow hard in an attempt to regain control over your voice, but your waterline is already lined with tears and they're threatening to fall fast.

He doesn't look at you, still fiddling with the controls as he docks the ship and sets her to park. "I–" He coughs, something burns within his chest. His focus is still on the console and so his words tumble out in a rather clunky way. "I... I–it was just an–uh, yeah–I thought that it'd be a good stop for supplies." He finishes. His cheeks feel hot and he's worried that he just made a complete fool of himself, but when he turns to face you—the crest now completely still and parked—he finds your eyes are still trained on the view from the window.

He notices the tear stains on your cheeks, and the way you are trying too hard to steady your breathing, but he says nothing. He brushes past you on his way out of the cockpit and his breath hitches, his fists tighten and you apologise in a dazed way as he steps around you.

The opening beeps of the cockpit door snap you out of your trance and your eyes flick around the room wildly. You brush your tears away, hoping that Mando didn't see them—but deep down, knowing that it would've been impossible for him not to—and your eyes meet his visor again. You're shocked to find him already looking at you, or more accurately, you're shocked that he didn't turn his head away when he saw your head moving around to face him.

"Supplies, you say?"

Your voice already sounds brighter to Mando's ears, and he smiles to himself—thankful just this once that you can't see past his metal headgear. You are able to read him better than anyone else he knows, and a little voice in the back of his head is telling him that the look on his face right now would be impossible to read as anything other than what it is—adoration.

Mando nods before turning away, leaving you alone in the cockpit while he preps the few things needed for a market visit. And you sigh, mind reeling over the possibilities of showing Mando your home again, already feeling lighter than you had a mere 5 minutes ago, and your wrongness is now being drowned out as you follow the mandalorian's footsteps and exit the cockpit.

four, the chores —

You finish wiping the blade and place it down gently onto the fabric you had laid over the table. The pile of assorted guns and daggers, along with the three spears and singular pulse rifle, is rather large now. The two small, circular shields (that you've never once seen be used by anyone) are also polished, although you were unable to pop out the large gashed dent that covers almost the entire left side of one of them.

You feel a slight twinge in your foot, the beginning of a cramp, and you jump up quickly, shaking your leg wildly and trying to stop the string of curses that are desperate to leave your lips. The room is oddly silent, apart from your grunts of pain, the music box sits an arms length away, you must not have noticed when the record stopped... You hesitate, torn between hitting replay and leaving it silent, but the decision is made for you when you look at the clock and see just how late it is.

I've been working for... how long?!

Your heart suddenly thumps wildly, your foot cramp long forgotten, and you move quickly from the table to the weaponry, your arms full with as much as you can manage to carry.

God, how could that have taken so long? I've still got to change the sheets on all of our beds, give the child a bath, wipe up the cooking area and oil up a few of the door hinges!

Your movements are hurried, and you manage to get everything back into its rightful place within 5 minutes (although you do almost lose a finger once or twice). You rush towards the basket that holds your bedding... but you don't see any.

Huh?

You bury your hands between the odd capes and spare blankets, searching for those familiar sets of bedding, and your hands come back empty. You huff, confused and a little ashamed that you've somehow misplaced the bedding, and you decide to just go to the kitchen and start wiping up instead, to take your mind off of it.

But when you get to the kitchen, the whole place is spotless! The cooker is polished and the plates and bowls from breakfast and lunch are all clean and placed back in their spots in the cupboard (and you definitely know this, because you checked each and every cupboard and counted the number of dishes... twice!). Even the sink is empty!

You spin around on your heel, deciding to go find the child, who should be in his playroom this time of the day, and take him to the washroom for his bath. Safe in the knowledge that at least this will be one thing you are actually able to do, and still confused as to why you haven't been able to complete anything else on your checkless since lunchtime...

But the child is not in his playroom. And now you're really worried. You race around the ship, sticking your head into every room you can think of, only to find the child is not in any of them. Your feet refuse to stand still and they carry you (almost subconsciously) towards the washroom, and as you get closer and closer you begin to hear the familiar sounds of an excitable child and the splashing that comes along with said child in a bath.

The door opens with a whack! and you grimace at how loudly the sound echoes through the room. Mando turns towards you, he is kneeling next to the tub, his armour is nowhere to found and he instead dawns a loose undershirt, a pair of dark trousers and his beskar helmet.

"Sorry." You whisper, as if trying not to wake a sleeping baby. Your eyes flit from Mando to the child, and back again. "You're bathing him."

Mando nods.

"You didn't ha—"

Oh.

And that's when it dawns on you.

"And you also changed the bed sheets?" You question, although you think—hope (dreading the potential embarrassment that will come if you’re wrong)—you already know the answer.

"Yes." He replies. He's not looking at you but it feels like his eyes are looking straight through you.

"And the kitchen..."

"Yes, that was me."

"Oh. Okay, thank you." Your voice is small, but it's hard to fight the smile growing on your face.

Mando turns to look at you briefly, "you don't need to thank me," and then he's gone again, back to giving his full attention to the little guy hiding amongst the bubbles.

"I-" You start, but you don't know what to say. Thank you anyway? I owe you one? You didn't need to do that for me?

Your thoughts swirl. There is so much you could say to Mando right now, and lord knows there are plenty of other things you could busy yourself with, but the look on the child's face when he saw you enter had your heart glowing and the opportunity to sit and enjoy a nice—if slightly wet—moment with Mando in relaxed mode was something you couldn't turn down.

five, babysitting —

Breathe... Just breathe. You tell yourself over and over again.

She's not even technically late yet, you and Mando—Din, to you now—had agreed on a midday pick up and here you were at... a quarter to the hour freaking out over nothing. He trusts her, he's known her for years at this point and hell, even you've met her– what... 2? 3 times now?

Everything is fine.

So why do you feel so on edge?

You hear the familiar clanging of the ship door as it opens, followed by echoing footsteps and the beeps of the door closing. Din comes to rest next to where you stand, his shoulder almost touches yours and you know, even without looking, that his eyes are trained on you right now with that familiar tilt of the head that he does so often.

Din can sense your nerves, even before he saw you he could tell something was different this time. He usually comes down to the bottom of the ship and finds you tinkering with something during the last few minutes of the child's miscellaneous playdates. He usually walks out of the ship door with you and wanders down the ramp while you perch on the edge with your legs dangling down beneath you. Sometimes he strikes up a conversation, other times you ramble about the child, and occasionally the two of you wait in a comfortable silence.

But not this time.

He felt uneasy when he came towards the ship door and he didn't spot you, even more so when he came outside to wait with you at the bottom of the ramp and you didn't say as much as a word to him.

He sees the anxiety you feel, it's written on your face as plain as day. You keep readjusting how you stand—left foot crossed in front of the right, then both feet facing straight with your knees in line and then back to left foot in front of the right—and whenever you do pause your movements Din can see your ankle bouncing up and down. You've had your arms crossed in front of your chest since he came to join you and your finger keeps tapping your elbow in a rather rhythmic pattern.

Tap. Taptaptap. Tap tap.

You know you shouldn't be as worried as you are, after all, you have no legitimate reason to feel so scared. Peli is a perfectly safe person for the child to be with, she invited him over for a playdate with her two young nieces—and you've actually met them, and they are quite sweet, if not a little excitable (but what kid isn't?)—and she's even babysitted him before as well, when you and Din have had to go away for a bounty together.

The thumping in your chest begins to get louder and it feels as though your heart is about to leap out from your throat. You can barely breathe. Your chest starts to heave and your knuckles turn white from how hard you are gripping onto your shirt sleeves. You don't know what—

Something touches your arm and you almost yelp in surprise. You glance to your right, ready to jump or flee or fight. But all you see is Din's helmet, head tilted, looking at you. You can only imagine the expression on his face—pity? Confusion? Sympathy?

You straighten your head. His hand doesn't leave your arm.

You take a deep breath.

Just beyond the nearest hill the faintest outline of a person begins to appear. They walk slowly, but undoubtedly in your direction, and they seem to be holding two things. One is a bag, you think. And the other is...

"They're back," you sigh, your voice is small but excited, and full of relief.

The tension is already beginning to lift from your shoulders. Din's hand is still resting on your arm, and if you hadn't been so distracted by the figure in front of you, and if you hadn't been wearing such a thick jacket, you would have felt his thumb rubbing small circles delicately across your arm. He only does it for a few short seconds, but he does it nonetheless.

Once Peli comes into better view you give her a wave and a smile, she waves back and then the child's hand peaks out of his sleeve and he waves back as well. It's enough to cause the smile on your face to widen, and you even let out an almost silent chuckle. Din slips his hand from your arm wordlessly, thinking that you probably wouldn't want his touch any longer and he takes a step away from you just as Peli arrives. He gives her a quick nod and then leaves the two of you to exchange pleasantries, quietly sneaking off to the crest's ramp and not so sneakily opening the crest door—the clanging is an issue; he wonders briefly if he should ask Peli to fix it soon.

six (one b), the bad job —

Din knew something wasn't right with this mission from the get go. There was something shifty about how the guy had spoken, demanding repeatedly about how both Din and you were necessary for what was needed. The man—Din has forgotten his name now, like it even mattered to begin with—had approached him just after he'd been turned down by another barman when he'd asked about possible jobs. The man was fast. Too fast. But Din had brushed it off at the time, too keen to get the job, too keen to earn some money again, too keen to get you and the child off this godforsaken planet.

Too keen to notice when the barman had signaled to the guy sitting at the table by the door, a small wink and a thumb pointed unsubtly in the Mandalorians direction.

“Din–Din, please. Are you there?” You curse, smacking the comm link against the wall and hoping the whack isn't hard enough to break the stupid little device.

“Ar–there–I–ca–hea–” Din’s voice hisses through the comm, followed by a high pitched whining noise that makes you jump back in surprise.

A strangled laugh escapes your throat, it’s thick with fear, and a half conscious thought flits across your mind—that if someone was listening and trying to find your location that the sound of your laughter would be a dead give away, and you’d be… well–dead.

You smack the comm against the wall twice more, for good measure.

“I’m here, Din, please–Maker–please hear me.” You beg, your voice is hoarse.

Multiple nearby blaster shots cause your head to snap upwards, sure that if you could just see the end of the alleyway, hear the sound of people milling around the market, smell the fresh baked goods at the stalls, your heart wouldn't be beating as fast as it is right now.

But the thing that would reduce your anxiety the most, allowing you to take a breath or a moment to recompose yourself, would be if you were able to see Din.

"I hear you, I'm here." Din's voice breaks through the blaster noise.

Another shot lands to your right and you retreat further into the corner between the wall and the crate that you're crouched behind. Your dominant hand holds your blaster tightly, your knuckles are pale. The cool metal against your palm keeps you focused, as you rise onto your knees to get a better aim another shot races past your ear. You waste no time in firing a returning shot and the stupid bastard goes down within 2 seconds.

Serves him right for not ducking down after firing at me, amateur.

“Cyar'ika?"

You're about to respond when you hear a loud crash. The loose pebbles on the street floor start to vibrate, sending a shiver down your spine. The noise is almost loud enough to drown out your own thoughts. Your resolve cracks when you realise the reason for the sudden lack of shots fired.

They've got a heavy repeating blaster cannon. And they're somehow pushing it down the alley you're trapped in.

"Din, I-" You cough, a lousy attempt to get your voice under control. "I don't want to die."

Your voice cracks on the last word, your mouth is suddenly as dry as a rock in the desert.

It feels like eternity before you hear Din's voice again, your only company the static sound from the comms and the low rumbling as the cannon makes it way closer to you. There's nowhere for you to run, you can't press yourself any further backwards, you have no jet pack, no grenades, no fire blaster and you never even said goodbye to the kid. God.

Tears fill your eyes, you bring a shaky hand towards your face, about to confess through the comm link something that you wish you'd had the guts to confess when you weren't 2 inches from death, when the familiar static is interrupted.

"You're not going to die, cyar'ika, I won't let that happen. I'm going to get you out of this, even if it kills me."

"Din, please-" You start, about to beg him to stay away, to tell him to think of Grogu. He can't lose his mother and father figure in one day, he just can't.

"Don't tell me to stay away." He interrupts, his voice hoarse, "this is my fault, if I'd been more careful, done my duty, then you would never have been put in this position-" He cuts himself off, you hear him take a deep breath.

"But-" You try.

"No," his voice is firm, "I'm coming for you and I'll be leaving this planet with you. The child still needs you and... I still need you."

If you had the capacity to think about anything other than the group of mercenaries currently moving towards you, then you might have questioned the last part of Din's sentence. You might have blushed and wondered at what he could mean, you may have even considered the possibility of him returning your feelings... But the sudden silence around you had your thoughts billowing towards one conclusion, and it wasn't good.

"Din... The cannon–god, help me–the cannon–they"ve stopped pushing it. I can hear them readying it."

You gulp and ready your blaster, not willing to go down without a fight.

"When I tell you to duck, you duck, okay?"

"What?" You question.

"I told you, I'm getting you out of here." Din curses and you hear the sound of blaster shots again, but this time they're coming though the comms link.

"Din, what are you doing? Maker! I told you to protect the child!" You try, pleading to the stubborn mandalorian.

"The child is safe. It's your turn now." He states, giving you almost no room to argue.

Almost.

The blaster shots continue over the comm link. You hear the mercenaries up the alleyway begin to ready their cannon, but before they have a chance to fire—

"Duck! Now." Din demands.

You obey immediately, falling backwards onto your ass and tucking your head between your knees. Your blaster still sits in your hand.

The muffled sound is hard to place but the vibrations through the floor and the dust movements between your legs are easy to follow. You lift your head and rise to your knees just as a dark figure emerges from the cloud of dust. You drop your gun immediately when your anxiety ridden brain finally allows you to recognise the familiar glint of beskar in front of you.

You jump to your feet and slam yourself against the mandalorian with no regard to your body. His armour is hard, it almost knocks the wind out of you, but no pain or threat of attack could have stopped you from seeking out your chosen solace once you locked eyes on him.

"I'm here, cyar'ika, I'm here." He pauses and hesitates for only a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

From what he can see of you you seem to be mostly unharmed, just a few small scrapes across your arms and a large bruise across your cheek. He knows you'll need a cool press against your face soon or you'll run the risk of the bruise swelling badly, but the cuts are manageable and he'll be able to leave them a little longer before dealing with them.

"You're okay," he whispers.

You're unsure if he's reassuring you or reassuring himself, but you nod.

"Yeah, I'm okay. We're okay." You whisper against his chest.

Din swallows, his fear about your safety finally easing, his chest suddenly feeling not as tight as it had 5 minutes ago.

"Hold on, it's time I take you home."

You nod again, squeezing your arms tighter around Din's waist and looping them through the holsters and belts he wears at his sides. As the two of you begin to rise you manage to catch a glimpse of the alleyway. It's as you expected. The bodies of the four mercenaries lie surrounding their weapon, and the weapon itself has been blasted into several small pieces, one of which is lodged into the chest of the one that was closest to it.

You shudder, turning your head away from the mess as you continue to rise higher and higher.

The higher you fly the more the ache and anxiety in your chest eases. And when you land aboard the razor crest and lay your eyes on Grogu you find the only pain left is physical, and you're finally able to take a breath—unaffected by the anxiety and adrenaline of battle, safe and content with your family once again.

You wiped down the bar counter for what felt like the hundredth time that night, your fingers aching and your back screaming from hours on your feet. The bar was buzzing with the usual mix of regulars, college kids pretending to be older than they were, and out-of-towners who thought this dive was “quirky”. You didn’t mind the job… Tips were decent, the hours worked around your classes, and for the most part, people kept their hands to themselves.

Except him. Dean.

Six weeks. That’s how long he’d been walking through those doors like he owned the damn place, sliding into the same stool every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday without fail. Sometimes you swore he knew your schedule better than you did. And every time, without missing a beat, he'd flash that smug, infuriating smile—the one that probably melted panties all over the country—and say something borderline charming, borderline obnoxious.

“Hey there, sweetheart. Miss me?”.

He had the look, too. Broad shoulders, cocky green eyes that sparkled with too much amusement and a voice that made even your more bitter regulars sit up straighter.

You hated even more that he noticed everything about you.

You knew exactly what kind of guy Dean Winchester was. He reeked of the type. The kind who'd spend weeks getting under your skin, charm you into a drink, a laugh, your bed… and then be gone by morning, leaving behind nothing but the ghost of a great orgasm and a scent you couldn’t scrub out of your sheets.

You’d seen it happen. Hell, it had almost happened to you more than once. So you’d built walls, high ones. You served him his whiskey. You gave him your best fake smile. And when he leaned in a little too close, smelled a little too good, said something that danced a little too close to making your heart flutter, you reminded yourself: He’s temporary. You are not.

And yet… he kept showing up.

And tonight, he looked like he was here for more than just a drink.

You almost didn’t recognize him at first.

He pushed through the bar doors like always, confident, casual, but this time, the walk had a limp. His jaw was swollen and bruised on one side, the skin around one eye red and starting to puff. His bottom lip was split, just barely scabbing over, and his right hand was taped across the knuckles, like he’d gone a few too many rounds with someone that didn’t go down easy.

And still, still, that cocky son of a bitch smirked like he’d just walked off a goddamn modeling gig.

He dropped onto his usual stool with a small grunt, like even sitting hurt, and leaned on the bar with a wince. Then he looked up at you with those stupid, soul-searching green eyes and said, voice hoarse but teasing: “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You should see the other guy”.

You stared at him, unimpressed. “That line would’ve hit better if you didn’t look like the loser”.

He chuckled, and even that sounded rough, like smoke scraping through gravel. “Ouch. You wound me”.

“Not as much as someone else clearly did”, you said, nodding to his busted face. “Bar fight? Or did a jealous husband finally catch up to you?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tapped two fingers gently on the bar. His usual signal for a double whiskey. And like muscle memory, you poured it without asking. You hated that part, how easily he’d slipped into routine here, how it was starting to feel like something normal.

Dean took the glass, his movements a little slower than usual, like every inch of him hurt. Probably did. He raised it in a small salute, then knocked the whole thing back in one go.

“Jealous husband?”, he finally said, licking his cracked lip. “Nah. I learned to spot those a mile away”.

You narrowed your eyes. “So what was it then?”.

He hesitated.

And for the first time in six weeks, Dean Winchester didn’t have a smartass comeback. His gaze dropped to the bar, and something flickered across his face, something dark. Tired. Haunted.

“Just… a job gone sideways”, he said.

You blinked. A job? He worked construction. Or mechanics. Or some nonsense he’d mumbled once between shots and flirts. But that look in his eyes, the way his whole body screamed not okay, it didn’t match someone who just had a rough day with a wrench.

And for some reason, that unsettled you more than all his stupid flirting ever had.

You exhaled slowly, then turned to grab the ice pack you kept stashed under the bar for drunk idiots who thought they could handle their liquor. You wrapped it in a clean towel and slid it toward him.

He looked at it like it might bite. “What’s this?”, he asked, brows raised.

“You put it on your face. It helps. Or do you want to keep looking like you got curb-stomped by a Girl Scout troop?”.

He huffed a laugh and took it. Gingerly pressed it to his jaw. Flinched. “You always this sweet to your regulars?”, he muttered.

You leaned your elbows on the bar, chin resting in your palm as you watched him struggle not to wince like a baby every time the ice touched a new spot on his face. “I’d say you’re lucky you’re pretty”, you said casually, “but even that’s debatable right now”.

Dean squinted at you over the ice pack. “You wound me again. You know, I came in here tonight hoping for comfort and kindness”.

You raised a brow. “Then you picked the wrong bartender, sweetheart”.

That made him grin. Wide, even if it cracked his lip again. He looked like hell, but somehow, that grin still managed to do something treacherous to your stomach.

“Tell me something”, he said, shifting just enough to lean closer across the bar. “Am I just special?”.

You snorted. “You’re definitely something. Haven’t figured out if it’s special or just stupid”.

His brows lifted. “You keep that up, I might start thinking you like me”.

You rolled your eyes and stepped back to grab a rag, wiping down an already clean section of the bar just to give yourself a second. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want you bleeding all over my floor”.

“Ah”, he said, nodding slowly. “So it’s not concern, it’s sanitation”.

“Exactly”.

Dean let out a low laugh and leaned back on the stool, ice still pressed to his jaw. “You know, most women are a little more charmed by me by week six”.

You shot him a look. “Most women don’t have a working bullshit detector”.

He smirked. “So what’s it telling you now?”.

“That you’re full of it. And painkillers, maybe”.

He tapped the ice pack against the bar. “Didn’t take anything. Can’t afford to dull the edge. You lose a step, you get killed”.

You paused at that. The words were too sharp, too honest to be a joke. But then, as quickly as it came, the moment passed. He flashed another grin, this one intentionally lopsided like he was trying to steer the mood back to shallow waters.

“So what’s it gonna take to win you over, huh? A bouquet of bar napkins? A heartfelt mixtape?”.

You smiled despite yourself. “You make me a mixtape, I swear I’ll call the cops”.

His eyes lit up. “So you’re saying there’s a chance”.

You rolled your eyes again but bit back your laugh. “The only thing you’re getting from me tonight is maybe a second round of ice. You try any more pickup lines while looking like that, I’m cutting you off”.

Dean sighed—long and theatrical—as he set the ice pack down and nudged his glass a little closer to you. You didn’t even look at him when you poured another round. Just topped it off like he hadn’t just said something earlier that stuck to your ribs a little too hard.

He swirled the whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the low bar light, then glanced back up at you.

“All right”, he said, quieter this time. “What’d I do?”.

You blinked. “What?”.

He leaned forward again, elbows on the bar, expression a little more serious this time. “I mean, I’ve been coming in here for over a month now. I’ve flirted, annoyed, probably made your life a little harder—okay, yeah—but I haven’t exactly done anything to earn the particular way you hate me. So… what gives?”.

You tilted your head, studying him for a second. He wasn’t joking this time. Not really. And that somehow made it worse.

You grabbed a clean rag, wiped down a few rings on the bar to avoid looking directly at him. “It’s nothing personal”.

“Sure as hell feels personal”.

You sighed. “It’s not. I just… don’t like your face”.

Dean barked a laugh, sitting back with a grin. “Don’t like my face, huh? Now that’s a new one. Usually it’s the exact opposite”.

“Yeah, well”, you said, giving him a dry look, “I’m not ‘most women,’ remember?”.

“No kidding”, he muttered, shaking his head with a half-smile, rubbing his taped fingers together absently. “Still. That’s cold”.

“Not my fault your face screams ‘trouble with a six-pack and abandonment issues’”.

He froze, just for a second. Like the words hit too close to something buried under all that charm and bravado. But then he smiled again, tired this time. Not smug. Just… human.

“You’re not wrong”, he said softly. “About the trouble part, anyway”.

Something twisted in your chest.

You shouldn’t care. You really shouldn’t.

But here he was. Bloody, bruised, drinking whiskey like it was medicine and wearing all that pain like a second skin. And for the first time since he started showing up, it wasn’t just the flirtation or the jokes that kept your eyes on him.

It was the weight. Whatever he carried, it was heavy. And it was real.

You didn’t say anything. Just refilled his glass one more time, a little slower this time, then set it down without a word.

He looked at it, then at you, and gave a small nod of thanks. No smirk. No line. Just silence.

-

Like every other time he walked through that door, Dean didn’t leave.

Even when the crowd thinned out and the regulars stumbled home. Even when the jukebox shut off on its own and the hum of conversation faded into silence. He stayed. Same stool. Same drink. Same stubborn presence.

But this time, he wasn’t filling the space with flirty comments or loud opinions about your music taste.

He just sat there, still quiet. Watching you.

And you were trying really hard not to notice.

You stacked chairs on tables, wiped down every damn surface twice, ran inventory you didn’t actually need to run, anything to ignore the fact that Dean Winchester, bruised and bleeding and still entirely too handsome for your own good, was still sitting there like he belonged.

The last bottle was shelved. The last light above the far table flicked off. And you finally let yourself breathe.

You walked back behind the bar, grabbed your hoodie from the hook by the back door, and slung it over your shoulder. When you turned, Dean was still there. Of course he was.

“You waiting for something?”, you asked, arching a brow.

He shrugged, finishing the last of his whiskey. “Nah. Just figured I’d walk you to your car”.

Like always.

You paused.

Then grimaced. “Yeah. About that. My car’s at the shop”.

Dean’s brows lifted. “And you were just gonna walk home?”.

“It’s not far”.

“It’s almost midnight.”

“I can handle myself”.

Dean stood—slowly, like his body was arguing with the idea—and tossed a few crumpled bills on the bar for his tab. “I don’t doubt that. But I’ve got a car. And two legs that still kinda work. So let me”.

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again.

He wasn’t being pushy. Just… offering.

You sighed, tugging your hoodie over your head. “You drive a creepy black car, don’t you?”.

Dean’s grin reappeared, subtle and warm. “’67 Impala. She’s not creepy. She’s classic”.

“Right. That’s what all the serial killers say”.

“You’re adorable when you’re suspicious”.

You shot him a glare as you locked the till and killed the last of the lights. “You’re adorable when you’re leaving”.

But still, you didn’t stop him when he held the door open for you. Didn’t stop him when he walked you to the curb, his limp a little more noticeable now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

And when he opened the passenger door of his jet-black car, the leather seats creaking faintly in the cool night air, you hesitated only for a second before sliding in.

The inside smelled like old whiskey, leather, and something distinctly him.

Dean slid into the driver’s seat beside you, started the engine, and didn’t say anything right away. Just turned on the radio low, classic rock, of course, and let the silence settle.

You gave him your address. And he drove. Slow. Calm. Like he wasn’t in a rush for the night to end either.

Streetlights flicked past in lazy intervals, casting a soft glow through the windshield. The low hum of the engine filled the space between you, underscored by a mellow guitar riff bleeding through the speakers. Something old. Something gritty and full of longing.

You could feel his eyes on you before you saw him glance. Twice. Three times.

Finally, you turned your head, catching him mid-look. “Eyes on the road, Winchester”.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pretend to be sorry.

“Can’t help it”, he said, lips twitching. “You clean up pretty nice for a bartender”.

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Thanks. You really know how to flatter a girl”.

“I’m serious”, he said, stealing another glance before returning to the road. “Hair down, hoodie on, no bar lights between us… You’re kind of killing me right now”.

You smirked. “If I knew you liked this look so much, I’d have worn my ‘I hate everyone’ hoodie sooner”.

“That what that one is?”, he asked, voice thick with amusement. “Fits the attitude”.

You nudged his arm, just lightly, but he winced. His whole body tensed like the contact had sent a ripple of pain down his side.

“Shit”, you said. “Sorry”.

He shook his head, still grinning. “It’s fine. Just a little reminder that I’m human”.

You gave him a sidelong look. “You sure about that? ‘Cause between the bruises and the cryptic job stories and the whole mysterious hot guy vibe, I’m starting to think you might be something else”.

Dean chuckled low in his throat. “Mysterious and hot? Look at you, finally giving me compliments”.

“I said might. And that was mostly an insult with pretty packaging”.

“That so?”, he said, slowing at a red light. He turned to face you more fully now, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His eyes found yours, steady, unflinching. “You always this mean to the guys you’re not interested in?”.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

His voice was quiet, not cocky this time. No smugness. Just that smooth, husky tone of someone who could read between your words even when you tried to hide them behind sarcasm.

You blinked, forcing a smirk. “You always this dramatic with the women who won’t fall at your feet?”.

He leaned in just a bit, not enough to cross the line, just enough to test the edge.

“Only the ones worth it”.

And damn him, he meant it.

Your mouth went dry for a second. The silence returned, thick and charged, tangled with the scent of leather and cologne and the storm just behind his eyes.

You scoffed, breaking it before it swallowed you whole. “You’re lucky I don’t kick you out of your own car”.

Dean laughed again, low, warm, easy. “You’d miss me”.

“I’d recover”.

He looked at you like he wasn’t so sure. The light turned green. He didn’t move. Not right away.

“Y/N”, he said, voice just above a whisper, “you ever gonna let me in, even just a little?”.

You held his gaze for one beat too long.

And then you leaned back in your seat, crossed your arms, and let out a breath that was more tired than you wanted it to be.

“Nope”, you said flatly. “So you should stop trying”.

Dean’s jaw twitched, just the slightest clench, like your words had landed a little too close to where it hurt. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t press.

You nodded toward the windshield, voice dry. “It’s green, by the way”.

He blinked, then gave a soft, bitter laugh and shifted the Impala into gear. The tires hummed against the pavement as the car rolled forward, but the air between you was thicker now. Not heavy with anger, just disappointment. The kind that lingers in the quiet, like something unsaid is rattling around the walls of your chest.

Neither of you spoke for the next few blocks. He didn’t look at you this time. And for some reason, that made your stomach twist.

You didn’t owe him anything. You knew that. And still, your fingers picked at the seam of your hoodie, your brain repeating that look he gave you like it had teeth.

After another minute, you nodded toward the corner. “It’s the brown building on the left”.

Dean pulled up alongside the curb and threw it in park. He didn’t shut off the engine. Just let it idle while the radio whispered something slow and bluesy through the speakers.

You reached for the door handle, fingers brushing the cool metal.

Dean shifted slightly in his seat. “You know I’m not gonna stop, right?”.

You paused, already half-turned toward the door. “What?”.

He leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the wheel, that crooked smirk tugging at his busted lip. “Showing up. Annoying you. Making bad jokes. Drinking overpriced whiskey”.

You narrowed your eyes. “Yeah, I kinda figured. You’re too stubborn for your own good”.

“Damn right”, he said, like it was a compliment. “And I’m nothing if not consistent”.

You let out a sigh, the kind that was meant to sound exasperated but came out a little too close to amused. “Dean, you don’t have to keep wasting your time”.

“Not a waste”, he said, and this time his voice was lower. Less smug, more steady. “I’ll show up as long as I need to. Until you say yes”.

You blinked at him. “Yes to what?”.

His smile grew, slow and warm. “To me”.

You snorted. “What makes you think I’m going to say yes at all?”.

Dean’s grin widened. “Because every time you tell me to quit trying… you still look at me like you don’t mean it”.

You didn’t have a smartass reply to that. Didn’t have a comeback lined up or a sarcastic jab ready. Because maybe, just maybe… he wasn’t wrong.

Dean let the silence stretch for a moment longer, then added with a grin, “Besides, I’m growing on you. Like a fungus”.

You barked a laugh despite yourself and shoved the door open. “Goodnight, Winchester”.

“Night, Y/N”.

You paused, one hand on the frame of the car as you turned back toward him.

“And for the record”, you said, voice softer now, “you’re definitely the annoying kind of fungus”.

He laughed as you shut the door.

You didn’t look back as you walked to your building.

But the sound of the Impala idling for a few seconds longer than necessary told you what you needed to know.

He was still watching.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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