Ladysparkles78

The former soldier has been coming into the clinic for a few months now for sleep therapy sessions – always with a grin and always with a flirtatious glimmer in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve never taken his flirting seriously and always giggled off his advances with heat in your cheeks. But the past few weeks, he’s upped his ante and started bringing you experimental takeout food, asking you out more directly. You’ve always said no, though. And not even that – you usually don’t even take him seriously when he says stuff like that at all. 

Why? 

Because a guy as handsome and charming as Russell surely couldn’t be interested in someone as simple as you. You’re just a nurse who’s used to eating vending machine trail mix for dinner, drinking awful hospital coffee, and smelling like antiseptic. It’s not exactly what most people would call sexy or desirable.  

Tonight, it’s four minutes past eleven o’clock, which means Russell is fashionably late again. Probably because he stopped somewhere to bribe you with more food he either got from a gas station, a questionable food truck, or an obscure friend’s kitchen. 

Last week, it was candied jalapeños and a thermos of coffee so strong it could power a freight train. The week before, he brought a peach hand pie from a Mennonite market and something called ‘midnight curry burritos.’

Tonight? You’re bracing yourself.

“Evenin’, Nightingale,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe with a plate in hand, a smile on his face, and a soft glint in his eyes that never quite leaves.

“Russell,” you sigh – one part exasperation, two parts affection. “You’re late.”

“I was delayed by destiny.” He lifts the plate with a wink that would make your knees buckle if you weren’t sitting. “Beignets. Still warm.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bribing me with fried dough and powdered sugar?”

He grins broadly. “Tell me it doesn’t help.”

Damn it. It does. You hate how it does.

Still, you give him a flat look, trying not to show the little flicker in your chest that always sparks the moment he walks in.

He saunters closer and sets the plate on the counter in front of you. “I’m just tryin’ to spoil you a little.”

“Russell.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

He pretends to look wounded, which makes you want to roll your eyes. “I don’t flirt – I court.”

“You’ve asked me out eight times,” you point out and lead him straight to the examination room. 

“Nine,” he corrects with a smirk as he follows and closes the door behind him. It’s routine by now. “I asked you out on that sticky note I left in the breakroom, too. Remember that one?”

“Right,” you snort, shaking your head. "You drew a stick figure of yourself holding a flower.”

“With a heart. Don’t forget the heart.”

You roll your eyes for real this time, picking up the clipboard to start his check-in. “You’re lucky I don’t report you for harassment.”

“You’re lucky I don’t report you for theft,” he counters.

Your brows quirk. “I’m sorry – what?”

“You’ve been stealing my breath since day one,” he replies cleverly. Then his irresistible smile kicks in again, which is way too charming for his own good.

You let out a long, deep sigh. 

“I know that one was bad,” he quips. “But I promise I’ve got better material. Just say yes to dinner and you’ll hear it all.”

You turn away before he can see the color rising in your cheeks. “Shirt off.”

“Now we’re talking,” he mutters with a grin, tugging the black fabric up and over his head.

And just like that, you’re confronted with the ridiculous reality that Russell Shaw is unfairly built. Broad chest, warm golden skin dusted with freckles, scars like constellations across the canvas that is him. You try not to stare and ogle him like he’s God’s greatest gift to mankind, but you’ve got a stethoscope in your hand and barely any willpower left.

You place the bell against his sternum and inhale. 

Professional. Stay professional.

Truly, that’s been your mantra for months now. Surely, a guy like him only flirts because he can. It’s like second nature to him. But the beat beneath your fingertips is already quick.

lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub

His heart gallops like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. And God help you – it’s a fucking beautiful sound. It’s raw and real, like something primal is trying to claw out of his chest.

“You always listen longer than you need to,” he says suddenly, his voice softer than before.

You freeze imperceptibly for a half a second. Shit. Did he really notice that? 

“I’ve noticed,” he adds casually, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. 

“I–I’m just checking for arrhythmia–”

“No, you’re not.”

Well, damn. Now your own heart is beating like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. Then, he lifts his large hand and gently curls his fingers over your wrist.

And fuck, before you can process it, he leans forward and presses his lips to yours.

A kiss. Slow and damn deliberate. It’s not demanding. It’s not rushed. It’s the kind of kiss that cradles you in softness, somehow still crumbles walls, and rearranges fucking stars into new constellations unknown yet to mankind.

Your heart jumps in your chest so hard the stethoscope nearly flies out of your hand.

He pulls back just enough to smile a little, watching your face closely as he guides your hand back to his chest – right over his pounding heart.

thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP

“See what you’re doing to me?” he murmurs.

And it hits you – he’s not flirting anymore. He’s showing you. This isn’t a game to him. His heart tells the truth.

You close your eyes, your breath stuttering.

Then his fingers slip around the stethoscope, guiding it from his chest to yours. He slips the earpieces into his own and leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Now let me hear you.”

And he does. He listens – carefully and reverently.

And God, your heart is racing wildly and unapologetically, thundering against your ribs like it’s begging to be finally felt.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s the sound I want. God, listen to you. That all for me?”

You whimper – literally. Man, you’re going to die of embarrassment.

But before you can squirm away into the deepest, darkest hole in the floor, he leans in again, kissing down your neck now, murmuring between kisses, “You sit here every night listening to me. You think I wouldn’t notice how you breathe differently? How your cheeks get hot? Your hands always linger right here.” He presses his palm flat to your chest, right over the cool bell. “Like you never want to stop.”

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively before his eyes drop, gaze darkening.

Then, in a smooth, almost graceful motion, he lifts you, spins you, and sets you down on the edge of the exam table. You gasp, your scrubs shifting slightly, body adjusting to the new angle.

He kneels between your thighs, right on the linoleum, forest green eyes solely locked on you like you’re the only damn thing that matters in this world. “Still think I’m not serious?”

You open your mouth, but no fucking sound comes out.

Because his hands? His hands are already on your hips, slow and steady, drawing your scrubs and underwear down with one fluid movement. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. And every inch of skin he reveals is worshipped.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he says. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You can barely breathe as his lips brush your knee, then the inside of your thigh. He’s still listening to your heartbeats like music in his ears. 

Kiss. 

Thump.

Another kiss. Higher. Slower. Warmer.

Thump-THUMP.

“Heart’s racing,” he says, grinning like the devil. “You like me down here, huh?”

You choke on a laugh that melts into a moan as his mouth finally meets the ache between your thighs. He starts slow, agonizingly so, tongue gentle and reverent all at once, each stroke on your clit a new promise.

Honestly, you might be experiencing a heart attack at this point. Luckily, you’re already in a hospital. 

Then he speaks again, breath hot against your core. “You know what I’m gonna do?” he murmurs wickedly, two fingers sliding inside your wet pussy without resistance while he still listens. “I’m gonna make you come to the sound of your own heartbeat. I want you to listen to yourself. To what I’m doing to you.”

And just like that, he swaps the stethoscope again, fits the earpieces back into your ears, and places the bell over your chest.

Your heartbeat explodes. It’s fucking deafening.

thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP

Every lick. Every breath. Every teasing pass of his tongue or flick of his fingers – your body, your heart responds like a symphony composed just for him.

He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble like Mount Vesuvius before it took down Pompeii. 

“Let go for me,” he says, deep voice velvet-thick. “Let me feel it.”

And Jesus fucking Christ, you don’t need to be told twice. When you come and fall apart, it’s with his name on your lips and your own heart roaring in your ears like a drum of holy thunder.

THUMP–THUMP–THUMP–

He licks you clean, takes every drop of you like it’s the best thing he ever tasted – damn the experimental food he’s brought you for weeks on end. 

Afterward, he eases you down gently, kissing his way up your shaking body slowly and goddamn thoroughly. He presses his lips to your collarbone, your throat, your cheek, and then finally to your mouth again.

This time, you kiss him back like you damn well mean it – because you fucking do. God, you do. Word by word. Nerve by nerve. 

“You gonna say yes to dinner this time?” he quips, grinning against your lips.

You exhale a breathless laugh. “I think I’d be an idiot not to.”

And Russell? He grins widely, proudly, and smugly in the way only he can.

“Told you. You gotta listen to your heart,” he says with a wink. And because he’s the worst, he adds, “Next time, we’re doing this at my place. With two stethoscopes.”

And your heart skips another beat. 

Thump.

Hope you guys enjoyed this heartfelt little one-shot 😉

We're returning to our regular witchy programming next Friday with another interlude of Glitch 🔮 to see what our boys have been up to! Here's a reminder of the schedule for the next few weeks:

Interlude II: Call Me, Beep Me – July 31

Chapter 7: Loose Lips Sink Ships – August 7

Chapter 8: Lost in the Memory – August 21

Chapter 9: Salt Air – September 4

Chapter 10: Wanting Was Enough – September 18

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Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river. 

Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.

But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place. 

They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and- 

“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”

You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.” 

Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground. 

“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar-“

“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary. 

She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum. 

And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too. 

“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”

“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“

“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”

“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog. 

This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face. 

And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-

“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”

“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space- 

Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. 

He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.

“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”

“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”

“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”

Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”

“Sam-“

“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”

Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. 

Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.

You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean. 

But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift. 

Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-

Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you. 

But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.

“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”

“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“

“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”

The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped. 

Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.

In your cover story, you don’t live together. 

But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti. 

“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”

You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“

“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.

He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.

“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”

Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far. 

“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”

You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out. 

Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down. 

“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“

“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”

“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“

You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.

“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect. 

He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”

“Ah. The lowest bar.”

He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.

For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge. 

“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”

“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.

“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”

You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless. 

That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. 

It’s not the story Dean says. 

“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”

You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago. 

You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.

There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation. 

But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it. 

What if it hadn’t faded. 

Why does he remember. 

Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it- 

“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again. 

You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.

“Dad, c’mon-“

“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”

“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“

“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow. 

“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”

“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”

“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight. 

This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.

But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. 

“You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“

“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding. 

“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“

“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”

Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.

“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“

“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.

“Dad, don’t use us for this.”

John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“

“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”

The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter- 

“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”

Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles. 

“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”

John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this. 

Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“

“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table. 

You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams. 

Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat. 

It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-

“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow. 

He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. 

Not real. So unfairly not real.

You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show. 

He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again. 

You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. 

It’s been a really long day.

You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.

You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back. 

You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back. 

But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real.

“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“

“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”

He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“

“I know.”

“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“

“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”

“Dean-“

“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”

You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me. 

“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”

That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”

“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”

“And you didn’t do anything about it?”

“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”

“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.” 

You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“

“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”

He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”

You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“

“And I said I’m gonna.” 

“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”

He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.

“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”

“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“

“Yeah, you do.”

Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“

“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away. 

You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips. 

“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”

His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench. 

He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire.  Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face. 

Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.

He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.

Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that- 

There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks. 

Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.

“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.” 

“Dean-“

“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back. 

Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh.

Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask. 

And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. 

You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. 

No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real. 

Whatever it was, it was far, far too real. 

✦Chapter Eleven✦

✦End note: the illusion... it's falling... ✦

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If you had a comeback, it’s squeezed from your head by Dean’s grip. He was teasing. Your logical brain knows that. It’s just like how you tell him he reminds you of the little boy at work who hugs a toy car at nap time.

Although you always say that like it’s a joke, when it’s really not. You look at the boy and imagine a tiny Dean, maybe with hair and skin a little more like yours, sitting on your knee and showing you all his different cars. You think about a world where you get to kiss his forehead good night, then Dean kisses you good night.

The most dangerous part of your job is that it makes you ovulate all the time. All those stupid cute kids that you don’t even really want right now, feeding your fantasies about having a life with your roommate.

Agreeing to Dean’s dumb plan was the worst possible choice you could’ve made. You’re not going to be able to handle it. You’re already not handling it, and all it is so far is Dean’s hand in yours, and how casually he keeps calling you his girlfriend. Like that word isn’t the start and end of your whole life.

You can’t tell him to stop. He’d wave you off and say he was practicing, and when you insisted that he not, he’d ask why.

And you don’t have a good answer to that. So you let him chat with the fisherman standing next to you at the belt, rambling about how he and his girlfriend are here for his brothers wedding. You don’t let yourself dwell on how he pushes you in front of him, like he’s trying to show you off. Or how he keeps praising you for basically breathing near him.

He doesn’t need his stupid practice. He’s already too good at this.

You put your food down when you go to rent a car. You don’t have another choice.

“My wife likes Chevys.” Dean says, peering at the options the attendant is showing him, and you gag on the bottled smoothie he bought you.

You do not.

And- And-

“Why did you call me your wife.” You hiss, and Dean shrugs.

“I dunno. Sounds better than girlfriend, right?”

He grins at you, and you’re going to smack him.

This isn’t fun for you. It’s not a game. It’s cruel, and you can’t even tell him why.

You don’t answer. Dean’s shoulders square, and a tiny frown flashes over his face.

“It bother you?” He mutters, as you’re walking to the car. “When I- Said that?”

You haven’t spoken in ten minutes. His voice is so soft it aches like a bruise on fruit.

“No.” You mutter, and you’re a liar, but what the fuck are you supposed to say.

Yes. So much. Don’t call me your wife unless you mean it. Don’t touch me unless you mean it. Why can’t you just mean it.

Dean murmurs your name, and you shake your head.

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Shucks.”

“Sweetheart-“

“I’m just trying to get in the headspace of girlfriend, okay?” You give him a tight smile. “Wife messes up my acting.”

Dean examines you for a second. His fingers curve, where he’s holding your hip.

You keep smiling. It hurts like your face is being peeled off.

“Your acting.” He mutters. “Right.”

Some very evil part of your brain dreams up that he sounded upset about that. Another one sneers that he bought it so easily because he can’t even imagine a world where you’d be anything but acting here.

Acting is going to be the easy part.

Not letting your foul little heart sink its claws into his acting as evidence. That’s what’s going to leave a scar after.  

It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.

“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin.

It’s not real.

“We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”

You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking. 

And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch. 

To seeing his family. 

To seeing his dad. 

Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it. 

But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.

“There’s a lotta us. Sammy didn’t invite them all, ‘cause- You know.” He whistles, and you smile.

“Crazy.”

“Exactly. Grandma and Grandpa, they got pulled outta Florida. Sam couldn’t get away with leaving them out. But the rest of them? Freakin’ weirdos.”

You hum, focused more on trying to remember what you know about Dean’s family.

He’s told you that you didn’t need to know everyone. You insisted that he at least quiz you.

He’d made you flashcards. You’d spent most of the plane ride after he knocked out memorizing them.

“Samuel and Deanna.” You rattle off. “They like Fox News and unsolved network. You’re named after Deanna. Sam’s named after Samuel. They were… Farmers.”

“Of a sort.” Dean mutters under his breath. “More like freakin’ cult members. But- Yeah.” He shoots you a grin. “Good job.”

You flush, smiling back. “Hit me with another.”

“C’mon, you really don’t have to memorize them-“

“Another.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but starts quizzing you. You ace it. He smiles like he’s proud of you, squeezing your thigh.

“You’re gonna win an Oscar, sweetheart.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and he flicks your nose with a carefree laugh.

He looks carefree. Even with the tardiness and looming storm of his father. You did that.

And you’re important to Dean, too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to touch and ask you for such intimate favors. 

Probably not close enough to trump his dad. 

So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either. 

“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”

“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all. 

“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“

“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“

“Five minutes. Promise.”

And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone. 

Bed.

Single bed. 

Fuck. 

Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”

You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. 

Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either. 

He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family. 

He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.

“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward, and there's no going back.

✦Chapter Ten✦

✦End note: next chapter super long lmao. we get to meet the family! ✦

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“What if we drive really fast. And run all the red lights.”

He snorts. “Stop tryin’ to tempt me.”

“I’m not tempting you, I’m saving you-“

“No.” He grips the wheel with white knuckles, jaw set in determination. “No, I- I can do this. Just a plane.”

“Just a plane.” You echo, fighting your smile. “Goes up, then down.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I would never.”

He shoots you a glare, and you smile back.

“You can do this.” You offer, softer than before.

Dean just grunts, and turns the car back on.

It’s about five miles, before you’re pulling over again. Not eating was the right call. When you get to the airport, you’re going to slip him some crushed up Xanax. You’ll buy him a cookie, sprinkle it on the top, and tell him it’s sugar.

“Where’s the line.” He mutters suspiciously, as you make your way through security. “Movies always got a line at this part. Why the hell isn’t there anyone here. They know something?” He grabs your wrist. “Look up planes in Kansas bad-“

“I’m not looking that up.”

“Why.” He whines. “Maybe there’s- There’s a plot, and everyone’s in on it, and the planes gonna go down-“

“Why would the plane go down.” You say lazily, holding out a hand. “ID, Dean.”

He fumbles with his wallet, still babbling. “I don’t know, engines gonna fail-“

“They wouldn’t plan a failed engine.”

“Then there gonna- Gonna fly us into something-“

“They already did that. It’s why we’re going through security.”

“They could do it again-“

“Shoes.” You order, smiling at the TSA agent a you reach the front of the line. “Deep breath.”

Dean obeys both order, eyeing the agent wearily as he checks your IDs. He waves you though with barely a word. Dean looks back with narrowed eyes.

“He didn’t ask up questions. He shoulda asked us questions, we could be crazy psychos-“

“He doesn’t need to ask questions.” You say, pulling of your shoes. “He looked us up. Belt.”

Dean pulls off his belt, hands shaking. “My uncle Bobby would say that’s Big Brother, y’know.”

“Your uncle Bobby would be right, in a way. Watch.”

His hands won’t stop shaking. “Maybe they’re makin’ sure we’re good victims for a False Flag-“

“Dean.” You say sternly, and he shuts his mouth.

You grab his hands, and squeeze them gently. His throat bobs.

“We are going to be fine.” 

Dean presses his lips in a tight line. You take a step forward, lowering your voice.

“There’s no false flag. And if there was, they wouldn’t choose a random flight from Kansas to California that’s mostly going over cows and mountains.”

“Could be a plot against cows.”

Dean mumbles, and you give him an unimpressed look. He sighs.

“Fine. Fine. I’m good. All good.”

He pulls away, and stomps to the metal detector.

You smile.

His hands stopped shaking.

“I hate this.” He mutters an hour later. After the shaking came the pacing. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“

“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”

“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“

“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”

Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. 

You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating. 

It should. You’ve been practicing.

“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.

“Okay.”

He scowls. “I’m not.”

“I said okay.”

You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat. 

“I hate this.”

“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.

Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort. 

But still not real. 

In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts. 

“We’re gonna die.”

“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night. 

You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane. 

It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door. 

You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly. 

“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.

“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”

“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“

He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.

“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand. 

Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.

“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane. 

You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay. 

If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all. 

He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious. 

He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.

“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack. 

You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart. 

Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. 

He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.

Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. 

You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged. 

“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but-  Please.”

“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter. 

And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods. 

“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”

“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises.

You don’t mind.

“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”

For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.

“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“

A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.

You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. 

The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.

“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”

And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes. 

“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. 

Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. 

“He’s the best.”

✦Chapter Nine✦

✦End note: i love when they're super normal about each other. yeah you're both so convicning good job ✦

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

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

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

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

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

Benny laughs, and Dean clears his throat behind you.

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

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

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

“I do not bark-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benny wiggles his brows, and you flush furiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She doesn’t need your ideas.”

“They’d be rather helpful-“

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

Your lips twitch. “It was a dinosaur.”

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

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

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

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

“I- huh?”

“You are quite charming.”

“Uh- Thanks?” You swallow. “You too?”

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

“You are close. With him.”

“Uh, yeah. We live together?”

“Hm. That you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

God. You’re horrible at this.

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

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

God. You wish you could.

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

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

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

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

It just makes him look like more of a man.

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

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

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

You would’ve broken it for Dean.

“I need a favor.”

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

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

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

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

“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“

“Dean.”

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

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

“Fuck you.”

“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“

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

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

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

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

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

He just stares. “Uh-“

“Come on.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”

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

“I said never mind-“

“Dean Winchester.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You bought them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“

“I’m serious, I really need this-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. I talk about you.”

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

“Aw, you love me-“

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

“Dean-“

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

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

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

But he said please.

“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins. 

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

It made Dean smile.

✦Chapter Eight✦

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

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

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

Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.

Hard.

Not impossible.

You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.

It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.

You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.

In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.

In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.

From a single fucking touch.

You think you might be close to losing your mind.

It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.

Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.

“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”

You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”

“I know. Makes it funnier.”

Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.

Which has you on it. Basically around you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”

That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.

“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”

You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”

“I like you and respect you-“

“You poked me.”

“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”

You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.

The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.

“It’s fine- I’m fine-“

“Sweetheart.”

“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.

The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.

It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.

And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.

You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.

“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.

Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.

And neither of you speak about it again.

This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.

She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?

Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.

She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”

You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”

You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No. I’m single, El.”

Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.

“Why?”

“Because. Adult reasons.”

Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.

“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”

“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.

“That kid adores you.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I know you are.”

You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.

He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”

“At the thing I get paid for.”

“At, uh- Kids.”

“At kids?”

“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.

Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.

You might need help.

“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”

“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”

You snort, kicking her leg under the table.

Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.

Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.

That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.

You told her she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”

You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.

But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-

“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.

You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”

Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”

“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”

“Uh huh. Write it down.”

You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.

You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.

Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“

She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-

“Kind and sweet are the same-“

“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”

Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.

“You have to add two more cons.”

“I don’t have any more cons-“

“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”

That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.

Pro. He listens to you.

By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.

“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.

“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“

“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”

Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”

“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad!”

“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“

“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”

“Was he playing chubby bunny?”

“Yeah, but-“

“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”

Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.

You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.

“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”

Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.

It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.

✦Chapter Seven✦

✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦

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

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

You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face. 

“Alright.”

You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that. 

“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”

You laugh weakly. Dean doesn’t even smile. 

“Sure. Have fun.”

You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained. 

“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”

It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing. 

He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore. 

You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went. 

But only this night. 

Because the pattern repeats. 

You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment. 

Far enough that he wants to meet Dean.

“You talk about him all the time.” Jake brings it up casually one night, and you fumble with your phone. It clatters to the floor, and Jake frowns at you like you’re crazy.

A tiny, unhelpful voice in the back of your head murmurs that Dean would never let you drop your phone. Every time something as small as a pencil slips from your hand, Dean catches it before it hits the ground. He’s caught you, when you stand on something you shouldn’t and stumble. That one time he talked you into ice skating you’d spent the whole day attached to his arm, and he’d never even let your knees hit the ice.

“You’re all wobbly.” He’d grinned at you after. “Like a baby deer or something.”

You’d stuck your tongue out at him. “I am not like a baby deer.”

“Or something.”

Dean had laughed when you’d hit his arm, side-stepped your next blow, and caught you when you stumbled forward.

He’d been all too close. Chest pressed against yours, strong hands on your waist and shoulder, lips barely a breath away. And maybe the night was just that cold, but he’d been warmer than a volcano. You’d been ready to jump. You’d been ready to say your prayers and close your eyes, to fall down into him and let his heat take you over-

Jake snaps your name, waving a hand in front of your face. You blink at him, and carve a smile onto your face.

“Sorry. You want to- To-“

“To meet Dean.” He grunts, and the smile is burning at your cheeks.

It might be a punishment. Your body eating itself to offer a reparation for your mind’s sins. If Jake sees the pain—dull and demanding behind your eyes—he doesn’t mention it.

And you wonder if he knows. If sometimes he hears how you muffle cries of Dean’s name into the pillows, chewing your lips to remind them that they can’t simply say what you want. Who you want. Soft sighs and cries of Dean are not helpful, or wanted. Your tongue should be cut off, for the way it always seems ready to snap at he’s supposed to ask you what’s wrong when you pout and curl into a ball on the couch.

You know that Jake can’t be blamed. He’s just a man.

It’s unfair, to compare him to a god.

“What’s up with you?” Dean asks that afternoon, and you have to ask him. You told Jake you would.

“Nothing.”

Oops.

Dean doesn’t look convinced. He crosses his arms over his chest, frowning down at you. “Nothing, huh.”

You try an easy smile. You’re certain you look psychotic.

“Sure doesn’t look like nothing-“

“Jake wants to meet you.”

You speak at the same time. Dean’s jaw hangs open. You snap your mouth shut.

The staring match lasts about two minutes before Dean clears his throat. You’re grateful. You had no will to speak first.

“Jake? That’s- New boytoy, right?”

“Boyfriend.” You mutter, the bitterness of the words leaking into your tone. “But- Yeah.”

“Hm.” Dean looks off to the side, huffing a low laugh. “And he’s gunning to meet me?”

“We live together.” He says I talk about you all the time. “He has to eventually.”

“Why.”

“Why?”

“Yeah. What’ve I got to do with your little- Thing.”

“You’re my roommate. And my friend.”

Dean makes a face like he’s smelt something funny. You sigh, sinking further into the couch cushions.

“You don’t have to-“

“No.” Dean grunts. “I will. But,” he points a stern finger at you. “I ain’t making him dinner.”

You smile. That’s not a deal you can complain about.

Dean only makes you dinner. You have no intention of sharing something so sacred with Jake.  

Who’s fine. Perfectly fine. Just… Not Dean.

And that’s where it all falls apart. 

Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices. 

And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl. 

“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.

“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”

You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up. 

Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well. 

“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”

“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name. 

“Yeah?”

Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough. 

“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”

“Why? We’re just-“

“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“

Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“

“He’s my friend-“

“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”

You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police. 

He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”

You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out. 

Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again. 

But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone. 

He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb. 

He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.

“You okay?”

You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here. 

And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with. 

All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light. 

“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light. 

You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”

“Anytime.” 

There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile. 

Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away. 

After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there. 

You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know. 

You’re not going to be able to move on. 

✦Chapter Six✦

✦End note: chapter four remains my "bonding" chapter lmao✦

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

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

He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed. 

And he never does that. You know he never will. 

But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. 

One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. 

And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave. 

“What’s your favorite animal?”

You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”

“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”

“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”

You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze. 

“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”

You stare at him for a second. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”

“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”

“On a favorite color?”

“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”

Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”

You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“

“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”

“I owe you-“

“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”

You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know. 

“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.

“I hate cats.”

“What?” You sit up. “Why?”

He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”

“So?”

“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”

You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”

He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”

“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”

He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm. 

“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”

“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.

“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“

“Make a better one.”

He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.

“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”

“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”

You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. 

He has no idea. 

“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask, trying to earn some distance.

Dean shrugs. “Ducks.”

You giggle, and he just watches you with vague amusement.

“You like ducks?”

“Like that little waddle line shit they do. ‘S cute.”

“Awww-“

“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” You mime crossing your heart, a massive grin on your face. “Except Charlie- Dean-“

He starts to tickle your foot, and you shriek. You manage to wiggle away, but he’s faster, and suddenly you’re pinned to the ground.

Below him. His body pressed all over yours, his breathing ragged and eyes blown out.

It must just be the drink and the adrenaline.

For him.

For you, there that ache between your thighs that’s only going to build.

“No ducklings.” He mutters, eyes inches over yours.

You smile. “Ducklings?”

He sighs, dropping his face into your chest. Near your tits.

The drink. The drink.

His lips graze the swell of your breasts. You don’t know how you bite down your moan.

“There the ones that go in a line.” He grumbles, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Okay. No ducklings.”

You shake on it. Dean climbs off of you, and you wish he’d come back the moment he’s gone.

That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.

“Reading and eating?”

He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”

“A… Book?”

That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”

“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”

Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”

Again. He’s not joking. 

So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation. 

You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.

“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”

You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying. 

A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. 

Right next to him on the couch. Just like movie night. 

And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch. 

Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares. 

You didn’t know he had nightmares.

“It’s nothing special.” He mutters, staring up at the ceiling like it’s all stars. “Just mines, my friends going AWOL, getting locked up. Been getting a new one, where-“ He cuts himself off, scowling at the air. “Never mind.”

“Dean.” You say softly. “That’s not nothing.”

“Nothing worse than my buddies get.”

“That’s- Most people don’t get any nightmares like that.”

“Well, comes with the territory.”

“The territory?”

He’s silent for a long moment, and you’re ready to let this go. Dean doesn’t tell you things until he’s ready, and you know him better than to try and pry it out of him. That just makes him close up tighter. So you wait, humming to yourself softly as he makes his choice, and-

Dean moves suddenly. Pulling something from around his neck before shoving it into your hands. You blink at him, then the cool, thin chain.

Dog tags.

“What-“

“My Mom’s family.” He mutters, and you go completely still. “They were all kinds of crazy. Doomsday preppers, conspiracy theorists. Grandpa taught me how to shoot when I was five, and Dad wasn’t much better.” He laughed, humorless and tired. “Used to talk about me needing to be man enough. And Mom- I love her, don’t get me wrong. But she loved Dad. And when I floated joining the Marine’s like he had- Christ, it was the only time the old man looked proud of me. He thought it was a good idea. Mom liked that we were getting along. Ended up serving four years before I got a discharge. Honorable.” He says quickly, as if that’s what you’d be worried about. “Had an accident. Put me in a coma for a week. They thought I was a goner, but I got lucky. Got out, too.” He chuckles. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Dean…” You sit up, looking down at him with an open, gentle expression. He snorts, turning his face away.

“Don’t do that. I don’t need pity-“

“It’s not pity-“

“Looks like it from here.” He snaps, and you swallow.

You grab his fist, tight on his chest, and slowly uncurl his fingers. He stares back at you, silent and ridged. And when you twine your fingers together, he doesn’t pull away.

This isn’t something you should be doing, but it’s too late to pull away. And when he squeezes your hand, you don’t think you’d ever want to again.

“You never told me that.” You murmur, and he sighs, sitting up.

He’s silent for a moment, staring at your tangled hands. His thumb swipes over the back of yours, jaw working as before he speaks.

“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”

You swallow, watching him closely. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid. 

Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized. 

If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.

How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep. 

But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. 

You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”

He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction. 

The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life. 

“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back. 

You mean it. Almost. 

There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know. 

But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t. 

So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world. 

✦Chapter Five✦

✦End note: chapter four remains my "bonding" chapter lmao✦

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

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

“Hey-“

“I wish I could make you into voodoo dolls.” She ignores you. “And then smush you together. Make you scissor. Like Barbies.”

“You wish you could make me a Barbie?”

“No. I wish I could make you scissor like Barbies. Keep up.”

You snort, feeling a little lighter. “I think Dean would take offense to being called a Barbie.”

“He’s a walking ken doll, he’s not allowed to take offence to it.”

You laugh, and it’s not the pained laugh from before. It’s real, and you lean into Charlie’s side. When you ask if you can get coffee instead of going home, she immediately agrees. You spend the rest of the morning telling her about work, and the little boy who somehow managed to accidentally eat a whole crayon. She snorts and starts talking about how you and Dean would make the cutest babies. You kick her in the shin so hard it leaves a mark, and she starts laughing too hard to hear your apology.

And you feel better. You feel so much better, until you get home.

Dean’s on the couch. Whatever girl he had is gone, and he looks you up and down with a strange focus in his eyes. Like he’s trying to surgically pick you apart to examine an organ you’re not sure you have.

“You’re home late.”

“It’s only ten-“

“You’re usually home by eight.” He mutters, looking back to the TV. “Hot date?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, yeah. We got coffee after.”

Dean’s brows pinch. His hand fists, on the back of the couch, and you watch the motion with an almost masochistic fascination. He probably wishes you’d told him. He could’ve kept his girl around longer, and it feels like that fist is blowing right into your chest, pummeling your weak little heart into a bruised, faintly beating mess that still only knows his name.

“Where’d he take you?”

You want to fuck him.

Fuck with him.

Goddamnit.

“Georgie’s.” You mutter, kicking of your shoes.

Dean grunts. “Place near you school, isn’t it.”

“Mhm.”

“You tell him you work there?”

“No.”

“Good. Not safe, in case he’s a creep.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t think she needs to stalk me.”

Dean turns the deepest shade of red you’ve ever seen, his eyes going so comically wide you wish you were faster with your phone. Charlie would love a picture of this.

“She?” He gapes. “I- I mean, that’s cool, but I- Didn’t know- Good for you-“

“I got coffee with Charlie, dumbass.” You give him a bored smile, and Dean gapes, goes red, then rolls his eyes.

“God forbid a man be supportive.” He grumbles, and you giggle.

You imagine the way his shoulders relax when you laugh. But it’s real when you sit down next to him, and he tenses. He doesn’t like you this close.

But when you scoot to the side, he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You can’t read it. You’re afraid to try.

“You got any work to do?”

You shake your head. “I made the lesson plan yesterday.”

“Alphabet?”

“Numbers.” You smile to yourself, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s a special day. If they beat their counting record, they get a cookie.”

Dean perks up. “Is that offer on the table?”

You snort. “Not for grown men who can already count.”

“I ain’t good at it-“

“You don’t get my kindergartener’s cookies, Dean.”

He pouts. “But I’m gonna improve my counting for you, sweetheart.”

“And I’ll be very proud of you.” You reach over, patting the top of his head.

His hair is so soft. Why is his hair so soft.

“And I’ll get a cookie?” He gives you a puppy like, pleading look.

You flush, and pull away. “If you help me bake them, you can have one,” you point a stern finger. “Cookie.”

Dean grins, sticking out his hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

And this is the part you hate the most. How close he feels right now. How far away he’s going to feel when you end up in another bed next weekend. How his charm can’t just turn off with you, since he’s not trying to fuck you. How you adore him so much that you keep holding every other man up to his light, to see if they outshine him.

None of them ever do.

But you both keep messing around, where the other can’t see. Doing this strange dance that feels less and less like a competition, and more like a boxing match. You’re so certain you’re going to falter first.

“Look at  you.” A man coos into your ear, on a mattress that’s too stiff in a room that smells like thick cologne. “Sweet girl, say my name for me-“

“Deaeeean.” Your moan is loud and shameless. The man falters for a second, then just grunts and starts up again.

Skin slaps against skin. You dig your nails into the sheets and squeeze your eyes shut, pretending it’s his body over yours, his lips dragging up your spine, Dean’s low voice in your ear and his cock splitting you open over and over like a toy.

You don’t look the man in the eyes after. You look at Dean the next day and wonder if he can ever smell it on you. The sheer, angry longing that’s either going to eat you alive, or worm it’s way into his heart.

“How was your night?” You ask, because you hate yourself.

And you want to know if it’s ripping him up too. If he’s being torn apart by this animal you both created, or if it’s just a shadow with spikes you’re trying to box alone.

“Fine,” he grunts. “You know. Did some shit. Dishes. Laundry. Did yours too. Your welcome.”

You blink at him. It looks like he has a halo in the morning light. “You- You did my laundry?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, I was doing stuff.” He waves you off. “Not a big deal.”

And you peer at him. You tilt your head and squint at where he’s sprawled on the couch, and find an extra muss to his hair and bags under his eyes.

You make him coffee without him asking. He takes the mug when you offer it, frowning between you and milky, sweet drink. He says he likes it black. You know better. He likes sweet things.

And you make yourself sick with it. The image of a sweet girl folded beneath him last night. You push it off and offer him a small smile. He returns it in a second.

“Rough night?” You ask softly.

He chuckles. “Yeah. Could say that.”

“That girl fall through?”

And you don’t want to know, but you need to, and this is an addiction. You’re cutting yourself over and over again, just hoping this time it won’t hurt-

“No.” Dean’s looking at you strangely. When you raise your brows, he coughs and turns away.

“So what-“

“I- Uh-“ He clears his throat, running a hand over his face. “We just weren’t into the same things.”

You pause. “Like- What? Choking or whatever?”

“Yeah.” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Or whatever.”

You almost ask what he is into. At this point you might as well just be cutting out your heart and offering it to him as a prize. He’s won. He’s going to win this fucked up game, because it kills you to play and he doesn’t even care to know it exists.

Then you push your way through the door one morning, and find that Dean’s girl from last night- 

She’s still there. Sitting at the counter drinking coffee, wearing his shirt.

“Oh, hi.” She blinks at you slowly. “Um- Dean?!”

“Yeah?” He pokes his head out from the bathroom, damp hair stuck to his brow. 

His eyes find yours. They’re strangely blank. You give him a weak smile, and his nostrils flare, his mouth twitching down. 

“You’re back.” He grunts. “You take the bus?”

You toss your shoes onto the mat. “I walked.”

“You walked-“

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

Dean works his jaw, still staring at you. The girl clears her throat. 

“Sorry, who are you?”

You open your mouth, but Dean beats you to the punch.

“She’s my roommate.” He mutters. His eyes tear away from yours, onto the girl. He looks her up and down, something sour in his expression that she seems to miss. 

“Hm.” She gives you a look of distain that makes you feel small. “I didn’t know you lived with a girl.”

“Wasn’t something you need to know.” He runs a hand over his face, looking down to his watch. “Shit- You eaten yet?”

You and the girl both say no at the same time. She looks like she wants to murder you. You want to run back outside, but your legs are rooted in place, so you just pray the floor will open up and swallow you whole. 

“I haven’t eaten yet, Deanie.” She looks back to Dean, lashes fluttering. “And you really worked up my appetite.”

There it is again. The sickness. You already drank too much, and you can barely remember last night, and you’re going to scream at the floor while all your love spills out with your bile-

“There’s a cafe down the block.” Dean shrugs. “Stop there on your way out. They got good muffins.” 

The girl blinks in confusion, opening her mouth, and Dean slams the bathroom door closed. Leaving you stuck with this woman in his shirt, in your home, shattering the small sanctuary you’d built up, the last thread that maybe Dean thought about you enough to keep his nights shielded from your eyes. 

There’s really no reason why he would. He has no idea, that your love for him runs so deep you suddenly can’t stand to be wearing the socks the guy from last night lent you. They feel wrong on your feet. Like bricks, pulling you down, down, down. 

You walk past the furious girl, not meeting her eyes. When you hear Dean out in the hall, saying something to her in a hushed voice, you slip out of your room and into the shower without a glance in their directions. You don’t vomit. You do scrub your skin so hard it burns. 

And you can’t keep up the charade of just fucking around. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, when you just spend every night picturing Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s body. When every voice is blocked out in favor of imagining Dean’s. You’re not built for whatever corner you’ve backed yourself into. It’s going to eat you alive from the inside. 

When you get out of the shower, the girl is gone. Dean’s still in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. You sit at the counter, and try not to feel too aware of the space she’d been in. Try not to wonder if he’s feeling her absence, the same way you look around the clubs and bars, glance up and down every strange hallway and street, and hope that maybe he’ll appear out of thin air and catch you when you’re not even falling at all. 

Not falling in a way he can see, at least. 

But you are. Further and further, the wind gone from your lungs, your heart beat still drumming that same song. Dean, Dean, Dean. 

Not yours, not yours, not yours. 

“You want pepper?” He cuts through your thoughts, and you look up at him with a frown.

“What?”

“I made eggs.” He’s not looking at you. His ears are red. “I, uh- I kinda already salted them, but- You always take them with salt. I can start over. If you don’t like it.”

You blink at him. Shake your head slowly. 

He cooked for you. 

The space where the other girl used to be suddenly doesn’t feel like anything at all. 

“Salt is good.” You whisper, and he looks over his shoulder.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him. His mouth twitches up, and something foolish and unbreakable soars in your chest. “I’m sure.”'

✦Chapter Four✦

✦End note: i hope you guys are enjoying this so far! they're so dramatic about each other (my faveorite dynamic)✦

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

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

And you can’t tell anymore. If that makes it better or worse. 

You know him so well he might as well just be another part of you. You know what kind of shampoo and toothpaste he uses, because you buy it for him at the corner store, just like he buys your groceries. He refuses to touch the care products though. Says it’s more confusing than rocket  science. You tell him it’s really not. He pinches your thigh and says maybe not to a smart girl like you, and you excuse yourself to your room before you drool on him like an animal in heat.

He calls your name one afternoon, and you poke your head into the bathroom to find him glowering at the shelves.

“Which one of these makes your hair all shiny?”

“All shiny?” You echo, and he nods. “My hair isn’t shiny-“

“Yeah it is. Charlie wants to know, I’m supposed to snoop and get back to her, but I can’t figure out what the hell is what.”

You snort, stepping fully into the bathroom. You press yourself back against the door, smiling at him in the mirror. He’s lucky he’s so pretty.

Dean catches your eyes and scowls. “What?”

“You’re snooping?” You rock on your feet, smile widening.

He still looks rather confused. “Yeah, that’s what I freakin’ said-“

He cuts himself off as you raise your brows, and groans.

“Son of a bitch.”

You giggle, almost bouncing, and Dean shoots you an exasperated look.

“No tellin’ Charlie you caught me. I got a reputation to maintain.”

“No promises.”

He says your name in that low warning that goes right to your core, and you hide your flush by tipping your head back.

“You know, Charlie could’ve just asked me. I would’ve told her.”

“She’s still kinda spooked by you, sweetheart.”

“Spooked?” You cross your arms over your chest. “I am not spooky.”

“You’re super spooky.”

“I am not-“

“Intimidating Charlie? I’ve seen her tell a bunch of formula racers that she could drive faster than them.” He shrugs. “You’re scary. Face it.”

Your lips press in a tight line. You don’t know why that hurts so much. It should probably be a compliment, but it just stings, and-

“It’s not you.” Dean says softly, and you glower at the bathroom tiles.

“You said-“

“I know. But I’m also saying this.”

You look up at him, and he gives you a tiny smile. Your lip wobbles, and you pray he doesn’t catch it.

“Do you think I’m scary?” You mumble, and Dean shakes his head.

“No one does.”

“I was an idiot. Didn’t know what I was saying.”

You shoot him a suspicious look, and he puts on one of his winning, how could you be mad at me? Smiles.

It works every time. Asshole.

“I can text you my hair routine.” You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, trying to hold his gaze. “And you can send it to Charlie.”

“Nah. She’s a big girl, she can ask you herself.” Dean walks forward, never breaking your gaze. “You want a donut, spooks?”

Your nose wrinkles. “Don’t call me that.”

He smirks. “No promises.”

And just like that, the flash of pain is gone. Charlie texts you, and you’re friends. Dean smirks on the couch while you talk to her, like he’d known something the whole time. You think he really does know you.

It still doesn’t match up to how you know him.

You know he likes hot sauce but can’t handle it as well as he claims, because you’ve watched him eat a hundred burritos with a proud smirk, only for his face to go red and his voice to get rough as he pretends he doesn’t want milk. You know he wears boxer briefs, because you do his laundry. You know he can’t sing for shit, because you hear him in the shower. You know he’s an amazing cook, because he makes you breakfast, and lunch, and dinner. You’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that. He always rolls his eyes, and ignores you, and you’re more grateful for it than you’ll ever be able to say. 

You never want him to stop doing it. It feeds your small little world—the one you entertain at night before you sleep, the one that keeps you going when you walk into the apartment, and he’s on the couch with some random girl with a smile that’s brighter than yours and words that are softer—because they don’t get to have that part of him. 

Not one girl that Dean lets into his bed—the one place in the whole damn apartment you’re not allowed to be, the one place you’d trade anything to be given just a glimpse—gets to stay until morning. They leave with a stomping feet and a slam of the door, and you hug your sheets as you hear Dean shuffle around outside your door. 

He’ll sigh loud enough to be heard through the walls. The shower will run, and you’ll bury your face in a pillow, hiding the shame of your arousal from the ceiling. 

You have no right, to picture him naked under the water. To imagine his broad chest and strong legs, the ripple of his muscles as he stretches to wash his hair with the shit you bought him. How he might bow his head to stare at you, if you massaged the soap into his soft, spiky hair. How close he’d be, how he might lick his lips, how his big hands would land on your hips. 

How you’d sink to the floor, and run a hand up his thigh. How you’d tilt your head, pressing your cheek near his groin, how he might mutter your name and cradle your head as his chest began to rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm. 

No right. You hump the sheets like some pathetic animal, and you muffle moans of his name into your sheets long after he’s back in bed, but you have no right. 

You don’t know how you look him in the eyes, in the morning, but it might be something about how it’s just you. His nightly company is gone. There’s a vulnerability, in how he shuffled around in hot dog pants and presents you with breakfast.

“Waffles.” He mutters, ears red. “You, uh- Bought all those bananas. I cooked ‘em into it. Lemme know if it’s shit.”

You hum, pulling the plate closer. “It won’t be shit, Dean-“

“Could be. One day I might lose my touch.”

“No, you won’t.” You roll your eyes, and he smirks.

“Stop back talking and eat the damn pancakes.”

“That wasn’t back talking-“

“I’m sharing my fears, and you’re being invalidating-“

“Oh, shut up, I taught you what that word means.”

“That was your mistake.” He grins, leaning over the counter. Eyes locked on yours, hair still messy from sleep. 

The light moves. 

“You gotta know I don’t like lessons, sweetheart.”

You flush, and look down to the pancakes. You never know what to do, when he uses that voice on you. The deep one that makes your face heat, that feels like he’s testing a line you’ve told yourself you’re not allowed to cross. It’s the voice he uses on his company, and you know it’s just teasing, but it feed your dreams. It feeds the world you know isn’t real, that he’s never allowed to see.

“You made these with banana?” You say after a long silence, your face burning. “I love banana.”

Dean coughs, and when you look up, he’s making that strange face. 

“Yeah, uh- I know. I gotta go- Bathroom. Need to piss. And- Shit.”

You blink at him, and he almost takes off down the hall.

“I didn’t need to know that!” You call after him, and he shouts back. 

“Yeah, but I wanted you to!”

You laugh despite yourself, and look back to the pancakes. It’s just food. He’s just cooking for you, which he does all the time, but it’s still something that’s only yours. The smallest part of Dean that you get to keep. 

Food. 

The only part of him that’s only yours. 

It’s priceless to you. It’s the most important thing in the world. 

Because you live in your head. And in your head, you dream about a life where he loves you back. Where every time he comes home he walks over to you and picks you up. Kisses you on the counter, then pushes you down and eats you out like you’re the only dinner he’d ever possibly need. Where when you do his laundry, he comes up behind you and kisses your neck. Mutters something about you wearing his shirt, or wishing you’d just leave everything dirty so he could have you naked all the time. 

In your head, you never have to turn on the shower to cover your tears when he brings another woman home. You never have to stare at yourself in the mirror, and pick apart your every feature and expression to try and rationalize why it’s not you. Why you don’t get to have him, why he’s out there touching someone else, what they can give him that you can’t. You give him everything. You’d give him more, if he let you. 

But he doesn’t. 

And jealousy burns. It scars. It worms its way into your heart and festers, until you’re glaring at his door and curling your fists, fighting the urge to slam on the walls when you hear a high, pitchy whine of Dean through the wall. Some nights, the jealously turns in your stomach and you find yourself over the toilet bowl, literally sick with it. 

The worst part is that he’s not doing it to be cruel. To mock or taunt you.

He’s just not thinking of you at all. 

Something in you snaps. He might not think of you, but all you do is think of him, and if you’re going to be suck in the lonely and violent cycle, you might as well even your own playing field. 

Dean doesn’t know it, but you’ve turned it into a sick kind of game. It’s not a healthy one, or one you’re ever going to win, but winning isn’t the point. 

Numbing is the point. 

Escaping. 

Being anything but a toy that doesn’t get played with, stuck on the other side of the wall and picking at your skin until it bleeds. 

You start going to bars. Not the one down the street—that’s where Dean goes—but one a few streets up. It’s next to a club made of suffocating heat and too many bodies that aren’t safe—aren’t Dean—but it does just fine. Some nights you go to the bar. Some you go to the club. 

But you always come home with some nameless body attached to your hip. Kissing over your throat and mumbling your name. Touching your skin in a million different ways but never leaving a single dent. You let them sleep in your bed to one up Dean, but kick them out before he’s up. You wash their hands off in the morning, because your skin burns every single place they touched. 

Dean notices. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he notices. His flow of women seems to pick up, but you can’t prove it. 

You stop fucking yours at the apartment. You find beds all over the city, and stumble home in the morning with mess hair and your shoes in your hand. 

You can’t remember the name of the man behind you.

He’s pounding into you, lewd sounds filling his apartment, and your hands are fisted in the sheets but your head isn’t all there. You’re not drunk. You came onto him. You just can’t bring yourself to care that much.

It’s not bad sex. It’s one of the better hookups you’ve had. The guy knew what he was doing, and he was enthusiastic and sweet. He’d blushed when you flirted with him, and he’d touched you first, and you’re a horrible fucking person because you’d blown him and had to close your eyes to not be sick about it.

You kept looking up at him and almost gagging. He’s handsome—bronze skin and dark eyes—but he’s not Dean. You chose him because he didn’t look like Dean. You thought it would help.

But you’re an idiot. It only made everything worse.

You bury your face in the sheets, trying to muffle your cries. They’re slipping from just moans into something clearer. Something you don’t want to face. Sweat slicks down your thighs, and the man pulls your ass higher into the air. He kisses your spine, and he’s got a deep, rough voice that might be the only reason you’re wet at all.

“You look so pretty.” He whispers against your skin. “So fucking wrecked on my cock, Babygirl.”

You whine, tears pricking at your eyes that have nothing to do with pleasure. He sounds like Dean, just a little pitched up. When you close your eyes, you can almost pretend that his hands are a little rougher. Bigger, enveloping yours, with callouses that this finance worker pretty boy doesn’t have.

He’s too gentle with you. Dean would be rougher, if you asked him to be. He’d plant a hand on your spine and push it down while keeping your knees up. Forcing you to take him while muttering praise about how well you were taking him. He’d make out with your neck, leaving possessive marks that this man just isn’t, and when you called his name he’d laugh and kiss you, fully and deeply and-

You cum, but it’s not intense. Just a tiny shudder, over in about half a second. The man finishes himself, pulling out shortly after to clean up his condom. You lie on the bed, eyes squeeze shut and face burning. That wasn’t what it should’ve been. What you needed it to be.

“Who’s Dean?”

Your stomach curls into itself, twisting and knotting like a rotting fruit. “What?”

“Dean.” The man mutters. “You were calling his name.”

“I- Fuck.” You roll over, stumbling over your heartbeat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-“

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “Just wanted to check this wasn’t like- A cheating situation or something.” He gives you a tight smile. “If you want to be fucking Dean, you should go fuck Dean.”

You laugh weakly, shaking your head. You don’t have a response. Not one that’s going to help anything.

The man lets you use his bathroom. You stare at yourself in his tiny mirror—makeup ruined and big, black tears running down your cheeks with your mascara—and try to smile. It’s psychotic. Strained. Your eyes gleam, and you laugh again. You’re not sure at what.

Probably how fucking pathetic the whole thing is. You’re saying his name during sex. He’s probably back at the apartment, banging some girl and not thinking about you at all. The girl might ask if he has a roommate, and he’ll just say not to worry about her. They’ll giggle, and get to ride him or lie under him. They’ll be allowed to get on their knees, and they’ll blink up at him under pretty lashes, and he’ll say their name. Because he’s not thinking of you. He’d never think of you. He’d probably be shocked that you’re thinking of him, because the idea of you like that has never even crossed his mind.

You cry until your eyes are red. You can’t stop watching it in the mirror, and it makes you cry longer.

The man lets you crash the night. He’s nicer than you deserve. In another life, you think you would’ve left him your number. He would’ve called you in a few days, and asked to take you to a movie. You would’ve smiled, agreed, and had a very peaceful romance with him, filled with flowers and gentle touches.

But in this life, silent tears stream down your face until the morning breaks. In this life your brain turns over the idea of Dean with his girl until you’d picked it from a scab into a raw, open wound.

The only stitches in the world are Dean’s fingers, but you’re not allowed to have them.

So you just bleed your love all over the mattress, and hope the poor man can’t see the wound in the morning.

✦Chapter Three✦

✦End note: he makes me sick. i love him✦

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

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

But everything on Zillow is a million dollars, compared to the scraps in your bank account. You go on Craigslist, and spend half an hour weighing the cost benefit of answering this guy’s request for feet pics. He’ll pay five hundred dollars, cash. You’ve never even held five hundred dollars. If you turn it all into hundreds, you can roll around in it like Scrooge McDuck.

All while some creep on the internet jerks off to your feet.

Not worth it.

But you bookmark the tab. Just in case.

Craigslist is a dead end. You move onto one of those roommate websites, wrapping your blanket tight around your body. You’ll find something. You have to find something.

There’s a room with a rent for two hundred, but it’s a group of men looking for a woman only. Best case scenario, they’re trying to live out a sitcom. Worst case, you get a documentary.

Another room is looking for someone who’s fine with dogs that bite. The next one is hoping you’ll be able to watch her snake and water all her plants. About five more listings refuse to say the building rent, and you’re  pretty sure you’ll be getting scammed. It’s past midnight. You’ve hit the studios where you’ll get your own mattress.

Then you see it.

A sparkle of gold in the water.

Six hundred dollar rent, which isn’t nothing, but the place is close enough to work and you’d only be splitting with the lister. Spacious. Free washer and dryer. Parking space. Good security. Looking for a chill roommate. No couples. Can negotiate about pets. Please don’t be an ass. Contact for info.

There’s a number listed at the bottom.

Dean.

No picture, but that’s a man’s name. You’ve lived with men before, but it had been a co-ed apartment. Just a man is gambling that he’s not a murderer.

You click on his profile. He’s a mechanic—you have no idea how much that pays, but it could be helpful if your car breaks down—and enjoys movies and food.

Maybe this is a social experiment. To see if you’re stupid enough to fall for this.

And you wouldn’t call yourself stupid. Just desperate.

You text Dean. He responds in an hour, setting up a time to meet. He doesn’t sound like a serial killer over text.

You think you can make Friday work?

Friday is perfect. Yeah. How about noon?

Would eleven be okay? Don’t want to take up your whole day :)

He uses smiley faces. That’s cute. Eleven works. Then, just to not seem like a bitch, you add, thank you. Very considerate.

You’re welcome. I was trained well.

That makes you snort. Funny, too. Does the ‘don’t be an ass’ rule apply to you as well?

He doesn’t respond for a second. You think you might’ve blown it, when your phone rings.

Of course it does. Was that what made you message.

Your lips twitch. It helped.

Knew it. There’s a pause. My friend made the ad. She thought I was joking when I suggested. Said it would drive people away.

Well, you can tell her she can suck it.

Already did.

You laugh again. Dean seems nice. He’s friends with a woman, which is a good sign. He responds quickly. Nothing that’s screaming run.

You think your heart does little flips, whenever your phone buzzes with his name. You chalk it up to an unfortunate side affect of not getting laid for months.

And the light moves, when he walks. 

You notice it the first time you meet. You walk up to the building, shifting on your feet and peer at the buttons, and he’d elbowed right past you with a grunted apology. 

“Sorry, gonna be late- Shit-“

He walks right into the glass. 

And you like to think of yourself as at least an okay person. The kind that helps someone, when they run into a door like a bird. But you laugh at the dazed expression on his face as he stumbles back. You laugh, and you catch his arm to steady him. It makes you falter a little bit as well. He’s a lot heavier than you expect—even for someone so taller—and you have to sink your nails into his arm to stay upright. His bicep had flexes under your hand. 

He grabs your wrist with a grunt, both of you finding footing at the same time, and looks you right in the eyes. 

He has the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen in your damn life. His lashes might be longer than yours, the dark green almost hypnotizing, and his face- 

You didn’t know men were allowed to look like that. You’re so sure that the face looking at you was from a dream. Full lips and strong features, a slightly crooked nose and, sharp clean-shaven jaw. 

You blink at him slowly. Hold on a little tighter, in case this is a dream. Morning mist bites at your fingers, but his body is warm. The haze of it all makes it feel like a dream, and you lean  a little forward, but- 

There’s ice under your feet. You slip with a tiny yelp. 

He grabs you quickly. Wide eyed with an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. Your ankle hurts—not a dream and his breath turns to fog over your face. Only a foot or so apart, something magnetic pulling you closer, something louder in your brain—call it a survival instinct—making you place a hand on his chest to stop yourself from melting into this complete stranger. 

His mouth curves into a small grin. You stare at it, trying not to mirror the movement, then look back into his eyes.

The light moves.     

“Hi.”

“Hey.” You swallow. “Are you-“

“I’m good.” He shrugs lazily. Still looking at you. “You?”

“I’m fine.” You whisper. “It’s- Happened before.”

That’s a lie. You’ve never felt anything like this, that makes your heart go to your ears and your whole body sing. It’s light by an electric fire, sparking when his thumb brushes a small line over your waist.

He must see right through you. His smile grows.

“You slip on ice while standing a lot?” He teases.

“You run into glass doors a lot?”

He stares at you for a second. You bite your tongue. You didn’t need to be that angry, that defensive, you don’t even know him and he probably thought you were some kind of standoffish bitch- 

He laughs. Loud and clear, the first note of a song you think you’ve been waiting to hear all your life. Your heart had skips in your chest, and falls into a beat you’ve never felt. It feels right. He, with his arm around you and a wide smile on his face, feels right. 

Then he pulls back, grabbing your arms to make sure you were steady on the ground, before coughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Still smiling. Still so close. 

“Guess I don’t. Was just in a rush to get inside, I think I got someone waitin’ on me- Not like that.” He adds quickly, ears going red. “I live upstairs, and my friend moved in with her girlfriend, and my brother was crashing with his girlfriend but they found a place and now I- Never mind.” He shakes his head, making a face that you don’t fully understand.

In a year or two, you still won’t understand it. He’ll only ever make that face when he’s talking to you. And you’ll know, because you watch everything he does.

Just to see if he knows he has your heart. That it’s wrapped around his hands, to pull and play with however he pleases. That he grabbed it when he caught you slipping, and he’d left a depression on your body where he’d touched you so easily. Fit so perfectly. You watch him all the time, because there’s nothing better than just watching someone you love. 

You don’t know you love him now. You only know that he’d seems nervous, and it’s sweet. You know his face is confused and adorable, even if you aren’t able to place why. 

He extends his hand, an almost sheepish smile on his face. 

“Dean Winchester.” He says. “That’s- My name.” 

You would giggle, if you weren’t so busy panicking.

Dean Winchester.

You don’t understand why he didn’t put up a picture. A face like that could’ve made an angel fall from heaven, just to stand at his side.

You say your own name softly, and watch it hit him. You slip your hand into his, fingers shaking—the cold or nerves, you’re still not sure—and he still feels right. So right. His fingers are wrapped, safe and firm around yours. In another life you wonder if he would’ve pulled you forward into his arms. 

But you don’t live in that life. You live where he needs a roommate, and you needed a place to live, and that was more important than anything else. That wasn’t something you had the luxury to jeopardize, even for Dean. 

And you’ll know soon. You’d jeopardize a lot of things for Dean.

“I think you’re supposed to be waitin’ upstairs for me.” He rasps, and you laugh weakly. 

“I couldn’t get in the building.”

“Oh- Uh- Right.” He glances at the doors. Still holding your hand. 

You don’t want him to let go. 

“At least you’re not late.” You say with a smile, and he looks back to you. 

His eyes shine, and in the mist, he’d still looked like an angel. A little more solid and real, but somehow less tangible. A little further away, but right in your hands at the same time. The light moves. He chuckles, and it moves something deep in your chest. Something final, shifting where it was always supposed to be.

“Yeah.” He says. “I guess I’m not.”

✦Chapter Two✦

✦End note: Even if you've read the original, I still hope you enjoy this extened version! I had a lot of fun exploring and adding to these characters, and I considered just deleting the orginal but if you want the abriged version or total spoilers, I'm keeping it up. I really recommend not reading one-shot first, but you do you. thank you!✦

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

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

The motel room was cheap, the kind of place where the walls were thin enough to hear your neighbor's TV and the carpet had stains that predated your birth. But after eighteen years of living out of suitcases and backseats, you'd learned to find comfort in the familiar. The flickering neon light from the vacancy sign outside cast everything in a sickly pink glow. The sheets smelled faintly of bleach and desperation. It was home.

Or as close to home as you ever got.

You'd finally convinced them to let you have your own room. It had taken months of begging, of fighting, of pointing out that you were a grown woman now and deserved a shred of privacy. Dean had argued against it, of course. "S'too dangerous," he'd said. "What if something gets in? What if we can't get to you in time?" Sam had been quieter about his objections, but you could see it in his eyes—the way they darkened when you mentioned wanting space, the way his jaw tightened when you talked about having your own bed.

But you'd won. Barely.

The rooms were connected by a door. A flimsy, hollow-core thing with a lock that hadn't worked since the Clinton administration. It was more symbolic than anything. A gesture. A plea for privacy that your brothers had only grudgingly accepted.

You should have known it wouldn't last.

It was two in the morning when Dean came through your window.

You'd been half-asleep, drifting in that hazy space between dreaming and waking, when the soft click of the latch pulled you back to consciousness. Your eyes snapped open, your hand instinctively reaching for the knife you kept under your pillow-

"Easy, sweetheart." Dean's voice came out of the darkness, low and rough. "s'just me."

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, but the fear was already fading, replaced by something warmer. Something more complicated.

"Dean?" You sat up, the thin sheet pooling around your waist. "What the fuck are you-"

"Shh." He was already crossing the room, his footsteps silent on the stained carpet. He'd come through the window to avoid the connecting door, you realized. He'd climbed in through the window like some kind of serial killer. "Gotta be quiet, yeah? Don't wanna wake Sammy."

Your mouth went dry. "Dean, we shouldn't-"

"We shouldn't what?" He was at the edge of your bed now, looking down at you with those eyes that had haunted your dreams since you were eighteen years old. Green like a forest fire, burning with something that made your stomach tighten and your thighs press together. "We shouldn't do the thing we've been doing for months? The thing we both know you want?"

"Sam's right next door-"

"Sam's asleep." Dean's hand found your ankle, his fingers curling around it like a brand. His touch was hot, searing, and you couldn't help the way your breath hitched. "He's always asleep these days. He doesn't know a thing."

But even as he said it, something flickered in his eyes. Something that looked almost like pride. Like he knew exactly what they were doing, and he was clapping himself on the back for it.

Dean was on you before you could say another word, his mouth finding yours in the darkness. He kissed like he fought: aggressive, possessive, and with no intention of losing. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming your mouth, and you whimpered against him, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders.

He was still wearing his jeans, his shirt, his boots even. He'd come straight from his room, straight from lying in bed thinking about you, and the thought made something dark and hungry twist in your chest.

"Been thinking about you all night," he muttered against your lips, his hands already pushing your shirt up. "Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about you in here, all alone. Wondering if you were touching yourself."

"Dean-"

"Were you?" His hand slid down your stomach, finding the waistband of your sleep shorts. "Were you touching yourself, sweetheart? Thinking 'bout me?"

No. You'd been trying to sleep, trying to make your brain shut up for once. But you nodded anyway, because Dean needed to hear it. Dean needed to know that he was the only one you thought about, the only one you wanted. Even if it wasn't true. Even if Sam's name was always there, hovering at the edge of your consciousness like a prayer you couldn't quite say aloud.

"Good girl." His fingers found your clit, pressing down with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. "Good fucking girl. You're mine, you know that? Mine. Not Sammy's. Mine."

The sex was always like this with Dean. Rough and fast and mean, like he was trying to prove something. To you, to himself, to the brother who was sleeping—or not sleeping—on the other side of the connecting door.

He flipped you over onto your stomach before you could even catch your breath, dragging your hips up until you were on your knees, your face pressed into the pillow. You heard the rustle of his jeans, the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and then he was pushing inside you with one hard, brutal thrust that made you cry out.

"Shh." His hand clapped over your mouth, muffling the sound. "Gotta be real quiet, remember? Can't let Sammy hear. Can't let him know what a dirty little slut his sister really is."

The words should have made you feel cheap. Dirty. Wrong.

Instead, they just made you wetter.

Dean set a punishing pace, his hips slapping against yours with every thrust. There was no tenderness here, no softness. This was about possession, pure and simple. He was claiming you, marking you, making sure you knew exactly who you belonged to.

"Look at you," he growled, his mouth pressed against your ear. "Taking it so fucking well. You love this, don't you? Love being my dirty little secret."

You couldn't answer, not with his hand over your mouth, but you nodded frantically, your fingers clutching the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

"Sammy's right over there," Dean continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Right through that door. He thinks he knows everything about you, but he doesn't know this. He doesn't know how fucking desperate you are for it. How you'll spread your legs for me any time, any place."

You wanted to tell him it wasn't true. That you weren't desperate, weren't hungry, weren't absolutely addicted to the way he made you feel. But it would have been a lie, and you'd never been a good liar, and besides, the only sound you could make was a muffled moan as he hit that spongy spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"That's it," Dean grunted. "That's it. Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking tight. You're gonna make me come, sweetheart. You're gonna make me come-"

What you didn't know, couldn't know, was that Sam was listening in to every single word.

He'd heard the window. Heard the soft thump of Dean's boots on the carpet. Heard the way your breath caught when Dean touched you, heard the wet sounds of your mouths meeting, heard the rustle of fabric and the creak of the bedsprings.

He'd heard everything.

And now he was leaning against the connecting door, his forehead pressed against the cheap wood, his hand shoved down his pajama pants, stroking himself with a desperation that bordered on pathetic. He was so hard it hurt, his cock aching in his grip, precome already leaking down his fingers.

He was such a fucking slut, and he knew it.

But he couldn't help himself. The sounds were right there. The sound of Dean fucking you, the sound of your muffled moans, the sound of Dean calling you his. Sam knew he should be angry, should be hurt, should be storming through that door and tearing Dean off you with his bare hands. He'd fantasized about it, actually. Imagined himself bursting in, tackling Dean to the ground, and taking his place, showing you that he could be so much better than Dean. That he'd be gentle with you, worship you, treat you like the goddess you were.

But instead, he was standing here, jerking himself off like a lovesick teenager, his own brother's voice filling his ears.

"Take it, sweetheart. Take every fucking inch."

Sam's hand moved faster, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip to keep from making a sound, as he heard the little desperate sounds slipping past your lips. His eyes were squeezed shut, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying quiet.

"Gonna come. Fuck. Gonna come right here in your pretty pussy."

And then the sounds shifted: Dean's grunts becoming more desperate, your whimpers rising in pitch, and Sam knew it was happening, knew you were both about to come, and his own release was building, burning low in his gut, demanding to be set free.

When Dean finally came, with a long, shuddering groan that Sam could hear even through the door, it was enough to push him over the edge.

Sam came so hard his knees buckled.

He leaned too much onto the door.

The flimsy wood gave way under him, opening without any resistance, and Sam hit the floor on all fours, gasping, his hand still wet with his own come, his pajama pants hanging loosely around his hips.

The room went dead silent.

Dean was still hovering over you, his cock still half-hard, his jeans tangled around his thighs. You were on your stomach, your back glistening with sweat, your face leaning sideways into the pillow, still berathing heavily.

All three of you stared at each other. There was no sound except Sam's ragged breathing and the distant hum of the neon sign outside.

Then Dean started laughing.

"Oh my God." His voice was full of dark, delighted amusement. "Oh my God, Sam. Were you—" He broke off, his eyes dropping to Sam's hand, still sticky with come. "Holy shit. You were jacking off. Outside the door. Like a fucking creeper."

Sam's face was on fire. He scrambled to his feet, yanking his pajama pants up, trying desperately to hide the evidence of what he'd just done. "Shut up. You're one to talk, you- you crawled in through the fucking window like some-"

"I climbed through the window to be with her." Dean gestured at you, still sprawled on the bed. "What's your excuse? You couldn't even go to bed with her? You had to stand outside like a pathetic little pervert?"

"I wasn't-" Sam's voice cracked. "I heard- you were so loud-"

"Heard us, huh?" Dean was pulling his jeans up, zipping them with deliberate slowness. "Heard everything? Heard me fucking our baby sister? Heard her moaning for me?"

Dean looked at you, something softening in his eyes. Then he looked at Sam, and the softness was gone, replaced by that familiar condescending smirk.

"Go ahead," Dean said, stepping past Sam on his way to the door, patting his head condescendingly. "Take your turn."

Sam's head snapped up. "What?"

"You heard me." Dean paused at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder with a smirk that made you want to throw something at him. "She's still wet. Still ready. And judging by the mess you made out there, you're not exactly done, are you?"

"Dean-"

"Don't pretend you don't want it, Sammy." Dean's voice was hard. "You've been wanting it since she was eighteen and dad brought her into this life. Y'were so fucking obvious, you think I didn't notice?"

Sam's face was a mask of humiliation and fury. "That's not-"

"That's not what?" Dean's voice was cruel now, viciously amused. "That's not fucking true? You didn't jack off thinking about her when I was dead? You didn't like taking my place?"

"Enough you two!" You were sitting up now, the sheet clutched to your chest, a frown on your face that did nothing to convey the anger that you weren't even feeling. "Just... enough. I'm not something to be passed around. I'm not- I'm not property."

Dean and Sam both turned to look at you. The room was silent.

Then Dean laughed. "No, baby. You're not property. You're family." He said the word like it was a curse. "And family takes care of each other." He looked at Sam. "You gonna take care of her? Or are you just gonna stand there with your dick in your hand like a goddamn teenager?"

And then he was gone, stepping through the door and back into his own room with a wide stretch and an open-mouthed yawn, leaving you and Sam alone in the silence.

Sam didn't move.

He stood there, frozen in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on you. You could see the conflict in them—the shame, the want, the desperate need to do the right thing warring with the part of him that had been listening outside the door, jacking off to the sound of you getting fucked by his brother.

"Sam." you said softly. "Sam, it's okay."

"It's not okay." His voice was barely above a whisper. "It's not okay. What he did- what I was doi-"

"Sam."

"You're our sister."

"Step-sister." You said it like it made a difference. Like it made any of this okay. Because it did, on some way, at least. Morally. Made it legal.

Sam's eyes met yours. And in them, you saw the moment he gave in.

He crossed the room in three steps, his hands cupping your face, his mouth crashing against yours. He kissed different than Dean. He was softer, more desperate, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his love into you. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you tasted him, tasted his shame and his want, and you couldn't help but whimper against him.

"Been wanting you so long," he breathed against your lips. "So fucking long. Every night, in my bed, I wanted to-"

"Show me." You pulled back, looking up at him with eyes that were half-challenge, half-plea. "Show me what you've been wanting to do."

Sam's control snapped.

He pushed you back onto the bed, his hands finding your hips, dragging you down the mattress until you were flat on your back. He pulled off his pajama pants, his cock springing free, already hard and leaking. There was no condom with him, no barrier between the two of you. Just skin on skin, two bodies finally giving in to what they'd both wanted for so long.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, his voice shaking. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you." It was the easiest thing you'd ever said. "I've always wanted you."

And then he was pushing inside you, and it was everything.

Sam fucked you differently than Dean. More desperate, more needy, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin and never leave. His thrusts were deep and fast, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes locked on your face. Every sound you made seemed to drive him wilder, his hips slapping against yours with increasing urgency.

"Fuck, you feel s'good," he gasped, his voice hitching. "So-oh go—ood. Been dreaming about this for years. Dreaming 'bout having y'just like this, mngh-"

"Sam—"

"Shh, I kn'w. I kn'w." He kissed you again, swallowing your moans and forcing you to swallow his own. "I've got y'sweetheart. Swear it, mph-"

His rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming more erratic. He was close, you could tell, and the knowledge made you clench around him, drawing a sharp gasp from his lips.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me come-" he whimpered. "I'm gonna- I- gonna cum—"

"Come for me," you whispered, your hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. "Come inside me, Sam. I want to feel it. I want to feel you."

He came with a cry that he couldn't quite muffle, his hips slamming into yours one final time as he filled you. His body shook with the force of his release, his face buried in your neck, whining against your skin like a desperate little thing.

When it was over, he didn't pull out.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comfort, his breath hot against your neck. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, the frantic rhythm slowly steadying.

"I love you," he whispered. "I've loved you since the day you came home with us."

"I know," you said softly. "I love you too."

"Really? Me? Not Dean? Just me?"

The question hung in the air. And despite everything—despite the betrayal, the secrecy, the knowledge that what you were doing was wrong on every level—you found yourself nodding, even if it was a white lie.

"Just you," you said. "Always just you."

Sam kissed you again, soft and sweet, and you let yourself pretend that it was enough. That this could ever be enough. That you could forget about Dean, forget about the way his rough hands felt on your skin, forget about the way he'd laughed as he left you to Sam like you were nothing more than a toy to be shared.

You knew it would never be just Sam. You were too far gone for that. You needed both of them, in equal measure, in ways that were completely and utterly wrong.

But for now, lying in Sam's arms, listening to his soft breathing, you let yourself pretend.

Just for a little while.

And in the other room, Dean lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Sam's pleasure through the broken door.

He could hear Sam's whimpered confessions, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting, the soft cries you couldn't quite muffle. It should have made him angry. Jealous. He should have stormed back in there and dragged Sam off you, should have reminded you both exactly who you belonged to.

But instead, he found himself smiling.

Because no matter how many times Sam had you, no matter how many confessions of love he whispered in your ear, you would always come back to Dean. Always. You needed Sam's softness, his gentleness, his desperate devotion. But you needed Dean's roughness too. Needed his possession, his claim, his absolute certainty that you were his.

And Dean could share.

For now.

Because Sam was his brother, and what was Dean's was Sam's.

Sharing is caring, after all.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he grunted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your wrist, and you raised your brows.

“I think it means I like it, dummy.”

And that had made him falter. He’d looked at you like he wasn’t sure to trust it. And you knew he didn’t. He’d spent too long, thinking comfort was the one sin he wasn’t allowed to afford. So you’d just kept smiling. You kissed him deeply, and he melted, cupping your face and rolling you over with a satisfied half-grunt.

Maybe he was getting old. With the gain of a real grocery store down the street, he’d turned into a little of an obsessive housewife in the kitchen, and you were being served new dishes every single night. Without the hunting, he gained a little weight, but the mechanic work meant he gained muscle with it. You catch him frowning at the mirror after a shower, and you’re sure a part of him doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror.

But you do. It’s the same man you loved when he was sharp and rough like sandpaper. The same man who’s heart you had to spend years unwrapping from the barbed wire, who you loved with every sting and groveling apology and mistake. He seems to think you’re going to leave, now that he’s gone all fuckin’ soft.

You just count it as a long winter that’s thawed. A spring that took a while to bloom, and now, a rich, eternal summer. And you’re not about to run, right when you can start reaping your rewards.

He feeds you better than you’ve ever fed yourself. He holds your hand in the house, like he’s trying to put some claim on you over the walls. He laughs loudly at stupid parties you have to attended, and charms all your neighbors, and stares at babies and cribs when he thinks you’re not looking, his fingers digging into your hip with a quiet, long buried longing.

The nightmares still come, but he slowly talks about what he can. He doesn’t go to therapy—that was a long shot anyway—but he lets you drag him to the doctor, and takes his stupid heart meds with a grumble and kiss of your forehead, as if you’re the only reason he’s bothering to keep himself upright and kicking. He makes friends that aren’t his brother, and doesn’t even fight with Sam anymore. He drinks a little less and drives a little slower. He knocks out watching TV, but still manages to wake up long enough to carry you to bed.

And bed alone is a reason to love him like this, just a little extra. A sliver that grows from the everything about his handsome, gentle face being inches from yours, the scent of his evergreen aftershave surrounding you better than any drug, massive, calloused hands tracing over your body like, even after all this time, he still finds himself awestruck at your beauty.

“My girl,” he rasps against your lips, and you believe it.

You believe it with the way you’re all but consumed by him, drowning you in his weight and heat. Thick biceps keep your legs shoved apart when he buried his face against your drooling pussy, his beard scraping and tickling your inner thighs. His tongue works you open and flicks against your clit. You tug his hair with a whimpering pleas, and he moans, deep and rich and hungry. Your eyes roll back in your head, the vibration against your cunt almost too much before you’re coming apart on his face, and he doesn’t let up until you’re trembling and gasping for air.

Dean kisses you with your arousal still clinging to his beard, and sinks into your cunt with low, strained growl of need. You hug him tight, barely able to do anything but take it. The girth and size of him was always right on the better side of too much. Now, with the extra strength, you fall into a mess with barely a few strokes. Dean handles you like a doll, flipping you onto your stomach and dragging your ass up in the air, folding his body over yours and kissing your open, gaping mouth.

“So fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he grunts, cock drilling into that gooey, needy spot with every stroke. “Takin’ it so good f’ me, my sweet girl-“

“De- Deean-“ You whine. “Please- Need to cum- Need it so bad-“

Dean grabs your neck with one hand and turns your head, kissing you deep and messy. He splays his hand over your tummy, pressing up into where his dick is splitting you in half, and the extra pressure is too much to bear. You cum with a scream, and Dean buries himself deep inside you with a low, rough groan. Sticky ropes of cum paint over your walls, your thighs, the mattress as it dribbles out of your over-stuffed cunt.

Dean kisses you slowly, in no rush to clean, in no rush to move. He rolls onto his back and you curl into his side, fitting against him perfectly and blinking up at him with worshipful, glossy eyes. He swallows, brushes the hair from your brow, and takes your chin between his fingers. He tips it up and kisses you slowly, savoring every time, satisfied hum from your lips.

Sometimes he still thinks he doesn’t deserve this, but he’s certain that you do. And if you’re happy with him like this—bigger and mushy and comfortable—then you can’t possibly be wrong. For the first time in his life, he really has all the time in the world. And he doesn’t plan to waste a second of it. Not when he has you.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: request! i would give him such a happy lifeeee put me in coach✦

The moon’s light filtered through the canopy above you. You could still hear your pack, but they were in a different direction, as they typically stayed away from the neighboring property's border fence. A smile found its way to your lips as you ran, letting your mind wander and play out scenes of being in wolf form and doing this.

You weren’t sure what made you stop where you did, but when you looked around, you noticed a wolf and the border fence. You’d reached the area where the two connected. Peeking around the tree, just a little, you watched it, and it was watching you. From its size and scent, you could easily tell it was an Alpha. 

“You should go, wolf. My scent isn’t pleasant,” you told it, softly, but honestly.

It just shook its head, making you tilt yours a bit. Wolves had the ability to shift back to their human form at any given time, but for some reason, this one wasn’t. It had beautiful, dark brown highlights along its dirty brown coat and the most captivating emerald-green eyes you’d ever seen. Slowly, you stepped from behind the tree.

“My scent doesn’t bother you?” you asked, and again, he shook his head no.

You walked a little closer to the fence. It was chain-link, and this wolf didn’t seem threatening in any way. The wolf watched you curiously, tilting its head. You sat down on the ground, only a couple feet from the fence, crossing your legs. That made the wolf wag its tail, and it looked as though it was smiling.

“You can’t shift back, can you?” you asked the wolf, and it shook its head again.

It was something you had heard of, not being able to shift back to human form while the full moon was in the sky. Sometimes, it was so bad that the memories of the time, as the wolf, weren’t accessible after shifting back to human form when the sun rose.

“I’m sorry, wolf. I can’t shift either,” you told him sincerely.

He moved so that his body was against the fence, then rubbed his head on it a little, while also trying to look back at you. It made you giggle, but you moved closer and pet him through the fencing. His coat was soft, and you could feel his strong muscles beneath his fur.

“You’re part of the Winchester pack. Even if I don’t know who you are, it was nice to have met you, wolf,” you told him softly.

You sat there with him, telling him about your life, your genetic mutation, your pack, and everything you’d been through. He listened intently, whimpering sometimes, wagging his tail and smiling at others, even tilting his head in curiosity or confusion occasionally. You knew he was your soulmate, but there was no way of telling who he was, just the pack he was a part of. After many hours passed, you heard the songs of your pack in the distance, and knew you’d have to get back. With a heavy sigh, you turned back to the wolf.

“I have to go, wolf. I’ll come back tomorrow night, and every night of the full moon until I can find you in your human form,” you told him softly, making him wag his tail and smile happily.

You then leaned a little closer to the fence. “I promise, wolf, I will come back,” you whispered before placing a soft kiss on his nose, to which he licked your cheek quickly.

A giggle escaped your lips. “Good night, wolf.” He sang to the moon as you walked away, back to the cabin you needed to be in before sunrise, your thoughts on the wolf and his mesmerizing green eyes. His song was beautiful, and you already missed his company. You wanted to tell someone in your pack, but this had been very unorthodox, and you weren’t yet ready to tell them. 

You kept your promise, going back to the same place for the next two nights and again for the following months when the full moon came. He was there every time, and you shared what you had been up to. You would lean against the fence on your side, as he leaned against it on his side, as that was the closest the two of you could be. It was comforting for both of you, just in different ways.

“Dean, where the hell did you disappear to last night!?” Sam exclaimed, slamming the door of his brother's cabin and jolting him out of sleep on the couch.

“Huh?” Dean replied, sitting up and fairly groggy.

“You took off last night. None of the pack could find you. Your wolf knows it’s not safe to wander off since you can’t remember what happens,” Sam explained, both concerned and annoyed, as he sat in a chair adjacent to his brother.

Dean put his hands on either side of his head, almost feeling like he had a hangover, which had never happened before. ”Can you not yell?” Dean practically whined before getting up to make some coffee.

“Well, heads up, Mom and Dad are worried and are probably on their way here,” Sam sighed, watching his brother. Dean had always looked out for his younger brother, but when Dean presented Alpha and couldn’t shift back during the full moon, the entire pack rejoiced. It was their version of a Touched from the Winter pack, and it only happened with Alphas. After Sam had presented Alpha, he took it upon himself to watch out for his older brother during the nights of the full moon. His way of reciprocation for Dean always looking out for him.

“Man, I don’t want to deal with them,” Dean groaned from the kitchen as he made coffee.

“Dean, this isn’t something we can just ignore. The pack has to keep you safe when you shift,” Sam told him sympathetically. He had wished this burden had been put on him, not his older brother.

Just then, the cabin door was flung open. Mary and John looked around, almost frantically, for Dean, until they found him in the kitchen. “Son, you’re okay, thank god,” John sighed in relief.

Mary, on the other hand, had to go and look him over, checking his eyes and any exposed skin for any wounds or injuries.

“Mom, I’m fine,” Dean grumbled, but knew he couldn’t just shoo her away, so he let her give him a once-over while the coffee brewed.

“Sammy, go let the pack know that Dean’s okay,” John told his youngest son.

Without a word, Sam headed out to do just that while John and Mary sat down at the kitchen table. “Do you remember anything?” John asked him, and his tone was surprisingly kind.

“No. I just have a horrible migraine,” Dean replied, pouring himself a cup of coffee before joining them.

John and Mary shared a knowing look before looking back at their son. “Your wolf might have found your soulmate,” Mary told him with a soft smile.

Dean’s eyes instantly shot up. “How can you figure that? With all the omegas that have come here and not one of them being my soulmate… just, how? And why when I’m shifted? It’s not like I can remember what happened. How the hell is that even fair?” He was both frustrated and sad at this point, as it wasn’t fair. And at the moment, couldn’t even feel his wolf due to the migraine.

Mary got up and retrieved some medicine from the bathroom cabinet before returning. “Here, take these. It’ll help with the headache.”

“Son, the whole pack is going to keep an eye on you for the next two nights, and every full moon until we figure out who she is. We’re all here for you, and we’ll help,” John told him sympathetically.

Dean took the meds with his coffee, just wanting the pounding in his head to stop. “Sure, yeah,” he mumbled.

The two shared another look before they left him to his thoughts. He didn’t typically enjoy the comfort of others and had always felt like a bit of a loner because of how he was different. The pack may have been happy, and they all loved him, but he felt alone. Even during his ruts, the omegas that helped him through it weren’t even appealing to him. 

When the migraine did finally go away, he felt his wolf again, and the pull to go out. He just wasn’t sure where, and neither did his wolf. Dean was restless, mostly due to his wolf being restless. He cleaned, helped others with simple chores, and attempted to play with the pups when parents needed to get something done. Nothing seemed to help. 

His pack did try to watch him. They even attempted to follow him that night when they all shifted. However, Dean’s wolf was smart and gave them all the slip. The same thing happened the following night as well. It was frustrating not only for Dean but also his pack. They’d never had a Touched of their own that was as stubborn as Dean’s wolf. 

When this repeatedly happened for months on end, they approached Dean with a solution that they typically never would have considered. Since Sam was the one Dean was closest to, the pack let him be the one to suggest it.

“Dean, I know you’re not going to like this, but it’s the only solution anyone can come up with,” Sam sighed sympathetically, holding out the collar.

“Sam, I’m not wearing a damn tracking collar,” Dean growled.

“You’re getting more aggressive every full moon. You’re scaring the pups with just your scent,” he replied softly, trying to get his brother to calm down.

Dean knew he was right. It was getting bad. He could almost smell her scent on him when he would shift back in the mornings with the sunrise, and it was driving both him and his wolf insane. He ran a hand down his face while the other was on his hip.

“The full moon is only three days out. Mom and Dad are taking me to meet the Winter’s Touched. Her soulmate still hasn’t been found. They can’t take you because of how aggressive you’ve gotten, and they want to make a decent impression. Just… keep the collar and think about it,” Sam sighed, leaving the tracking collar on the coffee table before heading out.

The Winchester and Winter bloodlines had never crossed, not in the more than five hundred years they’d been tracking their lineage. Dean grumbled as he snatched up the collar from the coffee table, wanting to throw it across the room. His jaw clenched as his hand tightened around it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before putting the collar back on the table.

Your mother stood in your doorway, watching you as you looked at yourself in the mirror. It was a simple sundress, and your hair was up in a braid. When she had told you that the Winchesters were bringing one of their alphas to meet you, you nearly choked on your breakfast that morning. You still hadn’t told them that you’d been meeting with the green-eyed wolf on the nights of the full moon. All you knew about him was that he was an alpha, your soulmate, and that he was a Winchester.

“You look fine, honey,” your mother told you softly, wrapping you up in a hug.

“I know,” you sighed, setting your hand over hers as you attempted to get the butterflies in your stomach to calm down.

“Why do you seem so nervous?” she asked, picking it up in your scent.

“Our bloodlines have never crossed before. I’m allowed to be nervous,” you chuckled, attempting to play it off. You were secretly hoping that it was the green-eyed wolf you’d been meeting with.

“Everything will be fine. They’re as normal as we are,” she told you softly, rubbing your upper arms to attempt to soothe your nerves.

“I’ll be alright, Mom,” you replied with a small smile.

“Come on, they’ll be here soon,” she told you, so you followed her out of your room.

Your thoughts wandered as she led you to the living room. Not only was your father there, but so were a few of your uncles and at least four of your alpha cousins. It was normal, though. You sat on the couch, your family around the room, and your mother sat next to you. Moments later, the doorbell rang. Your father answered it as your heart raced, and he led the three into the living room.

With a deep breath, you finally looked up at them, doing your best not to frown when you looked into the young alpha’s eyes. They weren’t the emerald-green of the wolf you knew was your soulmate.

“Y/N, this is John, Mary, and their youngest son, Sam, of the Winchester pack,” your father introduced them before sitting on your other side.

You managed a small smile, “Nice to meet the three of you.” Something you had learned was how to read people, and your feline genes helped even more with hearing things that wolves couldn’t. The three of them sat down and were clearly uncomfortable with your scent, but were respectful nonetheless. “Nice to meet you as well,” John replied, returning a kind smile.

“You don’t have to pretend or stay longer than necessary. I can see that he is not my soulmate,” you told the three of them softly.

Sam looked slightly shocked at your words. “How can you tell that?”

“It’s in the way your heart is beating and how you’re breathing, even if you are keeping a straight face at my scent,” you replied, doing your best not to smirk at how stunned the young alpha was.

John did chuckle, though, which helped lighten the mood. “I wish Dean could have been here to meet you. He’d like you.”

You tilted your head a bit. “Dean?” 

“He’s my oldest and has a bit of a stubborn streak, but he’d love your bluntness,” he replied with another soft chuckle.

“Perhaps one day I will get to meet him,” you told him, making a mental note of the name, knowing the full moon was only three days away.

The Winchesters stood, shook the hands of your father, and he then showed them out. Your mother looked at you apologetically, but could tell something was going through your head. Luckily for you, she didn’t push asking you about it. You retired to your room and changed into something more comfortable before lying on your bed to stare at the ceiling.

“Dean…” you whispered, looking forward to the next full moon.

“You came back alone, so I’m guessing you’re not her soulmate, huh?” Dean surmised as he sat across from his brother.

“Yeah, no. Man, her scent is just… it’s gross. I didn’t want to say anything around her, but it’s truly horrible,” Sam replied, still trying to get her scent out of his nose. “She’s beautiful, though, and blunt. You’d like her.”

Dean sighed, “Kinda hard to like someone you can’t be around. Still wish I could have gone.”

“We’ll figure things out. That tracker is gonna help,” he told his brother sympathetically.

When the evening of the full moon did come, Dean prepared himself for it. He couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror as he put the tracking collar around his neck and clipped it into place. This was something he hadn’t wanted to do, but he knew it needed to be done. There were risks with running alone, even if his pack did own the property, and he needed to know what had been happening when he shifted.

With a deep breath, he joined the other alphas of his pack. They all gave him a reassuring look while his father reassured him with a gentle touch on his shoulder.

“We’ll figure it out,” Sam told him again as night fell.

Dean shifted first, then the rest of the pack. He tried to shake the collar off, even scratching at it with his hind leg. Sam nudged him, then shook his head. Dean’s wolf was not happy and took off running, so the pack followed. Again, Dean’s wolf ditched them, or so he thought. Sam was following, but at a greater distance, following the sound of the beep the collar would give off in increments. 

You had begun running to the place where you met him every full moon, a mixture of excitement and anticipation pushing you to run faster. It was only just after dark when you reached that place at the fence, resting your hands on the chain link, watching the darkness on the other side. You looked up at the sky, listening carefully for any sounds in the night. As the moon began showing itself, you heard the familiar sound of his paws on the forest floor.

“Wolf,” you said happily, seeing him come slowly into view, but something about him felt wrong. You crouched down before kneeling on the ground as he approached. He looked almost sad. “What’s wrong, wolf?” you asked, trying not to worry.

He whimpered and shook his head before moving just enough for you to see it: the tracking collar. You reached out to touch it, but he pulled away, shaking his head again.

You looked at him, puzzled. “You don’t want me to take it off?” And he shook his head again. So, with a sigh, you sat down and leaned against the fence. “Okay, I won’t take it off. Your pack is worried, aren’t they?”

The wolf nodded this time, then leaned against the fence against you, almost purring. “I missed you, too, wolf,” you told him, petting him through the fencing. You purred softly against him, but yours was the purr of a cat. “Wolf, I want to know something,” you told him softly after a few minutes of silence. He looked over at you, tilting his head with curiosity, which you found so cute that you giggled quietly. “Is your name Dean?” you asked, feeling anxious at the possibility.

He not only began wagging his tail vigorously, but he also licked your face through the fence, making you laugh. You didn’t see the other wolf in the distance, who was just watching the two of you.

“So, Dean, I met your brother today, and your parents,” you told him, still giggling a little as he rubbed his side against yours through the fence, making all sorts of happy sounds. Your words made him look at you again with that same curiosity as before.

“They’re nice, and your brother is sweet for trying to keep a straight face after he smelled my scent in the room,” you chuckled, comforting Dean by petting him through the fence. “I know you’re my soulmate, my Alpha. And now that I know your name, I can find you,” you told him softly. That wasn’t how it had ever gone before: a Touched seeking out their soulmate due to not being able to smell unique scents like others could.

Dean seemed to be utterly happy, nearly hopping around almost playfully. You both wished the fence wasn’t between you, as you wanted so badly to wrap your arms around him and hold him close to you. Neither of you noticed Sam take off, back to the pack. 

He knew he had nothing to worry about, and that his brother was in good hands. He was happier than he could even express. What were the odds that two Touched would find each other in the way it had happened? All Sam could think was that fate definitely had a hand in it.

You spent the night telling Dean about the events of the last month, loving how you now knew his name. You bid him farewell as you did every night of the full moon, a soft kiss on his nose, and he a lick to your cheek. You were both smiling when you parted ways that night, well, early morning, only hours before the sun was due to rise.

When you returned to the cabin, though, your father was already there, as was your mother, and they didn’t look happy. Before you could even apologize, they both wrapped you in a hug, which confused the hell out of you.

“You found him, didn’t you, your soulmate?” your mother asked, doing her best not to cry.

At first, you froze as your heart began pounding, but you managed a deep breath just as they pulled away. “Yeah, about six months ago,” you answered quietly but honestly.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” your father asked, sad that you hadn’t trusted them with the information.

“I wasn’t sure who he was, and I didn’t want to scare him if I went to our spot with anyone from my pack.” You were honest, but felt bad.

“Oh, sweetie. We could have helped bring the two of you together sooner. We could have scented him, learned who he was,” your mother sighed sympathetically.

A small smile began tugging at the corner of your lips. “I know who he is now. It’s Dean Winchester, but he won’t remember me or our meetings. He can’t shift at will during the full moon,” you explained, your smile only growing as you spoke about him.

Your parents looked at each other, sharing a private conversation without saying a word before they turned back to you. “This is gonna be a little unorthodox, but we’ll go to the Winchesters. No reason to delay things any longer.” Your father told you, and you felt goosebumps dance their way down your body. You were going to finally meet him, in human form, and he was going to see you for the first time.

Dean woke up almost after sunrise, and threw the collar across his living room, causing it to hit the wall right next to the door. Sam slowly opened the front door and peeked inside. “What, Sam?” Dean growled from the other side of the living room, his head pounding again, and her scent was all over him. Some elusive omega that had all his nerves on edge.

“I actually have some good news, if you’re in the mood,” Sam told him, doing his best not to be repulsed by her scent, which he could smell even with Dean across the room.

Dean grumbled and headed to the bathroom for meds for his pounding head, wanting it just to go away. “Did that damned collar at least work?” he asked through a clenched jaw, heading to the kitchen for water.

“Yup,” Sam replied, popping the ‘p.’ “You found your soulmate, and now we know who she is. Hell, I can still smell her on you.”

Dean froze in place as his heart pounded in his chest, the throbbing in his head seemed to keep beat with it. He jumped when Sam set his hand on his shoulder, finally managing a deep breath as he grabbed some water.

“Who is she?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to know the answer.

“It’s Y/N Winter, and her parents are bringing her here in an hour,” Sam told him with a happy smile.

Dean couldn’t think straight all of a sudden, forgetting his throbbing head, the cup of water in his hand, and the meds in the other. You- he was going to meet you. His soulmate. All he could do was stare at his brother with a completely blank yet surprised expression as time seemed to stop.

Sam chuckled, “Take your meds and go shower. I’ll come get you when they get here. They’ve agreed to meet at the edge of the property, for the pack's sake.” And with that, Sam patted his brother on the shoulder before leaving him alone.

You hadn’t been able to sleep for the few hours before sunrise. Instead, you spent the time attempting to find something nice yet comfortable to wear. Nothing felt right. It either felt like too much or not enough. With a grumbled sigh, you plopped down on the edge of your bed.

“Wear something comfortable,” your mother suggested gently from the doorway, pulling your gaze. She gave you a sympathetic smile when she saw your frown.

Without a word, she glanced at the clothes spread around your room, draped over different pieces of furniture, and then went to your closet. In the back, she found one of your older dresses, one you hadn’t worn in a long time. It was a simple dress. Not quite a sundress, but not quite elegant enough to be an evening dress.

She pulled it out and held it up for you. “What about this one?”

Still frowning, you looked up at the dress, a smile tugging at your lips.  It was the sky blue of the dress with the dark blue of the roses that adorned the skirt, and it was perfect. You quickly changed as your mother chuckled to herself and left your room. Then, you put your hair up in a braid.

Your heart was pounding during the forty-minute drive from the cabin on the land to the front of the Winchester property. Your hands kept finding anything they could to fidget with to keep yourself distracted, but nothing was working. All you could think about were his green eyes, and you knew exactly what you were going to say to him when you saw him.

The cabin came into view through the windshield, and for a moment, you held your breath as everything else began fading away. A couple of vehicles were parked to the left of it, but your eyes were on the cabin itself. Two alphas were on the porch, chatting with each other, but neither of them were yours.

As your father parked, you felt like you wanted to run inside the cabin, but at the same time, you felt like you couldn’t move. “Come on, honey,” your mother encouraged you gently, and you finally managed a shaky breath and opened the car door.

When the three of you got out of the car, the two alphas watched you, noting how you held yourself. They knew who you were, had seen the newspaper articles about you, but had never met you.

“We’re here to meet with the head of the Winchester pack,” your father told them, his tone respectful.

One of the alphas nodded, then went inside, but movement at one of the windows caught your attention, pulling your gaze. You tilted your head in curiosity, swearing that you had seen something, someone, but there was nothing there.

He hadn’t been able to concentrate when he showered or when he got dressed. Dean even tried giving himself and his wolf a pep talk in the mirror, but that hadn’t worked either. His wolf was excited, practically playful in his head.

“Well, at least someone’s in a good mood,” he had mumbled before he had pulled himself away from the mirror.

Now, though, he was pacing the living room of the main cabin at the front of the land, unable to sit down. His wolf was restless, so he was restless. Sam tried to talk to him, but not even that was working. All Mary and John could do was watch him while they waited for you to show up with your parents.

Dean had gone to the window, his wolf wanting to see if you were there yet, so he obliged, but the driveway was void of foreign vehicles. Benny and Cas were waiting on the porch with Bobby inside, wanting to be there for Dean. It had been hard on all of them, seeing what Dean had been going through, but right now, all of them were excited.

He heard it before he could see it: the car your father was driving. Glancing out the side of the window, mostly hidden by the curtains, he watched the long driveway that led out to the main road, wanting to catch a glimpse of you. Dean practically held his breath when you got out of the car, and everything seemed to fade out of his field of vision except for you.

The sky-blue dress fell gently over your curves. It made you look both elegant and relaxed at the same time. Then there was how the sun danced through the canopy of trees, sprinkling your face with light. His lips parted as his wolf howled happily within him, and he couldn’t move. Well, he couldn’t move until he saw you look toward the window while the front door of the cabin opened.

“The Winters are here,” Cas announced, unable to hide his joy as he held the door open and took a step back.

Dean had to shove his hands in his pockets, his wolf whimpering, trying to get him to go to you. He was trying to be patient, but it wasn’t his strongest quality, especially not after how the last six months had gone.

With a shaky breath, you followed your parents inside. Six alphas, one omega, you mentally counted. Then your parents moved to the sides, and you looked ahead of you. You didn’t see the tears that slipped from your mother’s eyes or Mary’s. All you saw was the man standing five feet away from you—the alpha with green eyes. “Hi, wolf,” you said softly, but he was too stunned to move.

Your scent washed over him as a light breeze came in through the open door. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as every muscle in his body relaxed, and a smile found his lips. Home. His wolf howled inside him, feeling the same way. When he didn’t move or say anything, you tilted your head slightly, wondering what was going through his mind. The others stayed quiet, just watching.

“Dean?” you asked, a little unsure now. Having never been able to smell more than presentation on anyone before, you didn’t fully understand how scents affected others. You’d seen it, read about it, but since you hadn’t experienced it, there was still a lack of understanding.

His eyes snapped open at the sound of his name. Your voice made it sound like a song, calling to him like a siren. A stupid, boyish grin found his lips, but he still didn’t know what to say, being at a complete loss for words.

Sam chuckled from the couch, watching his usually suave, charming brother go completely speechless in front of an omega, even if you were his soulmate. John cleared his throat, but Dean didn’t notice, too mesmerized by you.

“Sorry, he’s not usually this… quiet,” John apologized with a quiet chuckle.

You looked over at John, smiling a little shyly. “Would it be okay if we had a few minutes, just the two of us?” you asked, trying to be respectful but also hoping you could find a way to get Dean to say something.

“Let’s go,” Bobby piped in with an amused chuckle as he pushed off the wall to the side of the couch.

You watched them all leave, your parents included, but Dean’s eyes never left you. With a deep breath, you turned back to Dean after the cabin door was closed. For a moment, you thought about how to proceed. You’d never met an alpha that didn’t have something to say. Finding a new level of determination, you walked over to him, your eyes never leaving his.

The closer you got, the less he felt like he could breathe, but at the same time, he felt more at ease than he ever had before. The boyish smile on his lips grew more into a goofy grin when you stopped in front of him. “Will you sit with me?” you asked him, and his lids drooped a little. To you, he almost looked stoned, but he was adorable, and it made you giggle.

When he didn’t move, you chuckled a little, then gently tugged him by his forearm over to the couch. You had to gently push him to sit down, forcing him to remove his hands from his pockets before you sat next to him. He was awestruck, but his wolf was happy now that you were close, sitting beside him: your giggle, your voice, your touch. Everything had captivated him in a way no omega ever had before. He felt like he was on cloud nine, and he never wanted to come down. When his wolf yipped loudly in his mind, it snapped him out of his haze that was all you, and a deep blush of embarrassment flooded his cheeks. Even the tips of his ears turned red.

“Sorry,” he told you, fairly embarrassed as he finally looked away from you, trying to get his heart to stop racing and his breathing to even out. Dean focused on the circular carpet on the floor in front of the couch, trying to get his brain to work. “I’m not usually like this.”

Hearing his voice captivated you, almost as much as his eyes had. It was deep, a little gruff, with that hint of nervousness. For a moment, you stayed quiet and watched him, wondering what he was thinking about. 

Dean felt your eyes on him as he attempted to center himself. At least his wolf had finally quieted down. “I thought I was going crazy when I’d shift in the morning, and your scent was on me. Can you tell me what happened at night?” his voice was quiet, worried, and nervous. 

You smiled softly at him, even if he couldn’t look at you right now. “We would meet at the fence in a small clearing. Then, we’d sit with each other. You’d be pressed against the fence, and I would lean against you. Then, I’d talk to you and tell you about my life and the things that happened since I had seen you last,” you explained, trying to gauge his expression of how he’d react.

“So, my wolf knows all about you.”  his words were whispered, his gaze on the floor, but he was lost in his thoughts. He wanted to know those things. He wanted to know you.

“Will you ever get those memories?” you asked, a little quietly but more curious, leaning a little so you could look at him better. To you, he looked lost, and you gingerly reached out, setting your hand on his forearm.

Dean’s head snapped up, meeting your gaze as electricity shot through his body at your touch. He was practically holding his breath, but his wolf was purring. He coughed to clear his throat, but mostly so he could find words and breathe. “My, uh… my true mate has to claim me first,” he told you a little sheepishly.

A silence fell over the two of you, both of you wondering almost the same thing, but neither of you wanted to ask. What happens now? He glanced down at your hand on his arm, a smile tugging at his lips again while you watched him, unsure what to say. Dean knew your story, he’d read the articles when they had been published. 

In the photo of you, you had looked happy, even hopeful, but he had seen something else in your eyes. It was almost like a fear that you wouldn’t find your true mate. He understood that feeling, having gone through it since he had presented alpha at sixteen. You were beautiful, though, and even then, his wolf seemed to know, getting restless the moment Dean had looked at your picture.

He didn’t see how you bit your bottom lip, lost in thought. Or how your eyes were searching his expression. He was remembering back to that day that seemed so long ago. It was your voice that pulled his attention back to your eyes. “Would you let me claim you, Dean?” you asked so quietly that he thought he made up the question slipping from your lips.

Dean blinked blankly for a moment, trying again not to get lost in your eyes. Think, damnit! He barely managed a deep breath as his entire body buzzed with a new sort of anticipation, that goofy, giddy smile finding his lips again and going all the way to his eyes. That was when he realized he would never be able to tell you no and mean it. You had him wrapped around your finger, but he also knew that you’d never abuse his affections or his love.

“Can I claim you?” he asked, his voice a whisper, and he was trying to remember to take deep breaths.

A blush found your cheeks as you ducked your head a little, letting your gaze fall to your hand on his arm. “I’ll go into my first heat within a week after it happens. If you’re okay with that…” your voice was quiet, almost a whisper like his had been, leaving the unfinished question hanging between the two of you.

The way the blush colored your cheeks had Dean’s heart fluttering. Then, your words finally sank into his logical brain—your first heat. You were untouched in that way, and it sent a thrill through his body as his wolf howled happily. He couldn’t even stop himself from licking his lips as he tried desperately not to think about it in detail.

“I’m okay with that,” he practically purred, making the blush in your cheeks go a few shades deeper. Dean shook his head, trying to pull his mind and body from the spell you seemed to have put him under. “I’m sorry. Did that sound too eager?” he asked, realizing how you could have taken his words.

You giggled, and his smile instantly came back. “You’re adorable,” you giggled again. “It did sound eager, but that’s okay. I trust you, and your wolf.” This time, your voice was soft, like a gentle melody that instantly soothed Dean’s nerves from a moment ago. Dean swallowed hard as his eyes darted to your neck, completely exposed thanks to your braid, then licked his lips. 

Whatever the future held, neither of you let it worry you. You’d already gotten over the biggest hurdle of your lives, finding each other. The details of how things would change could be worried about later. But neither of you would face it alone. You had each other now. And that? That was more precious than any worry that might try to get between the two of you.

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