ShalomHarlow

He was quick to define it of course. This was private. You didn’t go out on dates. You didn’t go wailing about how you come apart on Soldier Boy’s cock every night to the slop they call newspapers today.

He even had even implemented rules for your hookups. Neither of you bitched when you couldn’t come over. He didn’t do kisses and cuddles. You got what you both needed and then you went your separate ways.

Casual.

He couldn’t let you get attached.

And he wasn’t attached either. But he was nosy. He could hear you poking around in his bathroom, getting ready for work. Rushing.

No time for a shower or makeup because he’d had you pinned beneath him, lapping at you like a man devouring his last meal, a grin tugging at his face as you protested that you absolutely had to get ready for work right until he sucked on that spot that made your eyes roll back in your head, dumb and boneless, just how he liked you.

So when your phone buzzed on his nightstand, he was curious. If anything he was hoping that you might have a text or something that would mean you wouldn’t have to leave. His cock was still hard, but you didn’t have time for that, so he was waiting until you’d gone to sort himself out. If you didn’t have to leave, well, that suited him just fine.

He leant over lifting it up off the wood until it lit up. You had a raft of notifications, but the one that had just come through was from something called Tinder.

You matched with Jack! Say hi now.

Ben frowned, though he didn’t know why. Didn’t know what that feeling inside him was either, though it sat sourly in the pit of his stomach.

As you walked out of the bathroom, unfurling your hair from your shirt as you tied it up, he slung it on the nightstand and watched you. That thing bubbled inside him until it blurted out without warning, ‘what’s Tinder?’

‘What?’ you said, stilling just a fraction. He noticed. He always did.

‘Your phone buzzed,’ he said, jutting his chin in the direction of the offending item. You looked at it and the scooped it up, checking the notification but not opening it.

‘You matched with Jack,’ he said, letting the insinuation sit in the air around you.

‘Oh it’s just a socials app,’ you lied, throwing it in your bag without looking. Soldier boy hesitated. He didn’t know much about that stuff. He’d heard about it along with all the other stuff he didn’t have a grasp on yet. But he didn’t do social media, and he avoided the whole app thing like the plague, so the phone someone had given him after he broke his first one in half out of frustration mostly served as a paperweight. But Jack still sat bitterly on his tongue.

He didn’t say anything, just sat there bare-chested, jaw tight, cock still straining under the sheets in a way he wanted you to relieve right now, though there was something behind your eyes that meant he knew you wouldn’t.

‘I um… I should go,’ you said. Soldier Boy said nothing, just nodded, pretending to be deeply interested in rolling himself a joint as you slipped out quietly.

And after that he should have let it go. He wanted to. Not because he wasn’t curious but because these days his curiosity he had found often led him to needing people. The world didn’t work the way it used to. And he hated that.

He hated that he had to ask Hughie, of all people. Hughie who’d laughed in his face and then immediately gave him that panicked look pussies got when they knew they were in trouble if they didn’t answer him correctly. He’d asked if he was wanting to expand his dating pool. Soldier Boy’s heart sank.

And then he’d locked himself in his room. Sitting. Sulking.

Thinking of you.

Thinking of you and Jack.

And yet when you’d texted, the only reason he really kept the phone around, asking if he minded you coming over after work, he hadn’t said no.

He’d been quiet though. You’d noticed that. Jaw set, eyes absent of their usual warmth when he was teasing you for needing him again so soon after this morning. He’d normally make fun of you, ask if you’d been thinking of bouncing of his cock all day. He’d whisper sweet nothings on your ear, if sweet came in the form of ‘my needy girl’ and ‘bet you soaked through your damn office chair, huh princess?’

He’d still made you come apart. Still had you writhing as you rode him, still pounded you into the mattress, finishing inside you with a heavy grunt before sliding off, rolling over, grabbing his weed off the nightstand, and busying himself with rolling a joint so he didn’t have to look at you. You noticed it, figured he was in another one of his moods, and sighed.

Feeling none of the usual softness that you’d become accustomed to was coming your way you busied yourself with getting dressed. You pulled on your shirt, untucking the hair you were sure looked like a bird’s nest out of your collar. before you moved to grab your underwear and jeans. Soldier boy watched you, admiring the curve of your ass before it disappeared behind cotton and denim.

Off somewhere else. To someone else.

‘So,’ he said, clearing his throat. You looked over expectantly, ‘what are you doing later?’

‘Nothing much,’ you shrugged.

‘Hot date, huh?’ he grunted.

‘No,’ you frowned, your eyebrows pulling together which made you look cuter than it ought to, ‘why would you think that?’

‘Your app.’

‘My what?’ you said, before it dawned on you, ‘oh.’

Soldier Boy said nothing.

‘Is that a problem?’ you asked.

‘Why would it be a problem?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ you said, ‘you’re being weird.’

‘About you fucking other dudes?’ he scoffed, ‘why would I be weird?’

‘Ben,’ you sighed.

He looked away from you, the muscle in his jaw twitching with irritation. You moved around the bed, perched yourself on the edge of it. He still wouldn’t look at you.

‘Are you jealous?’ you asked, unable to take the amusement fully out of your voice because you knew that would make him look or rather glare at you.

‘Jealous?’ he baulked, ‘why the fuck would I be jealous?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me,’ you challenged. Ben scowled and you dropped your voice lower, ‘you were the one who said that this was casual, remember?’

‘It is.’

‘Okay so you fuck other girls, right?’

Ben didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t. He hadn’t for a long while. Since about three weeks into this thing.

Since you were too tired to go home and he’d been nice enough to let you stay, already breaking his own rules. When he’d woken up, you were wrapped around him, head on his chest, lips pouted out against his skin in a way that made you look like a fish. The cutest damn fish he’d ever seen.

‘I didn’t make a date…with Jack,’ you offered quietly, ‘we messaged, but he was-’

‘A limp-dick commie.’

‘Perfectly pleasant and polite,’ you corrected, raising a scolding eyebrow at him, ‘and didn’t use phrases like limp-dick commie because he’s not a thousand years old-‘

‘Watch it.’

You smiled wryly and saw a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. You sighed.

‘I just thought there was no harm in looking. That I should make the most of it, but you’d get bored eventually…that I should have options,’ you explained.

‘What am I, a fucking temp job?’

‘I don’t know what we are. You said you don’t do more than this,’ you said.

‘You do?’

‘I’m not stupid enough to think that when I’m fifty, I’ll wanna be going out of my mind wondering if you’re out there fucking some other woman,’ you said.

‘Are you jealous?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

Ben took a breath, searching your face.

‘Are you?’ you asked.

‘I’m not good at this.’

‘Evidently,’ you said.

‘I’ve not done the whole relationship thing,’ he started, the words feeling awkward between you.

‘Colour me surprised,’ you teased gently.

‘Not sure I’m a boyfriend material,’ he muttered.

‘You’re really selling it here,’ you joked, but when he stayed quiet, your expression softened, ‘Ben, I’m not asking you to marry me here.’

He let out a weak, quiet breath of a laugh.

‘So…what are you asking?’ he said after a minute, his voice smaller than you’d expected. Smaller than the man you found took up every inch of space, every corner of your mind, every facet of your life.

‘That we’re less casual?’

‘You don’t fuck any other guys?’

‘I didn’t fuck-’ you sighed when he raised an eyebrow, ‘okay, no other guys. That goes for you too.’

‘No other women. Got it.’

‘I meant you can’t fuck other guys,’ you teased.

‘Watch it,’ he mused. You leaned forward, allowing his hand to capture your chin, his calloused thumb rough against your skin.

‘So?’ you asked.

‘So,’ he said, ‘not casual huh?’

‘Not casual.’

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soldier boys tags

Pretty, young clerk who just transferred here, so caught up in whatever work your boss threw at you that never once did you notice the watchful eyes of Mark being glued onto you, or you just did an insanely good job ignoring it. 

He’s been eyeing you for a while now, ever since he noticed that the cubicle that’s been sitting empty for months by now finally got a new inhabitant. When he first saw that somebody’s bag and papers were resting there, he just nodded to himself, accepting that he just got a new coworker, shuffling over to his own desk — which he barely used, considering that he preferred to be out on the field, and was doing an awfully good job at that. 

The turn came when he glanced up at the sound of heels clicking, eyes drifting over to the direction of the sound. Sure enough, his eyes lock onto the young, neatly dressed — presumably clerk or secretary — woman, who just so happens to be heading right towards him. She comes to a halt right in front of Mark’s table, placing an ashy brown document folder with the utmost care.

“Agent Blythe sent this. He said you should go over this as soon as you can,” she spoke up, tone quiet, as if she was scared that Mark was going to bite. No, that was the last thing he would do — unless she asked him to. 

Mark nodded along, eyes slowly wandering from the document up to the woman, assessing as much about her as he could. Definitely younger than him, and definitely new here. 

“Thank you,” Mark pressed out after the realization that she’s been waiting for some kind of response from him dawns on his suddenly lovestruck brain. Shooting him a weak smile, she pivots, and much to Mark’s surprise, plops down into the seat he previously eyed. 

Ever since then, he’s been keeping his eye more on you, the newcomer, than on the assigned paperwork. In a way, he found your constant focus charming, his eyes studying the curves of your face and body as much as he could. 

Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. One month of silent admiration, and Mark Meachum hasn’t made any moves. It was weird, considering that it was him out of all people. If anybody, he was the one who hesitated the least when it came to picking up women. Perhaps that was the reason why nobody ever really registered that his “spacing out” had more behind it. 

His co-workers would sometimes take notice of how his eyes tended to wander over to you, said co-workers just watching with furrowed brows before Mark’s attention shifted back onto them and onto the mission, paperwork, or meeting topic at hand. Unbeknownst to them, even on the smaller field missions he was assigned to, his mind was still revolving around the woman in the office.

He woke up, and his first thought was you, which bag charm you’d pick today, how you’d do your hair, which plain white dress shirt you’ll wear — because despite his age, his eyes were still good enough to pinpoint that each shirt, despite looking the same at first glance, was a bit different. He had enough time to observe, that was for sure. Mark was, in a way, living his best life at the office. 

Until he wasn’t.

You spent less of your breaks at the coffee machine, and more looming over the desk of some scrawny guy, just two desks away from yours. When you did in fact spend your break at that damned coffee machine, you did it with the same scrawny guy. Mark tried to reassure himself that you two were talking about business, some task you two had to work together on, but the more he watched you two laugh together, the less convincing that alibi sounded to him.

It didn’t help that one time, when both him, you, and your alleged friend were on coffee break at the same time, while Mark was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, a coworker of his came up to him, noticing as his eyes were fixed on you, and out of the blue just said “They’re so cute together, aren’t they?”. He had the audacity to smile while saying this, too, Mark involuntarily frowning, both at the fact that this heavily implied that you and that dude were dating, and that this coworker of his seemingly approved.

No, they’re not cute, Mark wanted to retort, only to stop himself at the last second, gripping the to-go cup just a bit harder instead. 

Now, rumors say you two are dating. Does Mark like that? Absolutely not. 

So, after listening to somebody raving on about how you and this twink are the cutest couple at the office, he pushes himself up from his desk with a sigh, deciding that it’s time to confront you. Not in a “What the fuck is going on?” way, but more in a “Small talk, soft smiles, discreet questions” kind of way.

Catching you alone proved to be a harder task than expected, that guy whose guts he despised always lingering just a step away from you. 

So, when he finally saw you alone at the coffee machine — your regular spot by now, paying it a visit way too often —, he pounced on the chance. 

The coffee machine emits a low, rumbling sound as it releases hot steam, while the paper cup slowly fills up. The noise from the hallway fades slightly around you, marking your first moment of calm since the morning rush. 

A shadow falls across the machine, and you sense a presence beside you. It isn’t your usual colleague, you would recognize his footsteps from a distance. Shooting a sly glance in that direction you’re surprised to see Mark Meachum, standing next to you with an air of complete ease, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

"I was starting to think you’d bought a season pass for this machine," he says, his voice carrying that familiar deep, slightly husky tone as a faint, small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Whenever I look up from my papers, I either see you here, or..." he pauses for a moment, feigning thought as his eyes sweep over you in a flash, lingering on the shirt you’re wearing today, "...or your companion."

He leans in a little closer, as if about to share a confidential secret, though his body language suggests he is flirting rather than discussing official business. 

"I’ve heard from the others that you’ve been doing some serious teamwork lately. Do you really get along as well as the rumors say, dating, according to them, or did a shared caffeine addiction bring you together?"

“Oh, um,” you stammer for a second, taken aback by his question. You could feel your face burning up as he stared you down, a calm smirk plastered across his face as he awaited your response. “No point in lying to a detective, huh,” you muster up. “I didn’t know it was… this public. And obvious.”

Of course it’s obvious, that twink’s following you like a lost puppy, Mark thought, although kept it to himself and kept his facade.

“But… yeah, we’re… together,” you finally press out, eyes darting over to your coffee cup in a weak attempt to avoid his piercing gaze.

“Are you happily together, or just... together?” he asks, his voice deliberately playful, as if the question were merely part of typical, teasing office banter. Inside, however, every nerve of his strained.

“I’m… really happy with him, actually,” you nervously chuckle, still trying your best to avoid having to look him in the eye. 

Mark feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. The professional detective, who has always managed to talk his way out of any situation, suddenly feels defenseless before the girl standing by the counter.

“Then... I suppose I should offer my congratulations,” he says finally, and for once, all mockery or flirtatiousness vanishes from his voice, replaced by a quiet, slightly weary note of acknowledgment. “That sort of thing is rare in this house. I hope he takes good care of you. Because if he doesn’t, I’ll be forced to have a word with him... on a strictly professional basis, of course.”

Mark watches in silence as that kind, understanding smile flits across your face. Oh, how it melted his heart. You don’t take offense at his remark, nor do you play along, you simply... gently close the subject. 

As you turn and walk down the hallway, paper cup in hand, the heels of your shoes click rhythmically against the stone — just as they did that very first day you set that folder down in his office. 

He doesn’t move right away. He stays there by the coffee machine, leaning against the wall, his gaze following your figure until you turn behind the partitions and back into your own domain.

The noise of the corridor returns, and colleagues bustle back and forth, yet the image of your eyes lighting up with happiness as you spoke about him — that other guy — still lingers in Mark’s mind. 

Finally, with a deep, stifled sigh, he pushes himself away from the wall and heads toward his own desk. He doesn’t look at you as he sits down, but his movements are heavier than usual. The stack of papers is still waiting for him on his desk — the very work he had been using as the perfect excuse to stay close to you.

He makes sure to stalk all your social media that same night.

He feels like a teenage girl for doing so, but desperate times require desperate measures, and tonight just so happened to be a desperate night.

Still, he had an advantage that those teenagers didn’t — his career. Of course, it wasn’t the most ethical use of his tools as a detective, but something had to be done. It only helped him that you worked right where he did, which put your name in the company’s files, which he could access. Birthday, phone number, full name, birthplace, every basic thing he could’ve asked for, right under his fingertips.

Mark made sure to check in on your more personal details too, taking over to Instagram — finding it through a software that was able to connect every social media account to a phone number or other personal info you’ve given to make the account.

The more he found out about you, the more enamored he felt towards you. You seemed just like he thought you’d be, Mark even cracking a few faint smiles as he went through your posts and stories. They revealed just about anything about you. People you’re friends with, hobbies, interests, places you frequented, everything he needed to get a grasp on you and your habits.

Suddenly, his smile faded. Scrolling through your highlights, the screen flashes to a picture of you and the twink he oh-so-despited. In the picture were you two, with you planting a kiss on his cheek. 

Oh, how much Mark would’ve paid just to be in that guy’s spot! That twink looked awful next to you, it was like putting a rat and a supermodel side by side, him being the rat of course. Oddly enough, you seem happy. Keyword, seem. 

That guy probably doesn’t even know how to take you on a date, stifled behind that desk all day, hunched over like a caveman. He’s the most regular looking regular dude in existence. He probably can’t even hold his weight up when he’s above you in bed! He probably makes you do all the work! 

You deserve better than that, that’s for sure. Somebody who knows exactly how to work their fingers and mouth on your body, somebody who actually makes you feel good during sex. Somebody who actually pays attention to you, somebody who takes you on proper dates, somebody who actually cares about you. Surprisingly enough, the description seemed to fit somebody called Mark Meachum.

Alright, it’s his dirt for not not doing anything back when he could’ve, but still, this entire situation felt like the universe just majorly fucked him over. Of course the worst guy gets the best girl. It felt like such a joke. 

What did you see in him anyway? Definitely not his looks, that was for sure. Was he that funny? Mark is funny too, why not choose him? And he’s handsome too, and could totally provide everything you could ever ask for for you! From good meals to gifts to love and comfort to a home to good sex, he’s got it all! One word from you, and he’s yours!

But as long as that dude’s in the way…

Mark crafted his masterplan. He’d do whatever needed to be done, and already had a few ideas. First, he needs the guy to lose his shit. It didn’t matter why or over what, he just needed him over the edge, shouting, ready to land a hit on anybody. Women hate abusive men, and the moment this guy snaps, you could have a perfectly good reason to leave his ass. Bonus points if it happens with Mark present, giving him a perfect chance to swoop in, be the hero, and save the day. Chicks dig heroes, no?

The detective’s mind, which spends the day unraveling a web of crimes, now begins to weave a very different kind of web at night. Unethical? Who cares about ethics when your happiness is at stake with a man who probably can’t even afford to buy you a decent dinner, let alone treat you like a queen? Mark knows exactly what you need: attention, a real man who will protect you, who knows how to touch you, and with whom you never have to shrink away in fear.

If the guy makes a scene, starts screaming in the middle of the office, or — better yet — raises a hand against someone... you leave him immediately. And who will be there to help you up, to calm you down, to form a shield between you and the world with his broad shoulders? Mark Meachum.

The next morning, Mark walks into the office a completely different man. Gone is the weary, disillusioned man of the day before. He looks elegant — well-shaven, his shirt straining against his broad shoulders — and his confidence practically vibrates in the air. 

As he passes your cubicle, he doesn’t stop, but for a split second, he flashes that deep, knowing gaze at you, the kind that stirs something deep inside you. Then, his eyes slowly drift toward the guy sitting two desks away. A faint, predatory smile, almost imperceptible, touches Mark’s lips. 

Throughout the morning, Mark begins to execute the first phase: applying subtle psychological pressure.

When the guy goes out to the photocopier, Mark "accidentally" happens to be right there. He doesn't speak to him but steps up beside him in the narrow corridor, using his physical size to tower over him. When the guy finishes with the papers, Mark blocks his path for a moment before finally stepping aside with a cocky, condescending half-smile. 

Later, in the communal kitchen, just as the guy is standing by the microwave, Mark walks in chatting with an agent and deliberately remarks loudly. 

"…Yeah, some people just aren't cut out for field work. You get those typical desk-bound rodents who’d crumble if they ever faced a real problem. It’s a good thing they handle the paperwork for us, at least, right?"

He sees the guy’s shoulders tense up and his neck start to flush with anger, yet he holds his tongue. Mark mentally chalks up a point for himself. The office gossip and subtle teasing have begun. 

Every time you walk past Mark, he is deliberately kind and attentive, offering a small compliment about your hair or your shirt—just enough to make your boyfriend, who is watching you from afar, increasingly agitated and jealous. Mark knows exactly what he’s doing: he is slowly, systematically injecting poison into your relationship, waiting for the moment the guy finally snaps from jealousy.

A few days later, the perfect opportunity arises. There’s an afternoon office meeting attended by both your department and the detectives. As it happens, your boyfriend is the one giving the presentation. He’s visibly nervous, his hand trembling slightly as he holds the laser pointer. 

Mark sits at the far end of the conference table, leaning back comfortably and twirling a pen between his fingers. He looks bored, yet he is watching you out of the corner of his eye, observing the way you smile encouragingly at your friend. That smile is the final straw for him. 

The moment has come. When the guy finishes his talk and asks if there are any questions, Mark slowly sets down his pen and straightens up.

“I have a question, if you don’t mind,” Mark speaks up. His voice is soft, yet it carries an edge. “The data on the slide looks good. But what’s the plan if things don’t go according to script in the real world? Because this strategy is... cowardly, to put it mildly. It’s like someone is afraid to get their hands dirty. Are you sure you can handle a real crisis, or when trouble hits, would you rather just hand the job over to the grown-ups?” 

The air in the room freezes. Your boyfriend’s face goes stark white, then flushes a fiery red. He grips his notebook so hard his knuckles turn white. He knows perfectly well that Mark isn’t criticizing the presentation, but him — as a man — and doing it right in front of you and the entire office.

The guy’s throat is visibly going dry as he swallows hard and practically drives the laser pointer into the tabletop to hide his trembling hand. Mark’s mocking, confident gaze is practically burning his skin, yet he doesn’t dare lash out with the bosses present.

"The strategy... is based on protocol, Detective Meachum," the guy manages to choke out, his voice an octave higher than it should be. "But thanks for the observation." 

Mark acknowledges the reply with nothing more than a nonchalant, barely perceptible nod. He doesn’t need to do anything else. He successfully castrated the guy’s self-esteem right there in the office.

As you leave the meeting room, your friend practically strides ahead down the hallway, not even waiting for you. When you catch up with him in the small, secluded photocopy room next to your department, it’s immediately apparent that their pent-up anger and humiliation is about to erupt. 

The moment the door shuts out the outside world, he turns to you, their face still flushed with tension. 

"What the hell was that?" he demands, trying to keep his voice low but trembling with rage. "Did you see what he did? He made a fool of me in front of the entire management! And you? You just sat there! You didn't say a word in my defense!" 

"Please, calm down, it’s just work, he had a logical question, and—" you try to soothe them, but your words only add fuel to the fire.

“Don’t tell me it’s just work!” he snaps, brushing off your attempt to get closer with an angry wave of his hand. “Meachum’s been circling you like a vulture for weeks! By the coffee machine, in the hallway... He’s always right there wherever you are. And you actually encourage him with that sweet little smile of yours! You think I don’t see it? You think I’m blind?! Why don’t you just tell him to get lost? Or maybe you like having a ‘real’ detective hovering around you, not some ‘desk-bound rodent,’ which is what he called me?!” 

His tone is harsh, accusatory, and unfair. He’s speaking to you in a way you’ve never heard before, and jealousy is completely distorting his behavior. In short, everything is going according to plan.

Feigning boredom but actually on tenterhooks, Mark walks down the corridor past the photocopier room, carrying an empty binder as if he has business there. The door doesn't close quite right, so every word of the heated argument spilling out reaches his ears clearly. Mark stops a few paces from the door, leans back against the wall, and a triumphant gleam lights up his dark eyes. His plan is working perfectly. The guy is digging his own grave right now.

The tension is almost palpable in the cramped air, thick with the smell of photocopier toner. You stand there, stunned, facing your partner, whose eyes are now completely devoid of the gentle, familiar warmth that made you fall for them in the first place. 

"That’s not true!" you say, raising your voice to break through their wall of anger while holding your hands up defensively. "Mark is just a colleague, nothing more!” Ouch, that stings Mark a bit, overhearing this too. “Yes, we ran into each other by the coffee machine, but I was polite because I work here and don’t want to make enemies. You think I’m encouraging him? I chose you, I’m with you!"

Well, not for long, Mark silently smirks to himself.

"Oh, sure, polite!" the guy snaps, a hysterical, bitter half-smile twisting his face. He steps closer, invading your personal space, and jabs his index finger angrily toward your chest, though he doesn't actually touch you. "I saw the way he looked at you in the conference room! And you just take it. Because you like the attention, right? You like having some big, armed macho guy checking you out in the hallway! You turn his head, and then you’re surprised when he comes after me in front of the bosses? Did he do it because of me? Hell no! Because of you! Because he thinks he can have you!" 

Damn fucking right.

"Stop it, please, you’re being paranoid!" you say, shaking your head. You feel a hot sting in your eyes born of helplessness and disappointment, and the effort to hold back tears makes your throat tighten. "I didn't do anything. Why are you blaming me because a detective was a jerk to you?"

"Because you don't stand up for me!" the guy shouts — now having almost completely lost his self-control — and slams his fist onto the top of the photocopier in a rage. The plastic cracks with a loud snap, and the papers in the tray shudder. "You think I’m a pathetic coward, just like he does, don’t you?! Just because I don’t play the tough guy!" 

Outside, in the dim light of the corridor, Mark’s face remains motionless, but his body goes rigid. Hearing the sound of the fist slamming against the plastic machine, his eyes narrow, and he grips the binder in his hand so tightly that the cardboard begins to creak. The guy has crossed a line. The physical aggression—even if directed only at an object—provides the perfect pretext.

Mark slowly lets go of the wall. His steps are heavy and purposeful as he heads toward the door of the photocopier room, in no rush. He knows the tension is reaching its peak, and that his arrival will be like a lightning strike on a gunpowder barrel. 

Mark presses down the door handle with a slow movement, and the door swings open quietly. He doesn’t burst in or shout, he simply steps into the cramped room, bringing with him that calm. His eyes slowly sweep the room: the papers still fluttering on the photocopier, your friend’s clenched fist, and finally you, standing in the corner and fighting back tears. 

Mark’s face is perfectly impassive, as if he had no idea what was actually going on here — or that he was the one who had triggered this whole avalanche. 

"What’s all this racket in here?" he asks, his voice deep and unhurried. "You can hear the shouting all the way down the hall."

He takes a step forward with his hands in his pockets, a movement so natural it looks as if he had simply come for some copy paper, yet his positioning instantly becomes strategic as he plants himself precisely between the two of you, physically cutting the dude off from you. 

With his broad shoulders, he almost completely blocks the guy from your view, offering you protection while fixing his dark gaze directly on your friend. 

Shock quickly gives way to helpless rage on the guy’s face when he realizes Mark walked in at the exact moment he had completely lost his composure. He tries to straighten up so he doesn't look so small next to Mark, forcing a mocking, trembling half-smile onto his face. 

"What is it, Meachum? Is the noise bothering your detective ears?" he snaps back, his voice tense yet striving for confidence. "Or did you just find another excuse to stick your nose where it doesn't belong? This is a private conversation. So get back to your donuts and stop snooping around." 

Not a single muscle twitches in Mark’s face at the pathetic insult. He doesn't raise his voice or take the bait. Instead, he simply looks the guy up and down slowly — as if studying an irritating but completely harmless insect — before turning his head away with a deep, weary sigh. He acts as though the guy’s attempt at intimidation isn't even worth a word. Probably because yeah, it wasn’t.

“Grown adults don’t go around slamming office equipment just because they don’t get what they want,” Mark remarks coolly, his tone as condescending as if he were speaking to a tantrum-throwing toddler. “If you’re done with the show, go back to your desk. You’re safe behind the partitions.” 

This total dismissal makes the guy absolutely lose it. A red haze of humiliation clouds his vision. 

“Say what?!” The guy snaps, stepping forward as his hands clench into fists and his body trembles with rage, ready to do something monumentally stupid right there in the middle of the office.

"I think you should back off, buddy, and calm down," Mark says, his voice suddenly dropping an octave and turning cold as he takes a single, menacing step forward. "Before you hurt someone in here. Someone you... supposedly love." 

He shoots a quick glance at you out of the corner of his eye, as if his very presence were shielding you from your boyfriend's unpredictable aggression. That gesture is the final spark that sets the situation ablaze. 

"I don't give a damn!" your boyfriend screams, completely losing his head. "I don't care about you or your stupid rules! You think you're the hero here? I don't give a damn about anything!"

His voice was almost hoarse with helpless rage, his gaze darted wildly between Mark and you. And Mark stands there in your midst, and beneath the surface, every fiber of his being is celebrating. The trap has snapped shut.

Rage completely distorts your boyfriend’s features as the last spark of reason vanishes from his eyes. He can no longer bear the humiliation. With a wild roar, he swings his arm, attempting to land a blind, uncoordinated punch on Mark’s face with all his might. 

You press yourself against the wall in fear, freezing at the sight of the man you once thought kind and peaceful suddenly transforming into an unpredictable, aggressive stranger. 

Mark doesn’t even flinch. He moves with the reflexes of a seasoned detective, effortlessly deflecting the guy’s swinging fist with his left hand while grabbing his clothes with his right and slamming him against the side of the photocopier with such force that the machine cracks loudly under the guy's weight.

"That’s enough," Mark hisses. Hearing the commotion, the office security team immediately burst in from the hallway. There is no need to explain the situation: they see your terrified, cornered face, Mark restraining the raging man, and the damaged photocopier. 

"Escort him out. And don't let him back into the building," Mark orders the security guards as he releases the guy. The guards firmly grab your friend and begin dragging him out of the room. Face flushed red and panting, the guy still tries to turn back toward you, his voice echoes hoarsely down the hallway as he is hauled toward the elevators.

“This isn’t over! You’ll regret this, you hear me? You’ll regret it!” The shouting slowly fades away at the end of the hallway, and the door to the copy room clicks softly shut. A suffocating silence suddenly settles over the room. It’s just you, trembling with shock and fear, and Mark, who slowly turns around, adjusts his shirt sleeve, and fixes his concerned gaze straight upon you. 

The first part of his plan has gone perfectly: the “rodent” has been eliminated, and the hero stands right there before you.

Mark exhales slowly as he assumes his most perfect, concerned expression. Beneath the surface, every fiber of his being is celebrating. The sweet taste of triumph courses through his veins: his plan worked flawlessly, the guy completely ruined his chances with you in a single minute, and Mark is absolutely certain that, after this, you wouldn't dream of taking him back. 

He takes a cautious, slow step toward you, deliberately avoiding any sudden movements so as not to startle you further. His heavy footsteps are now muffled, soft and reassuring against the floor. 

"Hey... It’s okay. He’s gone, he can’t hurt you," he says, his voice suddenly softening into an incredibly gentle, deep baritone that seems to fill the cramped room.

He reaches out cautiously, and his palm rests on your shoulder with a warm, heavy weight. His movement is firm yet gentle. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze, as if trying to impart some of his own strength to you, while his eyes search your face. 

Your body is still trembling from the tension, and the sound of your friend’s screaming and the crash of the plastic machine echoes over and over in your ears. 

Mark’s thumb moves gently across your shoulder, lightly smoothing your clothing as he leans closer to you. Inside, he is practically vibrating with pride, seeing how much you need him right now. 

"He shouldn't have spoken to you like that. No one has the right to raise their voice at you, especially not someone who claims to care about you," Mark murmurs, a subtle note of manipulation in his voice further widening the rift between you and your now ex-boyfriend. "Come, sit down in my office. I’ll get you a glass of water, and then we’ll figure out what to do next."

The initial wave of shock is slowly receding, yet the trembling lingers in your limbs. You don’t burst into tears, you are too proud to cry in the middle of the office, and your professional composure holds you back, but your voice falters as you finally release the pent-up tension. 

"I just... I can't believe it," you say, letting Mark guide you into his quieter, private office. "I mean, I just wouldn’t have expected him to… lose it, you know. I guess it turns out he wasn't who he pretended to be at all." 

Mark nods silently as he places a glass of water in front of you. His face reflects sympathy, yet deep down, he is drinking in every word you say as if listening to the sweetest victory anthem.

“Many people can only keep up the act as long as things go their way,” Mark replies, sitting on the edge of his desk right across from you. “Crisis situations reveal who the real man is, and who’s just a child throwing a tantrum when backed into a corner. You deserve someone by your side who protects you, not someone you have to defend yourself against.” 

As the minutes pass, the initial heavy atmosphere slowly lifts. The conversation between you becomes surprisingly light and natural. Mark deliberately steers the talk away from the drama. With subtle humor, intelligent questions, and that deep, husky voice of his, he makes you feel completely safe with him in a matter of minutes.

You find yourself sitting in his office, sharing things with him that you wouldn't normally discuss with colleagues — like your work and your hobbies — while Mark hangs on your every word as if you were the only person in the entire building. 

He somehow knew a thing or two about anything and everything you brought up, much to your surprise. The perks of him thoroughly stalking you, although you didn’t know about that part yet.

Days passed, days turning into weeks. It all happened so quickly, but with good company, time passes faster, no? And good company was exactly what you got ever since the twink got fired for that stunt in the photocopy room. With him out of the way, you’ve been open to your savior — Mark Meachum. 

Whenever you went for coffee breaks and he saw it, he made sure to go with you, the two of you chuckling and talking over your little cups before heading back to your desks, stealing glances and soft smiles from across the room whenever your eyes locked. Mark Meachum made going to work somehow… enjoyable?

Every day, you strutted in with the hopes that Mark would be there instead of on the field, sorting through his documents before you passed a new stack to his desk, accompanied by his regular coffee order as a gift. He thanked your efforts with that charming smile of his and praises.

Your ex-boyfriend was fired with immediate effect following the scandal, and the tension in your life vanished along with him. In its place, something far more exciting and vibrant entered your daily routine. Mark Meachum was no longer just a distant detective watching you from across the room. He became your refuge, your morning coffee companion, and honestly, the reason you’re much more particular about choosing your shirts and accessories before leaving the house these days.

For Mark, life was booming too. Since the scandal, he’s been living his best life — talking with you, laughing with you, earning your soft smile multiple times a day. It fed him like no food could. He’s been legitimate ever since the guy got fired, no stalking, no unethical business, just finding out everything about you the way normal people do. Still, he never really went past the casual flirting, not until now — but best believe, he was planning to change that soon enough, not willing to make the same mistake twice.

You walk through the door this morning with your usual rhythm, carrying Mark’s favorite black coffee and the latest batch of files Agent Blythe entrusted to you. Your heart beats a little faster when you spot his broad shoulders. He didn’t go out into the field today — he’s sitting at his desk, brow furrowed as he pores over the paperwork. 

He looks up the moment he catches the sound of your footsteps. His weary face instantly softens, and that signature warm half-smile — reserved solely for you — plays at the corner of his mouth. 

"I was starting to think you’d forgotten your most important client," he says in that trademark deep voice as he takes the steaming cup from you. Your fingers brush against each other for a fleeting moment, and the warmth of his skin sends a subtle shiver down your spine. "Thank you. And for the report, too... though I’m much happier about the courier than the paperwork itself."

He leans back comfortably in his chair, slowly looking you up and down. 

"What do you say we swap coffee for something a bit more serious tonight?" he asks suddenly, his voice dropping slightly to make the moment feel more intimate amidst the office bustle. "I know a fantastic place just a few streets away. Great food, great wine... and no risk of Agent Blythe dumping another stack of files on us. Are you in?"

Of course you were! Mark Meachum, your workplace crush, was the one asking!

A few hours later, you find yourself in a completely different world. Soft jazz plays in the restaurant, and the dim light is broken only by the warm glow of candles on the tables. The atmosphere is intimate and elegant, yet welcoming. Mark sits across from you. He has shed his detective’s sternness and his professional mask, his white shirt sleeves are casually rolled up to the elbows, revealing his forearms, and he appears far more relaxed than he ever is at work. 

Yet, his gaze has lost none of its intensity. As he swirls his glass between his fingers, his dark eyes seem to shimmer in the candlelight while he watches you. "I have to admit, the office lights don't do you justice at all," he says in a low, husky voice, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "You look beautiful tonight."

Mark is the perfect gentleman throughout dinner. He is attentive, and — what surprises you most — he seems to hit the mark perfectly with his choices of food and conversation topics, as if he knows exactly what you like. Of course, he is actually drawing on the knowledge he gathered about you that one particular night, but now he isn't doing it while staring at a screen, he gets to see firsthand how your eyes light up when talking about your favorite things.

When the waiter clears the plates, Mark suddenly reaches across the table, and his warm, heavy palm rests gently over yours. His fingers trace your skin lightly, sending a sudden wave of heat rushing through you.

“You know...” he murmurs, locking his eyes with yours, his voice suddenly turning much more serious. “From the very first day you brought in that folder from Blythe, I knew you were going to turn my life upside down. For months, I just watched you and cursed myself for not making a move sooner. But now that you’re here with me... I don’t plan on making that same mistake again.”

When Mark’s warm palm settles over your hand, your heart begins to pound wildly—not with fear this time, but with sheer excitement. You don’t pull your hand away, instead, you turn your palm upward and gently interlace your fingers with his, signaling that you want exactly what he does. 

"I’m glad you didn’t make that mistake again after all," you whisper, your eyes radiating the attraction Mark has been craving for months. 

The rest of the dinner feels like a hazy, continuous dream. The conversation deepens, and flirtation gives way to a serious, focused attentiveness. Mark hangs on your every word—and for the first time, he isn’t doing it as a tactic, but because you have completely captivated him.

“Dean.” You nudged his arm with yours. “Leave him alone.”

Dean looked at you. “You're taking his side?”

“I'm taking the side of the guy who actually read a book once in his life.” Sam smirked. Dean shot you an affronted look.

“Wow.”

“I'm just saying.”

“You wound me.” You laughed as the three of you headed toward the house.

Sam unlocked the front door. Inside, the place felt abandoned. Too quiet.

You split up, checking the downstairs rooms while Dean and Sam moved further into the house.

The living room was empty.

Dining room too.

Then you heard something, a metallic rattling sound. You immediately headed toward it.

Someone sat on the floor beside the cabinets, handcuffed to one of the drawer handles. You crouched beside her.

“Hey, hey, it's okay.” Sam and Dean appeared a second later. “We're here to help.”

The girl looked relieved once she realized nobody was going to hurt her, the words started spilling out all at once.

Her stepmother had beaten her, locked her in the kitchen, handcuffed her to the drawers, and forced her to clean while the rest of the family went out.

Definitely Cinderella.

While Sam worked on the handcuffs, movement caught your attention.

A little girl appeared on the other side of the hallway, half of her body was visible. She didn't seem to have anything to do with it, but it made sense when you remembered one of the victims mentioned a little girl before.

“Dean,” you called. He was already moving, you watched them disappear through the hallway. Meanwhile, you called 911 while Sam freed the girl and made sure she was okay.

When the police arrived and the victim was being looked after by paramedics, the three of you regrouped outside.

Dean tossed something into the air and caught it. A shiny red apple.

“The kid left this.”

You exchanged a look with Sam. “Snow White,” he nodded.

“So what? We look for a…”

“A girl in a deep sleep,” you completed.

“Of course,” Dean said. You couldn't help smiling at his tone. May not be the easiest task but at least you knew what you were looking for.

“We should start with hospitals,” Sam said and the three of you headed back toward the Impala.

You had barely made it halfway across the street when a wave of dizziness hit without warning. The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet for a second, forcing you to slow down.

Dean noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

You blinked hard. “Yeah. Just... tired,” you admitted quietly. “Head hurts.” Dean’s brows pulled together.

“You should’ve said something.”

“It literally just started.” He still didn't look convinced, not even a little persuaded by your explanation. You reached the Impala and leaned against the door. “Would you mind dropping me at the motel first?”

He exchanged a look with Sam. “We're heading to the hospital anyway.”

“I think I just need sleep.” He hesitated. You could see him weighing the options in his head, so you reached out and touched his hand. “Dean,” you said softly. “Really. I'm okay.”

The second your fingers brushed his, his hand turned instinctively, fitting against yours perfectly like it had done a hundred times before.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You knew that tone. It wasn't agreement. It was Dean deciding to worry about it later.

His hand lingered around yours for a second longer before he finally let go.

“…Call me if anything feels weird.”

Sam snorts from the door.

“A little late for that warning, don't you think?” Dean shot him a look but didn't argue.

You squeezed his hand once. “I'll be here when you get back.”

Dean leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Better be.”

Then he and Sam were gone.

The motel felt strangely empty after that.

You tried distracting yourself for a while. Flipped through channels. Sat on the edge of the bed. Eventually, you stretched out on top of the covers, hoping sleep might take care of the headache.

It didn't.

The headache hadn't gotten any better. If anything, the longer you lay there, the worse it felt. Not painful enough to alarm you, just enough to keep you from relaxing.

You closed your eyes, hoping a few minutes of rest would help, when a faint sound drifted through the silence.

Your eyes snapped toward the door.

Nothing.

Just the television and the hum of the motel's air conditioner. You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it when the sound came again.

It wasn't loud enough to make out. Not a voice, not exactly. Still, something about it settled deep in your chest, tugging at you with quiet persistence.

Without really deciding to, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood.

The movement felt natural, automatic. One moment you were in bed, the next you were reaching for the door.

The cold night air greeted you outside, but it did little to clear your thoughts. Across the road, beyond a chain-link fence and a row of storage units, stood an old warehouse you'd barely noticed earlier that day.

Now it was impossible to look anywhere else.

You crossed the empty lot without hesitation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning whispered that this was a bad idea. That you should turn around. Call Dean. Go back to the motel.

Instead, you kept walking.

The warehouse door stood slightly open, swaying gently in the wind. You pushed it wider and stepped inside. Moonlight spilled through broken windows, illuminating dust-covered machinery and forgotten crates. At first, nothing seemed unusual.

Then you saw it.

A spinning wheel sat alone in the center of the room.

Your stomach dropped.

Every instinct screamed at you to leave. To run. To do anything except take another step forward, but you did.

“No...” you whispered.

The word sounded weak, swallowed by the darkness around you.

That was the worst part. You could still think. Still understand exactly what was happening. Somewhere between leaving the motel and walking through that door, you'd lost control of everything except your own awareness.

The spinning wheel waited silently beneath the moonlight.

Waiting for you.

Your hand lifted despite every effort to stop it. Your arm trembled as you fought against the movement, and for a brief second, you thought you might actually win.

Then your fingertip brushed the spindle.

A sharp sting shot through your hand and the room vanished.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Dean knew something was wrong before Sam even finished parking the Impala.

The hospital had given them answers, just not the ones they needed. They knew who was behind the attacks now. They knew why people were ending up trapped inside twisted fairy tales. What they didn't know was how to stop it.

None of that mattered the second your call went to voicemail.

“She’s not answering.” Dean was already trying again as he crossed the motel parking lot.

Straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened.

“She said she'd stay here. She's probably asleep.” Sam didn't answer right away. By the time he stepped into the room, Dean was already inside.

The television was still playing quietly in the corner. The blankets were tangled on the bed like you'd only gotten up a few minutes ago.

But you were gone. You wouldn't just leave. Not after the conversation they'd had before he left.

“The door was open, Sam.” His eyes swept across the room, searching for anything out of place. Your bag was still there. So was your jacket.

Enough to tell him you'd walked out in a hurry. Or hadn't had much choice.

Dean was moving out of the room before the thought had even finished forming.

Outside, his gaze traveled across the empty lot until it landed on the warehouse across the road.

The same warehouse they'd driven past earlier.

The same warehouse sitting there now like it had been waiting all along.

“Sam.” That was all he said. Sam followed his gaze and immediately understood.

They ran.

The metal door slammed against the wall when Dean shoved it open. For a second, everything seemed frozen.

Dust hung in the air, illuminated by moonlight spilling through the broken windows.

The spinning wheel standing in the center of the room, and you, lying motionless beside it.

Dean crossed the distance in seconds and dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey, come on.”

Nothing.

His hands shook as he reached for your pulse. The relief nearly knocked the breath out of him when he found it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Wake up.”

Behind him, Sam had gone completely silent. Dean looked over his shoulder, his brother was staring at the spinning wheel.

"What?" Sam swallowed but didn't answer. A knot immediately formed in Dean's stomach. “Sam?”

“Sleeping Beauty.” Dean frowned.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“In the original Grimm story, the princess pricks her finger on a spindle and falls asleep.” Dean glanced at you. Then looked back at Sam.

“How do we wake her?” Sam hesitated. Which was answer enough. “Sam.”

“We can’t. She’s sleeping for a hundred years.” The words seemed to echo through the warehouse. Dean just stared at him.

“A hundred years?”

“Dean, listen—”

“No.”

“Dean—”

“No.” His voice cracked. “Fix it.”

“We don't even know if—”

“FIX IT, SAM.” Silence settled between them. After a moment, Sam nodded.

"We need to get back to the hospital."Dean didn't answer. He simply slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully into his arms.

Like letting go wasn't an option.

Hours had passed.

Sam had gone to talk to the doctor after putting together a theory, leaving Dean alone with you.

The hospital room had grown darker as the afternoon slipped into evening. Nurses came and went, the muted television murmured from the corner, and at some point Dean had stopped paying attention to any of it.

You hadn’t moved once.

And Dean hated it.

Sitting beside your bed, he rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at you again, as if maybe this time something would be different.

It never was.

The worst part was how normal you looked.

No pain. No fear. No sign that anything was wrong.

Just asleep.

Dean's fingers tightened around yours.

“Y'know,” he muttered after a while, staring at the floor, “I'm starting to think fairy tales suck.”

The joke landed exactly as well as expected.

Silence.

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before fading again. His gaze drifted back to you. “I should've stayed.” Guilt sat ugly in his chest. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

Then Dean exhaled slowly and leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. Another against your hair. And finally, a lingering kiss against your lips.

Not magical. Just Dean.

When he pulled back, something shifted. A tiny movement. So small he almost thought he'd imagined it.

Dean froze.

“Sweetheart?” Your brows furrowed slightly before your eyes slowly opened.

Dean laughed out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to breaking. You blinked up at him slowly.

“...Dean?”

“Yeah.” He immediately leaned closer. “Yeah, sweetheart. I'm here.”

“What happened?” Dean let out a short laugh.

“You know what? Better if you don’t ask.” Before you could ask anything else, the door opened. Sam walked in carrying a folder under one arm. He took one look at you sitting awake in bed and stopped cold.

“Sammy,” Dean said proudly, pointing at you. “Awake.”

“I can see that.” He smiled.

You looked between them. “Now can you tell me what happened?” Sam pulled a chair closer.

“The doctor finally let his daughter go.” Your confusion must have shown immediately because he continued. “The girl who's been in a coma all these years? She was the one causing all of this. The fairy tales, the curses... everything.”

You slowly remembered pieces of the case.

“The doctor?” Sam nodded.

“He couldn't let her go. Not after everything that happened. But once he finally did...” He gestured toward you. “The curse ended.”

“That's rough,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed softly.

The silence lasted all of three seconds before Dean ruined it.

“So, Sleeping Beauty, huh?” He teased, you groaned immediately.

“Shut up. I would've preferred the Disney version.”

“The Disney version?” Dean asked.

“Way more romantic.” You explained.

“More romantic? I literally kissed you and you woke up.”

“You did?” He looked at you offended. You were unconscious back then, so you really had no clue.

“I did.”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, fighting a smile, “that's not actually why she woke up.” Dean pointed at him without even looking.

“Nobody asked.”

“In the story, the curse ends because enough time passes.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“Okay, and the hundred years are up?”

“Dean—”

“Looks like all that fairy tale knowledge finally failed you, Sammy.” Sam sighed. You laughed, and for the first time since he'd found you lying beside that spinning wheel, Dean felt the knot in his chest begin to loosen.

Without thinking, he reached for your hand again.

This time when your fingers curled around his, he didn't let go.

The next few days were... weird.

Not bad.

Just different.

Dean didn't let you out of his sight. At all.

At first, you thought he was being subtle about it. Then you woke up one morning to find him already awake, sitting in the chair across from the bed with a lore book open in his lap. He was supposedly reading, but his eyes kept drifting over the top of the pages.

"...Dean." He didn't even blink.

"What?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

"I'm not."

"You literally are." Dean shrugged.

"Could be dead asleep for a hundred years right now. Think I earned staring privileges." You just stared at him.

From the other bed, Sam snorted loudly into his coffee.

"Oh my God." Dean tossed a balled-up napkin at him without looking.

"Shut up."

But it kept happening.

Dean hovering. Constantly.

A hand at your back whenever you walked somewhere. Asking if you were tired. Checking if you felt dizzy. Reaching out to touch your arm for no reason at all, like he needed proof you were actually there.

A few days later, you were sitting at Bobby's kitchen table with a book in your hands when Dean came through the door carrying groceries.

The second he spotted you, something in his shoulders relaxed.

It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you did.

Dean caught you watching him and immediately frowned.

"...What?"

Your expression softened. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Checking if I'm alive." Dean scoffed.

"That's exactly how I’d say it."

From the couch, Sam spoke without even looking up from his book. "But it’s true."

Dean pointed at him.

"Nobody asked you." Sam grinned.

"You almost went full Disney prince in that hospital, man." Dean looked genuinely horrified.

"Do not call me that."

"You said it yourself. You kissed her and she woke up." A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Dean's head immediately turned toward you and there it was again.

That tiny shift in his expression.

Like hearing you laugh settled something inside him.

Sam noticed it too. Which meant Dean was completely doomed.

The teasing faded after that, leaving a comfortable silence behind. Dean set the groceries on the counter while Bobby disappeared somewhere deeper into the house, muttering about beer.

Then Dean spoke again.

"You scared me." The words came out quieter than expected.

You looked up.

Dean wasn't joking this time.

"I mean it." His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. "When Sam said you'd be asleep forever..."

The sentence died there. You knew Dean well enough to hear the rest anyway.

The fear.

The helplessness.

The thought of losing someone and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Dean looked away for a second, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I hated that."

Something in your chest ached.

Dean usually hid behind jokes when things got too real. If he was saying this out loud, it meant he'd been carrying it around ever since.

You stood from the table and crossed the kitchen. Dean's eyes followed you automatically. They always did.

When you stopped in front of him, your hands slid into the front of his jacket, lightly gripping the fabric.

"You know," you said softly, "hovering isn't actually preventing supernatural attacks." Dean hummed. "Counterpoint: maybe it is." That earned a smile.

Then, more quietly, you added, "I'm okay."

Dean looked at you for a long moment. Like he was trying very hard to believe it.

Finally, his hand lifted and brushed gently along your cheek before settling at the back of your neck.

"I know." But even as he said it, he tugged you a little closer. Instinctively. And you let him.

Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead.

From the couch, Sam immediately made a disgusted noise. "Okay. That's enough."

Without taking his eyes off you, Dean flipped him off. You laughed against Dean's shoulder.

For a moment, Dean closed his eyes. Just a second, long enough to feel the warmth of you standing there.

The steady rise and fall of your breathing. The simple fact that you were alive.

Still here.

And for now, that was enough.

Dean had been unbearably clingy all day.

Not that you minded.

At some point, while Bobby and Sam were out getting supplies, Dean had somehow ended up stretched across the couch with you trapped between him and the cushions, one arm around your waist while he half-watched some old western on TV.

His fingers absentmindedly played with the ends of your hair. Every few minutes, he pressed a kiss somewhere random, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn't help himself.

You finally laughed softly after the fourth forehead kiss in ten minutes.

"What?" Dean looked down at you innocently.

"What what?"

"You're being weirdly affectionate today." Dean scoffed.

"Weirdly? Rude."

You smiled, shaking your head. "Sorry, sorry."

Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously before leaning down to steal another kiss anyway. You laughed against his lips this time.

"You know," you said once he finally pulled back a little, "Sam was right."

Dean groaned instantly. "Those are words nobody should ever say."

You ignored him completely.

"You kind of are my Prince Charming."

"Sweetheart, I'm way hotter than Prince Charming." You rolled your eyes. Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You seen me? C'mon."

You laughed, fingers idly playing with the collar of his flannel.

"Well... Prince Phillip was really handsome."

Dean froze.

"...Excuse me?" You nodded seriously.

"He was always my crush when I was little." Dean stared at you in disbelief.

"Cartoon prince?"

"He had the sword, Dean."

"I have guns."

"That's true."

"And a car."

"Also true."

"And better hair." You pretended to think about it. Dean immediately grabbed your jaw, turning your face toward him. "Wrong answer. Try again."

By now, you were grinning. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're hotter."

"Maybe?"

"Don't push it." Dean squinted at you before lightly biting your cheek in retaliation.

"Dean!"

"That's what you get." You were still laughing when he kissed you again, slower this time. His hand slid up your side, settling comfortably at your waist while his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your sweater.

When he pulled back, you were still smiling at him.

Dean tried very hard to look unaffected.

"...You liked that." He immediately looked away.

"Liked what?"

"The Prince Charming thing."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Nope." You watched him for another second, amused. Dean suddenly seemed very interested in whatever was happening on the television, which told you everything.

Your expression softened. "You know," you murmured quietly, "I don't actually care about the prince part."

That got his attention.

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.

"If I got to choose..." Your thumb traced softly over the little crease near his mouth. "I'd still pick you." His breath caught.

Tiny.

Barely noticeable.

But you saw it anyway. God, you always saw right through him.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Even over Prince Phillip."

"Good choice." His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. "I really like having you here."

The honesty in his voice almost hurt.

Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed three quick kisses against his lips. Dean smiled helplessly into the last one.

"See?" you whispered against his mouth. "Definitely my prince." He rolled his eyes, but the faint blush creeping into his ears ruined the effect.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The TV droned quietly in the background while Dean's arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against your side. Neither of you were really paying attention to the movie anymore.

"You went somewhere."

You blinked. "Hm?"

Dean tilted his head slightly, studying your face.

"That look." His thumb brushed lightly against your hip. You looked down at the fabric of his flannel between your fingers.

"...I just wish this could stay like this." The words were quiet, but Dean felt them anyway. Because he knew exactly what you meant.

Not the couch.

Not the teasing.

Not the kisses.

Him.

His hand stilled for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, thumb brushing gently against your side again.

"Hey..." You shook your head quickly.

"No, it's okay." But your voice already sounded thinner. "I just..." You exhaled shakily. "I hate that every good moment turns into me remembering..." You couldn't finish it.

You didn't need to.

Dean's chest tightened painfully.

Less than a year.

He hated that you had to carry that around now. Hated that every happy moment came with a countdown neither of you could ignore.

His hand slid up slowly, fingers curling gently beneath your chin until you looked at him. Your eyes were already glossy.

Dean swore it wrecked him every single time.

"Don't do this to yourself." You laughed softly, but it broke in the middle.

"How do I not?" Dean didn't have an answer. Because honestly, he didn't know either.

So instead, he brushed his thumb beneath your eye, careful and gentle, like touching something fragile. "I'm here right now," he said quietly.

You nodded. "I know."

But the sadness remained. Dean could still see it.

So he leaned down and kissed you softly. Not trying to distract you. Not trying to fix it. Just reminding you he was here.

You kissed him back immediately, almost desperately, your fingers tightening in his shirt as you pulled him closer.

Dean paused for a second when he realized what you were doing. Trying to stop thinking. Trying to drown it all out before it settled in your chest again. His heart ached at that, but he didn't call attention to it or make you explain.

He simply slid a hand into your hair and kissed you back slowly, carefully, giving you something else to hold onto for a little while.

When you finally pulled apart, you kept your forehead resting against his, eyes closed and breathing uneven.

"C'mere." Dean pressed one last kiss near the corner of your mouth before pulling you fully into his lap.

You went willingly, arms wrapping around his neck. He held you there for a moment, content just to have you close.

"You know what I think?" You hummed quietly. "I think we should go get dinner before Sammy eats everything." A tiny smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Dean noticed immediately and looked absurdly pleased about it.

"There she is." You shook your head.

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Change the subject when things get sad." Dean thought about it for a second.

"...Yeah."

You finally opened your eyes and looked at him properly again.

For once, there wasn't a joke ready on his tongue.

"I can't fix this one, sweetheart." The words were quiet. Honest. "I can't." You swallowed hard. Dean's hand settled against your cheek. "But I can get you pancakes at midnight." A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Dean smiled immediately. "And pie," he added. "Very important."

You leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time.

"I love you," you whispered against his lips. Dean's expression softened instantly.

"Love you too." Then, because he physically couldn't leave a serious moment alone for too long. "Now c'mon, princess. Your prince is starving."

You groaned. "You ruined it."

Dean grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stood and pulled you up with him.

"Yeah," he said, lacing his fingers through yours. "But you're still smiling."

It wasn’t his fault the sight of it knocked you sick, or that hearing some bimbo scream his name through the motel wall made you want to cry yourself to sleep. He never saw it, and you’d never tell him because you knew there was no point. 

You had thought he might have felt the same at the start, back when you’d joined him on the road, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. Your flirting he took for harmless banter between friends. The way you looked after him - making him eat something relatively healthy once in a while, forcing him to sleep when he was dead on his feet, or stitching him up after a hunt - was all part of being a good partner. He did the same for you, after all.  So you’d given up. Hidden your needy heart behind a couple of walls and pretended that it didn’t sink when he floated the idea of going out tonight. 

He wasn’t asking for permission of course, just telling you how it was going to go. He no longer expected you to come along; that had been something that had died a death a few weeks ago. When you’d been in the middle of a game of pool and looked up after sinking the black only to find him necking on with some blonde girl out of nowhere. 

It had always been hard to watch. How he smiled at them. How he made them laugh. How he gave them everything you wanted. But after that it was like something had broken inside you. 

Yet the feeling hadn’t gone away. You’d thought that would be it. A clear sign he didn’t want you so you could finally let it go. But it just festered in your chest. You smiled back when he smiled at you, despite yourself. You couldn’t make yourself snap at him, because it wasn’t his fault. 

You couldn’t walk away. So after weeks of moping, you’d decided to be proactive. You chose to live by the mantra of getting over someone by getting under someone else. You weren’t sure it would make you feel any better, but it sure as shit would distract you for an hour. Or at least, you hoped so.

Dean had seemed surprised when you’d said you’d come with him. Not disappointed, he knew it wouldn’t impact his night in any way. He’d still find a warm bed and a sweet smile whether you were there or not. But he wasn’t overjoyed either, which you’d had to pretend didn’t hurt. Instead, you just locked yourself in the bathroom and got ready, taking extra time to make yourself look good. You were just finishing up as Dean knocked on, a grumbled, ‘you nearly done?’ coming from the other side of the door. You didn’t say anything in return; you just packed up your stuff and stepped out.

He was sitting on the bed when you did, wearing his normal jeans, t-shirt, and flannel look but his eyes went wide the second he saw you. It wasn’t much, well it wasn’t much at all, the dress you’d picked up skirting across your thighs and dipping so low you have to be conscious not to bend over to far unless you really wanted to.

‘You’re wearing that?’ Dean asked, his voice sharp.

‘Yeah,’ you said hesitantly pulling on the hem of your dress self-consciously as his eyes roved over you, ‘why don’t you like it?’

‘No, it’s nice,’ Dean said, clearing his throat and not looking at you as he stood up a muttered, ‘we’ve should get going.’

You spent most of the car ride in silence, Dean’s eyes flitting over to you ever so often and making your cheeks burn. He must think you’re ridiculous, you thought. Not pretty enough to pull something like this off like the girls he dated. But it didn’t matter, you reminded yourself. This wasn’t for him. This was for some dive bar Romeo yet to present himself.

It was crowded when you got to the bar, but you managed to snag a couple of stools up against the counter. Dean helped you climb onto yours, his hand nestling warm against the small of your back as your heels wobbled on the wooden slats. You tried to ignore how good it felt, and how easily he tugged a smile from your lips when he grinned and ordered your favourite drink. You were supposed to be looking for someone else, but the two of you slipped into conversation, easy as always. You were about three beers in before you noticed her. Slim, pretty, blonde. Sitting on the other side of the bar, her eyes flitting to Dean every few minutes.

‘You’ve got an admirer,’ you murmured into your drink, stopping his rant about how the Die Hard movies were quickly losing their coolness with every sequel and marring their reputation as action classics. Dean’s eyes flitted across the bar and then right back to you.

‘Aren’t you gonna go over there?’ you asked, pretending like when he said yes, you wouldn’t feel nauseous.

‘Nah,’ Dean shrugged.

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ you said. You didn’t know why you were pushing it. You didn’t want him to go, but you knew you should make him. Make yourself look for someone without dazzling green eyes and soft lips.

‘Do you want me to?’ Dean asked, his brow furrowing.

‘I don’t want to stop your night,’ you shrugged, ‘I mean you would if I weren’t here, right?’

‘Right,’ Dean said, something unreadable behind his eyes.

‘She’s coming over,’ you muttered looking back to your drink as she started to move, circling like a shark.

But Dean wasn’t chum. He was warm, friendly, and slipped easily into his usual charm, only hesitating when she invited him away from the bar. You could feel his eyes land on you, lingering. Probably to be polite, to tell you not to wait up or whatever. But you didn’t look at him. You kept your eyes fixed on your glass, your finger trailing down the condensation until he muttered something you didn’t hear and moved away.

You looked away after that, surveying the room. It was then you laid eyes on him. The guy at the other side of the bar. He was cute, handsome even, and he was watching you. You smiled, played with your drink and you looked up at him under your lashes. He moved over within seconds. Bought you a drink just as fast. And somehow, he made you forget about Dean.

Just for a little bit. When his hand touched your knee, it belonged to him, if you focused hard enough. When he said something flirty, his voice stayed his own, not that rich, velvety tone you’d come to love, but something just as nice. And when he suggested you head over to the pool table, you tried desperately not to think about who had taught you to play. How Dean had pressed himself up against your back to show you how to hold the cue, guiding your hands to put spin on the ball.

Instead, you thought about this new guy, Rick something. You slipped into your own flirty routine. You leaned against the table whenever he lined up a shot, leaning forward too much on purpose until his eyes looked at you instead of the ball. He called you a cheat, you laughed. He taught you how to play, and you let him. You didn’t think about Dean.

You didn’t.

You didn’t think about him at all. Not until you sunk your last shot, potting the black, and looked up to find him standing at the other side of the table, arms crossed as he looked down on you.

‘Dean,’ you said, forcing a smile as Rick appeared beside you to celebrate though his grin dimmed the moment he noticed where your gaze had been captured.

‘You playing pool?’ Dean asked, his eyes landing on where Rick had hold of your waist, narrowing when Rick answered, ‘yeah, we are.’

‘Cool,’ Dean said tightly, throwing his jacket on a stool beside the table before he reached into the return under the table to fish the balls out, his eyes never leaving you as he added, ‘winner stays on, right?’

‘Sure,’ you said quietly.

You didn’t know what he was doing here. Or why he was doing this.

You used to think that being in love with someone who didn’t love you back was the most pain you’d ever have to endure. But this? This was excruciating.

It was slow torture. Dean played, and he played well, far better than Rick, and they both knew it. But he wasn’t hustling with his usual easy confidence. There was no charm in his game tonight. His movements were rigid, his expression dark, and his attitude toward you was tighter than ever. When you sank a ball, he huffed. When you missed, he huffed. You could feel his eyes boring into every time Rick spoke to you. When Rick leaned in to whisper something in your ear right as Dean took his first swing, Dean broke the balls so hard he sank three of them in a single shot.

And you thought you knew why. He’d probably seen you throwing yourself at someone else and thought you looked pathetic. Some deep-seated, protective chauvinistic urge to stop you from embarrassing yourself had kicked in and dragged him over. But you didn’t want him here. You didn’t want him clogging up your senses and worming his way into your brain. You could at least pretend Rick was what you wanted when Dean wasn’t standing right there. You could pretend you liked blue eyes instead of green, and dark hair instead of hair that looked golden in the sunlight.

When Rick stepped away to get another drink, you stormed over to the other side of the table.  Dean was leaning over, pulling the balls from the pocket once more but he looked up, his eyes flitting back to the triangle rack he was lining up as he muttered, ‘what?’

‘Can you stop?’ you demanded.

‘Stop what?’ Dean asked.

‘Whatever this is,’ you said, crossing your arms across your chest. Dean stood up and looked at you, his jaw ticking before he looked back to the pool table and started slamming balls into their spots.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he muttered.

‘You don’t have to stay with me,’ you challenged.

‘What?’  he said, frowning.

‘Look I get it,’ you huffed, your frustration boiling over,  ‘you had your night planned and I tagged along and ruined it. But you don’t have to stay here with me. I wasn’t stopping you from doing whatever you wanted. You can go be with that girl.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Dean said flatly.

‘Well, you clearly don’t want to be here with us either,’ you challenged, ‘you don’t even like the guy-’

‘I don’t like what he’s after,’ Dean muttered, looking up as you scoffed, his jaw tightening like he didn’t want to ask, like he knew an argument was brewing but was determined to stand his ground, ‘what?’

‘What he’s after?’ you laughed, your tone dripping in sarcasm, ‘what, are you gonna tell me boys are only after one thing?’

‘Well, yeah, they are,’ Dean challenged, taking a step toward you, his eyes skimming down your body in a way that made your skin feel hot.

‘Like you, you mean,’ you countered, Dean scowled but you carried on, ‘oh or are we gonna pretend you were after the Dolly Parton knock off for her sterling personality?’

After that you braced yourself, waiting for something. A flicker of guilt. A sharp bite back. But nothing came.

‘You’re such a fucking hypocrite,’ you snapped, trying to push past him. But before you could move he wrapped a hand around your arm. It was warm, electrifying, and kept you locked into place as his voice dropped, his eyes softening as he murmured, ‘I just don’t think this is what you should be doing that’s all.’

‘Why not?’ you spat.

‘Because you’re not that kinda girl,’ he said.

You were sure he’d meant it to be nice. As a compliment. That he was saying it because he saw you as a friend. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt as though he’d slapped you.

He could’ve told you he thought of you as a sister. That you’d seen too much together to ruin your dynamic. But no, he said the one thing that felt like a punch in the gut. Because you could do it. You could haul your ass to a bar. You could sit yourself on a stool and make eyes at a nice, handsome man. You could flirt. You could go home with him. But to Dean, it wasn’t cool or effortless like it was when he did it. When you did it, it looked pathetic. Hell, you’d had to cram yourself in a skin-tight dress and heels just for someone to notice you. And even then, it was never going to be Dean.

‘Right,’ you breathed, the fight suddenly draining out of you.

‘Oh what now?’ he sighed. You fought to keep your tone angry. To not let the threat of tears make it wobble.

‘Look it might dumbfound you that someone might like me. Or that it takes me fucking cramming myself into a dress like this for people to actually do it, but you don’t have to be cruel,’ you said angrily. Dean paused, staring at you as if your words hadn’t quite registered, his grip loosening on your arm. Sensing your chance, you huffed, ‘you know what? Forget it.’

You were out of reach before he could make his brain could catch up. You pushed past Rick, who called out a confused, ‘Where are you going?’ behind you. You barely registered the sound of Dean knocking the drinks out of Rick's hands as he shoved through the crowd after you.

He called your name, but you ignored him. You didn’t know where you were going. He had the car keys, and you wouldn’t get far in these heels but your just kept your feet moving.

It was cold outside, but you didn’t stop. You just headed straight for the Impala with the heavy thud of Dean’s boots trailing close behind you.

‘Leave me alone,’ you called over your shoulder.

‘Would you just stop?’ he yelled back.

‘I said-’

‘And I said stop,’ he growled, grabbing your arm and spinning you around, pressing your back flat against the cold metal of the Impala. Your breath caught in your throat. You froze, staring up at him. All the irritation was gone from his face, replaced entirely by a raw, frantic worry.

‘Go away,’ you manged to choke out, though your voice lacked any real bite.

‘No,’ he said fiercely.

‘Dean,’ you whispered.

‘Not until you tell me what the fuck you meant in there,’ he demanded, leaning over you and trapping you in against the car.

‘I don’t-’

‘What did you mean?’

‘You said I wasn’t that kind of girl,’ you whispered.

‘What-’

‘The kind you like. The kind that are hot, that you’d pick up at a bar,’ you whispered, finally letting your gaze drop.

‘So? You’re not,’  he insisted.

‘Not to you maybe,’ you mumbled bitterly, ‘I get it, you’d don’t see me like that. But some people do-’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said firmly. His hand reached up, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You looked up, finding him watching you with absolute intensity, his bottom lip catching as your breath hitched.

‘Sweetheart you aren’t some cheap lay in a bar. You’re not some forgettable name. You’re,’ he hesitated, ‘you’re morning coffee…and stupid songs in the car. You’re the girl I tell stupid jokes for just in case it makes her laugh…I just didn’t want to fuck that up.’

‘Wait, you-’ you started, your brow furrowing in disbelief.

‘Have for a while,’ he admitted, a breathless laugh escaping him, ‘was just easier to pretend when you did have fucking Rick hanging off your arm.’

‘But the girls,’ you said, unwilling to let your heart believe it, ‘I’ve had to watch you-’

‘Never wanted any of them,’ he promised, his eyes burning into your face, ‘just you. Always you.’

He looked down at your lips, and then the space between you vanished. Suddenly, his mouth was slamming into yours. His hands came up to cup your face, holding you steady as he pressed you hard against the Impala, knocking the remaining breath right out of your lungs. You gasped into the kiss, your hands instantly fisting into his flannel shirt to pull him closer. His mouth moved against yours with a desperate, starved hunger before he finally pulled back, leaving you completely breathless.

‘Believe me now?’ he panted. You nodded but your fingers locked around his amulet, tugging him closer as you said, ‘but Dean?’

‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘You wanna see what kind of girl I really am?’ you asked.

Dean’s eyes darkened as you pushed him back, yanking the back door open and gesturing for him to get in. He scrambled over the bench seat into the back, watching with wide eyes as you climbed in after him, shutting the door quietly to seal out the cold night. He watched as you climbed over him, pushing him back against the door so you could straddle his lap. He felt himself stiffen, the too few layers between his cock and your cunt all too real. But you didn’t let him touch you. Not yet. He watched as you reached back and unzipped your dress, pulling it over your head a second later and dropping it into the footwell along with your discarded heels. Dean marvelled at your bare chest, his hands reaching out to touch, but you grabbed his wrists and pushed him back, your chest skimming against his as his hands met the cold glass of the window.

‘Ah, ah,’ you warned, leaning in dangerously close until your breath mingled. Dean’s throat bobbed heavily.

‘Shirt off, there’s a good boy,’ you said, bumping your nose against his before you pulled back. Dean moved instantly, ripping his flannel and t-shirt off and throwing them into the darkness of the front seat. Your eyes darkened as you tracked the lines of his torso, your finger trailing down the centre of his chest, stopping just shy of his belt. Slowly, your hand slid lower, palming him through the heavy denim of his jeans. Dean’s hips bucked upward against your touch with an involuntary groan.

‘Fuck,’ Dean panted as you squeezed him through his jeans.

‘Needy,’ you teased, a small laugh bubbling up.

‘Need you,’ he breathed.

‘Then take ‘em off,’ you said simply. You shifted back onto the leather seat to give him room, watching as he quickly rid himself of his jeans and briefs. When he sat back, his cock was nestled against his stomach, heavy, rigid, and begging for your touch. You could feel your arousal growing, your core burning with a long brewing need. You wanted him to fuck you, wanted him to fill you up. For him to make you come on his cock. On his fingers. On his tongue. You wanted it all. But there was no urgency anymore. You knew you had time.

And you’d thought about just what you’d do if you’d ever got him here. So, you took your time.

Dean’s eyes went wide and you bent down, thong clad ass in the air as you pressed your cheek against his thigh, your warm breath tickling against his skin as you teased a finger along his hardening shaft. It twitched in response, leaking against his belly in a way that made him groan your name.

You wrapped your hand around him, slicking your palm before dragging it lazily up and down his shaft. Then, you leaned over, dragging your bottom lip from the base to the very top before locking your mouth around the head. It was soft, gentle, your tongue swirling around his gooey head before you slid down, inch by inch, until he was buried deep in the warmth of your throat.

‘Fuck baby,’ Dean whispered, his hand knotting in your hair as you started to move. Your cheeks hollowed with every upward pull, your hand working his base in perfect tandem.

‘You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,’ he choked out, the back of his head flopping back against the glass, ‘thought about it every damn day.’

You hummed around him in agreement.

‘Never thought I’d get it. Thought you didn’t like me. It’s why I hooked up with those girls,’ he admitted, his voice straining, ‘pretended they were you. Always wanted you. Shit, fuck - do that again.’

You looked up at him through your lashes, teasing your tongue against the sensitive underside of the head. Dean shuddered, his thighs tensing as his hips bucked upward, driving himself deeper into your mouth.

‘Fuck, no stop,’ he suddenly begged, gently pulling your head back.

‘Why?’ you pouted, looking up at him like you were a kid who’d just lost their favourite lollipop.

‘Gonna come,’ he panted, his chest heaving.

‘That’s the idea,’ you chuckled, teasing your hand along him again.

‘Wanna cum in you,’ he breathed, looking down on you, his eyes adoring. You didn’t need telling twice. Dean watched, mesmerized, as you peeled your thong off and shimmied back onto his lap, nesting your knees on either side of his thighs. He caught your waist, his head dipping between the valley of your breasts as he painted hot wet kisses along each one, his tongue swirling around your nipple and sending a jolt through your core that made you grind against him. Then he reached down, guiding his length through your slick, deliberately bumping his cockhead against your clit.

You hissed at the touch, your pussy clenching around nothing.

‘Fuck Dean hurry up,’ you whined.

‘And you said I’m needy,’ he chuckled. You cut him off with a fierce kiss, sucking against his bottom lip as he lined himself up. Slowly, you sank down, stretching around him until he was buried down to the hilt. It felt entirely beyond anything you could have ever dreamed of. Nothing you could ever want more.

As you established a rhythm, he kept his mouth locked to yours, murmuring filthy praise for how well you took him, mixed with quiet curses that you hadn’t done this sooner. His hands pawed at your skin, his thumb finding your clit and rolling over it like an instrument made solely for his touch. And when you came it was like seeing heaven, your walls clamped around him in tight, desperate waves, your legs trembling until you completely forgot your own name. A second later, Dean let out a ruined groan and came deep inside you, his forehead resting against your chest, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer he’d known by heart forever.

It wasn’t Dean’s fault you were in love with him.

But this? This was the reason you would never be able to stop. And you knew whatever happened, you’d never have enough.

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request by @midnightpearlaurora

I was wondering if u can do a story where the reader had to witness dean countless flirts and one night stands until she decides enough was enough and flirt with another man causing dean to be jealous and having to confess his feelings to her which make them have s3x for lost time Thx u 4 reading

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dean tags

@caitlin1996 @robynn9436-blog

supernatural tags

Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”

“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”

You nodded along, humming.

She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”

You took a long gulp of your wine.

“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.

“Me?”

“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”

“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.

The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.

When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.

“It's um?” Trinity asked.

“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.

Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.

Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.

You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.

Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”

You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”

“Different how?” asked Dennis.

“Is it still casual?”

You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”

“You want to be more?”

You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"

“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”

With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.

“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”

She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.

“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”

“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.

On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.

She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.

You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G

“You're gonna leave them,” he said.

You and Trinity sat up. “What?”

“No!”

There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“Their medicine?” you asked.

Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”

You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.

“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”

The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.

“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.

“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”

You thought we was giving them too much credit.

Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”

He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”

That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.

Easier in practise when you work with them.

The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.

“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”

“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.

“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”

Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”

“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.

“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”

“Which one was Mark?” you asked.

“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”

Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.

You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”

“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”

“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.

Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.

“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”

Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”

“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”

Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.

“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.

“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.

Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”

“On a Wednesday? Nop.”

“Wanna come over?”

There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.

You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.

Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”

He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”

The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.

“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.

Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.

You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”

He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.

“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”

“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.

Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”

Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.

He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”

“Films,” you confirm.

“And talk.”

“We talk.”

Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”

“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.

You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.

Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”

You answered truthfully. “No.”

That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.

Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.

You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.

Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.

The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.

The next day passed like another dry spell.

It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.

It felt something like punishment.

Or a test.

By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.

“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.

“What? No.”

“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.

Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”

You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”

It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.

“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.

Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”

Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.

“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”

It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.

Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”

“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”

He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”

“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.

He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”

By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.

“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”

“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.

“No other choice.”

You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”

“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”

Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.

“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.

“Blood loss is slowing down.”

“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.

“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.

“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.

Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”

“Trin-” you snap.

“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”

You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.

It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!

But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.

“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.

“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.

“You think you could show me?”

You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.

“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”

You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.

“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”

You nodded with an absent mind.

Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”

You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.

He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”

Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?

With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.

You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.

“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.

You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-

Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.

“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.

If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.

“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.

You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.

“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”

Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.

“Good girl.”

When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.

“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.

Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”

“Where's Huckleberry?”

“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”

You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”

“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”

You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”

“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.

“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”

“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”

She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.

You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.

You'd never do that again.

Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.

Your phone was heavy in your pocket.

Call him.

But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.

You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.

Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.

You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-

That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.

You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.

Robby stood on the other side of the door.

You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”

His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”

You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.

Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.

“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”

“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.

“Oh?”

He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”

“Oh.”

His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”

You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”

“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.

“What-what-what do you mean?”

Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”

“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.

“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”

It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.

“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.

They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”

If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.

“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”

Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”

“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”

He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”

Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?

“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”

Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-

You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”

Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.

“Robby-”

“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”

“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.

He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”

Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?

“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”

His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”

Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”

Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.

His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.

Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”

“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.

You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”

“Good girl.”

You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.

He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.

You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.

“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.

His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”

His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.

“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.

Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.

“I should hope so.”

You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.

You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.

“Michael-”

He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.

Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.

He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.

“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.

Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.

All the while you wet down his scrubs.

“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.

You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.

Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”

His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.

“Mmph-”

“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”

Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.

His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.

His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.

You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”

He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.

“Michael-”

His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”

With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.

“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.

“All mine, huh?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless.

Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”

“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.

You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.

Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”

Slowly, he sank to his knees.

“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.

Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”

The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.

Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.

“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.

He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”

You shook your head.

Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.

His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.

“Want your cock, Robby-”

He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.

You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.

“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”

You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.

The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.

“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.

“Michael.”

He nodded.

“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.

Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-

Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”

When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-

Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.

His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”

Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.

“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.

The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.

Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.

“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.

“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”

Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.

His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”

“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.

Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.

“Oh god,” he uttered.

You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.

The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.

Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.

“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”

In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.

If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.

He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.

You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.

He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.

Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.

If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.

Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-

A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.

Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.

Robby stirred next to you. Last night.

He stayed.

“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.

You hummed, nodding and readying to move-

His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”

You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”

Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”

Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.

You hadn't closed the door.

“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.

“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”

The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.

You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.

Robby beside you didn't even stir.

“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.

He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.

You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.

You walk out of the kitchen, to the bathroom. Dean stays behind, feeling like he should give you some privacy, although he would love nothing more than to see you tug down your shorts, get a look at what’s underneath. He’s not that big of a pervert. At least that’s what he tells himself.

You come back, and when you walk past Dean so closely that you’re almost walking through him, he can smell the freshness of toothpaste on you, because for some reason he is granted that olfactory function. This is further confirmed by the smell of coffee that is filling the small kitchen. It tickles his nose, if such a thing is possible when you, technically, don’t have a nose. The coffee you use just has that distinct smell. One he’ll never forget.

You fill two cups and walk back into the bedroom. You set them on your night table and then crawl back into bed. Crawling being the key word here, because you stay on all fours, giving Dean, who’s followed you to the bedroom, a perfect view of your perfect ass. He shakes his head at that. It’s a good thing there seem to be no boners in ghost world.

You lean over, and your lips land on his naked back, gently kissing him. The Dean in the bed with you stirs, groans a little, because he hates being woken up. Well, that’s until he realizes who he’s being woken by. He’ll be fine in a second.

It's a damn strange experience, watching himself slowly wake. It was also a strange experience when he spent the morning, before you woke up, confused, distracted, trying to make himself known, trying to find the magic door that would allow him to leave. Not being able to use his body is its own punishment for the man who likes to shoot, smash and punch first, and ask questions much, much later. Dean has no idea what his own physicality means to him until it’s taken away. How not fulfilling his own tactile needs, even though there technically are no tactile needs, is making him itch. It’s like a smoker who stops, all the poison already out of his body, but the brain still makes him crave that one after dinner or after sex so much that he’s almost salivating. That’s Dean, alright.

The Dean in the bed is slowly stirring, back moving. Your hair falls off your shoulder, the ends of it tickling his back and ghost-Dean almost groans at what he knows that feels like. A spiritual boner, that’s what he’s getting. A mind boner. How’s he gonna deal with that?

He watches himself roll over and he sees the moment he registers it’s you. He knows the way you’re smiling at him. The things it makes him feel. He could walk around the bed, see for himself, but he knows. You look like you’re happy he’s alive, happy he exists. Dean’s not sure how many people have ever made him feel like they’re happy he exists, rather than taking it for granted that he does.

“Got you coffee,” you say in a quiet voice, but he’s already pushing himself up on his elbow, hand going into the hair at the back of your neck. He knows that hair’s gonna be a little knotted from how you toss and turn at night. He knows it carries the distant smell of your shampoo, but more than that, after a night of sleep in this humid weather, it’s going to smell nice and earthy and like you. He knows the feeling of pressing his fingertips into your scalp and neck, knows the low scratching sounds it makes, how it makes you relax your jaw immediately.

“Come here,” Dean says.

When he pulls you in to kiss you he knows what that feels like too. The softness of your lips, the warm wetness of your mouth. He’d like to bury himself in that, move in, set up shop. He was never sure how to say that without sounding like a weirdo, so he never did. He regrets that now.

But then you pull back, make a sound. “Morning breath, baby,” you say and Dean hears himself breathe out through his nose. He pecks another kiss on you, then he’s getting up, striding to the bathroom. What a horndog, Dean thinks of himself, watching his double rush to brush his teeth, gurgle some mouth water, piss while he’s in there. All hurried, all needy. He wants to scoff at himself, but the truth is he would do the exact same thing now.

He's back in the bedroom in no time. Dean, the ghosty Dean, has been watching you, since he doesn’t need to watch himself empty his bladder. You’re leaned against the headboard, sipping your coffee. Bare legs stretched out in front of you and Dean would love to kiss your toes. He tries to remember if he ever did that. If not, he should have. They’re lovely. His double walks up to your side of the bed, sits, takes your coffee cup out of your hands and sets it on the night table. It’s a dick move, Dean thinks, but the truth is, he’s just jealous. Because he knows what’s next.

He kisses you and Dean can’t deny that getting to see your face this way, see you react to how he’s kissing you is a treat. Your eyes fall closed and you look like you’re eating something delicious. It flusters him a little, makes him blush like a young maid. That you like him that much. Soon bodied-Dean, eager guy that he is, is running his hands down your sides. He used to be an exclusive tits-ass-pussy guy, but with you he’s found the pleasure in all the other parts of your body. Legs, hips, thighs, obviously, but the softness of your stomach. The back of your knees. Your wrists. Dean Winchester never thought he’d get so turned on by wrists.

He wrestles your shorts off you, and ghost-Dean nearly groans when he sees you. The bunched skin where your leg and crotch meet makes him sure he can destroy the metaphysical rules of whatever this world is and pop a tent. The Dean on the bed gets to kiss you again, then moves down to kiss your stomach, shirt pushed up, gets to run his tongue over your skin there at which you suck in your lower lip, which is absolutely criminal, that’s how good it looks. He moves lower, and your hips are already gyrating in anticipation of his touch. Because that’s how much you want him.

His mouth finds its way and so do his fingers, and then Dean watches himself, watches the back of his head move, the muscles in his arms tense as he pushes two digits into you. One of your hands goes to the top of the headboard and the other to the top of his head, fingers running into the hair there. Ghostly Dean almost feels the wonderful tension in his own scalp when you tug at it.

He gets you to the edge, to the point where you’re pressing yourself against his face, breaths and sounds becoming choppy, and then he slows down. You don’t complain, instead lean your head back and close your eyes. Dean does it again, carries you up the mountain but stops before you reach the peak. The sound you make is so perfect that in retrospect he cannot believe he’s the one who drew it from you. Desperate, needy, wanting. He’s the one who holds it just out of your reach, but you’re not mad at him. You know it’s worth the wait.

On the third time he draws you close, Dean’s had enough of teasing you, not least of all because his own situation is becoming very difficult to ignore. Dean’s always been a fan of giving the women he was with a good time, but he’s never gotten so achingly hard just from this. Once, earlier in your relationship, when he first started doing this to you, drawing it out, your sounds and movement surprised him so that he absentmindedly started humping the mattress, nearly came like that. He’s a little bit embarrassed now, thinking back on that, but you loved it, thought it was hot.

When you finally fall over that edge, your hand reaches for something to hold on, desperately fumbling against the wooden headboard, and ghost-Dean actually cringes by how hard your hand hits the wood, wonders if you’re hurt but it seems you couldn’t give less of a shit. Your back arches and you whine and shake and it’s all so damn perfect. How you don’t hold back, don’t worry about your sounds and your face and just feel. It drives Dean crazy. It drives him absolutely crazy.

Now he gets to watch how you sit up, pull him towards you by his shoulders. Kiss his wet mouth while trying to get his boxer shorts off. Dean, while he still has any wherewithal, sits himself against the headboard and then you’re climbing on top of him, kiss him again. He holds your face in both of his hands, makes you look into his eyes while you sink down on him. What a fucking sap.

You ride him slowly and sensually. The Dean he was before was a fuck-fast-and-get-it-done guy, the end always the goal. Now, he gets almost sad when it’s over. Well, he comes, so he’s not that sad, but still. He wishes this part could last forever.

Your hips are circling, and your arms are around his shoulders, as Dean’s hands run up your torso, run under your shirt that in the heat of the moment you’re too busy to discard, touch all that soft, warm skin on you. His hands go to your front, find your nipples, perfect little nubs, that he gently twists and in response you ride him a little faster. You lean down to kiss him and he grins against your mouth, grins at your responsiveness, at how much it makes him feel like a man that he can make you feel this way. You must be able to feel his smile against your lips, because Dean knows that you’re making that face, the one where you’re trying to suppress your own smile when he’s making you laugh, but you don’t want to admit it. He wants to lick and kiss and nip at your face then.

“Shut up,” you say, even though he hasn’t said anything. Dean’s still grinning, and then he watches himself twist your nipples again and your head falls back. It’s too much. It’s too good and it’s too painful to watch. He steps out into the hallway, runs his hand over his face, because for some weird fucking reason that he can do. He can’t close the door behind him, though, so he still hears you, hears himself, and even as he moves a few feet down the hallway he definitely hears the moment the Dean in the other room wraps his arms around your back, pushes himself forward and lands you on your back, to which you reply with a high moan. It’s not fair, and whatever cosmic entity has cooked this up could have thought of something a little less on the nose. Because Dean knows what happens next. Dean knows.

The reason he knows is because he’s lived this day before. This isn’t some alternative reality or a djinn creating his perfect day – although so far, it’s pretty close to what he’d imagine his perfect day to be. Coffee in bed and morning sex, although if this was a perfect dream or something, the coffee would remain hot, not go cold the way it is right now. Dean will take a sip when the two of you are done, and make a face. He knows this because this is a memory. It’s the memory of the day things ended between you and him.

He moves to the living room. He sits on the couch, and he actually manages, doesn’t fall through to the floor. The rules of this reality are all over the place and he doesn’t totally understand them, which pisses him off. He sits there, elbows on his thighs, and thinks. He was in the bunker, before he came here, or rather, was transported here. He and Sam and Cas were going through some old artefacts, Sam reminding him every five minutes that he should be careful, pointing out that they didn’t have any protection and before Dean could even say condom, he touched something and then he was here.

So now he’s wondering what here is, and why he’s here. He clearly can’t change anything, can’t do anything, so it doesn’t seem to be time travel. All he can do is watch, which is what brought him to his current conclusion: there’s something he’s supposed to learn, to understand. That’s his best guess. A Groundhog Day situation. Because this is the fifth time Dean is experiencing this day. Well, sixth if you count the original, real one. He keeps getting thrown back and he has no idea why.

The loop starts a few minutes before you wake up, and it ends when he walks out of your apartment. The door falls shut, and he’s back in bed, or not him, his corporeal version. Damn, this is confusing.

So whatever he’s supposed to learn, supposed to understand, it’s not coming to him. The only thing he’s getting is this perfect morning and then your stupid argument afterwards. Dean sighs. What is the lesson here?

He zones out on that thought for a good long while, because he doesn’t even notice you and him have entered the living room until you’re almost right in front of him. He wonders if he’s slipping. He wonders if he’ll go crazy after enough repetition, after he’s seen this a thousand, two thousand times. Probably.

“I just don’t understand why you think it’s such a wild thing for me to say,” you say as you’re picking up some discarded clothes off the back of one of the chairs that stand around the small dining table. You are dressed, and so is Dean, and Dean, the one sitting on the couch, knows that this argument started while you were still lying in bed together, the post-sex bliss making room for the conflict you’ve carried your entire relationship, if that is even what you can call it. You’re both damaged, volatile and as pigheaded as any two people can be. Yes, you’re head over heels for each other, have the best sex Dean has ever had, make each other laugh until you’re crying and Dean’s pretty sure he’s in love with you, but that doesn’t seem to be enough.

“Can we just not talk about this? Again?” past-Dean says, running a hand over his face in what could be a perfect parody of what ghost-Dean (future-Dean? he thinks. Sounds like a bad super hero) did earlier. He doesn’t like his own tone, doesn’t like how it sounds like you’re being the unreasonable one when he knows he’s being a huge idiot himself.

Your expression shows you’re annoyed, because this is what Dean always does – or did – which is to want to push the topic, leave it for some other time.

“Well,” you say, as you’re haphazardly folding one of the shirts you picked up. “We never get anywhere when we talk about this, so, yeah, we have to talk about it again, because we haven’t come to a solution.”

Dean, corporeal Dean, sighs, leans with his arm against the wall. Looks irritable. You damn idiot, the Dean on the couch thinks. You have no idea how lucky you are you get to argue with her. You see it in him, how his entire posture is telling you how frustrating it is for him to talk about this, and what he thinks comes off as charming and Don Juan-y is actually coming off as arrogant and hurtful. If Dean could restore his physicality in this realm for one second, he’d use that second to punch himself in the face.

You look down, and it breaks his heart. What you want from him, and what Dean is refusing to give you, is some goddamn commitment. Which he’s already giving you – he’s not sleeping around, he’s not dating anyone else, he’s only with you because you’re the only person he wants to be with – but you just want him to say it. And because Dean is terrified that he cannot stick to his own promises, that he will fail the moment he commits, he’s not giving you the one thing you’ve ever asked him for.

Your thumb is rubbing along the fabric of the shirt you’re holding. Dean knows what’s coming. He wants to walk out, get away, but if this really is some sick way for him to learn his lesson then he knows that the pivotal moment comes now.

“I don’t know if this is working, Dean,” you say, and your voice is so damn sad. He sees it on his own face, the shock, the surprise, because of course he’s big enough of an idiot to take you for granted. Of course he thinks there will never be any actual consequences to all his stupid choices. He’s righteous enough to go through life thinking that way.

“Hey,” he says, and Dean the Friendly Ghost hears the change in his tone, hears the sneaking suspicion that maybe you’re being serious, and that he will actually lose you. Oops, he thinks, internal voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Maybe we just want different things,” you continue as if you didn’t hear him. You’re not looking up, still staring at the shirt in your hands. Dean gets off the couch, then. He walks to roughly where his other version is standing, but closer to you. Always closer to you. Maybe this is the key, the thing he’s been looking for. Maybe if he hits his mark, stands on the right spot on the stage and says the right lines, he can get out of here or, even better, change what actually happened that day. And then he’ll go back to the real world, and the universe will have adjusted accordingly. You’ll be there in the bunker, share his room. Your stuff will be everywhere and he’ll complain but he’ll be the happiest man in the world. And he’d be so grateful, every day. He promises that now.

“I love you,” he says into the continuing silence of the room, willing you to look up. “I’m an idiot and I only want to be with you.” He waits a second, breath baited.

“If that’s what you think,” he hears his other version say behind him, and Dean closes his eyes. At the stupidity and also because nothing’s changed. This is still the original version. What the hell is he supposed to do?

He opens his eyes again, and you’re finally looking up. You clearly want Dean to say he’s sorry, were maybe trying to get him to freak out and tell you that he wants you, needs you. But he’s doubling down on the bluff, and you can’t back down now. You’re too proud, and honestly, Dean thinks, good for you.

“Then I think you should leave,” you say, voice angry but controlled. Dean knows that his other version behind him is opening his mouth, gearing up to say something, but then doesn’t. Instead he pushes himself off the wall, and walks into the bedroom where his bag and the rest of his things are.

Dean stays with you in the living room, once again surprised by how quickly things escalated. He knows what the other guy is doing – throwing all his things in his duffel, forgetting half of it. Also making a little bit of extra noise because he’s not above being a petulant little asshole. But Dean stays with you. Watches you. Watches tears build in your eyes as you take a deep breath to still your emotions. Watches you chew the inside of your cheek. He wonders if you’re thinking about going after him or if at this point you’re just glad to see him gone.

It's stupid. It’s so stupid. You have all the ingredients for something good here. All the parts you need to build a whole. And yet you, or he, or both of you, have managed to make such a mess out of it.

Dean listens to himself walk back into the hallway. He hears himself stop, stand in front of the door that leads out to the apartment. Rather than just talk to you he stands there for a moment, just out of sight of you in the living room. Hoping you’ll stop him. No such luck.

Finally he opens the door. Dean watches you look down again, stare at the floor. Then the sound of feet, the door closing, and everything goes dark.

You stare down at yourself, waking up, cross your arms over your chest and groan. You are so damn tired of this. So tired. You don’t want to keep going through this. You watch yourself stretch, and then your eyes go back to Dean next to you in the bed. He makes a pretty picture and as fun as it is to watch you and him fuck over and over (although you could do without the dramatic second act), the only thing this weird experience has really led to is that you want nothing more than to take the place your double is now abandoning, slip between the sheets and sling your arms around Dean, pull him close and never let go.

Because you’ve been in this godforsaken hellscape for what feels like ages now, and if you don’t touch something soon, feel something, experience any kind of change, you’re going to self-destruct. Which, hey, at least that would be something new. You’d take someone pulling out your teeth and fingernails one by one at this point.

You were on a case, minding your own business, not doing much of anything when all of a sudden, you found yourself here. You genuinely wondered for a few minutes if you’d simply driven home, in the way you sometimes drive a route you know well without realizing you’re doing it. But there was no route you knew well, because you were two states over from where you lived, and also, also, there was a copy of you and Dean Winchester in the next room. No, not just a copy, a memory, an echo. You remember this day, but you’d be happier if you didn’t.

Even though you know it won’t have any effect, you scream at your memory-clone for a few minutes, follow her from the kitchen to the bathroom. She doesn’t react. She sits on the toilet while she pees, staring into the middle distance, and has a stupid goofy grin on her face. She has no idea what’s coming to her and it makes you want to scoff, slap the smile right off her visage.

It’s easier, like this, to be angry and bitter at her, because then you don’t have to admit the other thing – that you’re jealous. That she gets to climb back into bed with Dean, gets to touch him, feel him. That she gets to live, at least for a little while longer, with the belief that you two will manage to make things work. That you won’t be your own worst enemies and fuck everything up.

Then comes the coffee and then the kissing and then Dean touching you and you leave as you see your face start to contort in pleasure. Go to the living room and look out the window.

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do. You’ve seen this dozens of times now. You’ve tried everything you can think of. Tried to slip in at the right moment. Whispered to yourself. Nothing works. You don’t know what to do. There’s no physical needs or physical… anything in this reality, but you feel the ghost-memory-prison equivalent of a panic attack rise in your chest. You’d try to slow your breathing, except that you’re not, well, breathing. So you can’t actually panic, but you also can’t not panic. Is this the moment? Is this the moment you go crazy?

Just stand and wait. Maybe you need to simply ignore everything that’s going on. Maybe that’s the solution. You have no idea what the fuck that would be good for, but you’d stand on your head if it meant changing anything. Actually, now that you think about it, you haven’t tried that yet.

There’s a sudden vibration in the air behind you and you spin around. Something is different. Something just happened that hasn’t happened before. You can’t see it now, but you definitely felt something. You stand there, as still as you can, praying to whoever’s listening that it happens again.

It does, just when you don’t expect it to anymore. A ripple in the air. Like there’s a wall of saran wrap in front of you that’s suddenly bunching up before straightening out again. You squint at it, trying to understand what it is you’re seeing. Carefully you raise your hand to it, try to touch the air where something is happening. It feels like the air is thicker there, there’s some resistance, like you’re moving your hand through water instead of air, so you do it again, and then again.

“Please stop doing that,” you hear a familiar voice and jump back. “It is very difficult to pierce the walls of the metaphysical realm while also having my face stroked.”

“Castiel?” you ask with a frown, sure you would recognize the deadpan growl of the angel anywhere. “Is that you?” Your eyes are going over the disturbance, and you’re pretty sure that’s where the voice came from.

“It’s me,” he says, and the ripple almost looks like a soundwave, like Castiel speaking is making it appear. “Are you alright?” You want to say no, because that’s the truth, but that seems beside the point now.

“I’m fine,” you say instead. “Is there… do you know if there’s a way to get me out of here?”

“It depends,” Castiel the Air Ripple of the Lord responds. “Where is here?”

“My apartment,” you reply. “Except it’s not my apartment. I mean it is, but it’s my apartment in the past.” You give a humorless chuckle.  “I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Castiel responds, as usual not invested in sparing anyone’s feelings. “Is Dean there?”

The question gives you pause.

“Uhm, yeah,” you reply.

“What is he doing?” Castiel’s disembodied voice asks.

Screwing my brains out in the next room.

“Sleeping,” you say, hoping that if you can’t see Castiel it means that he can’t see you, because if he did, and there is a way for you to blush in this dimension, you would definitely be doing that.

“Sleeping?” Castiel asks to confirm. “No, that’s highly unlikely. When you are astral projecting there are no physical needs, so Dean wouldn’t need to sleep.”

“Astral projecting?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “I thought that was a religious practice. Go to the astral plane, life before and after death, talk to the angels and all that. Oh.” You interrupt yourself. “I guess I am doing that last part.”

“That is part of it,” Castiel explains, not acknowledging at your joke at all. “The practice left the spiritual realm at some point and was used to allow a copy of the body to exist detached from time and space. Dean accidentally activated something here in the bunker that created the detachment.”

You lean your head back, push your fists into your sides. Of course Dean did that. But then you frown. “Okay,” you say, “but what does that have to do with me? Why am I here?”

“We’re trying to figure that out,” Castiel answers, but he sounds a little distracted.

“Listen closely,” he continues, and you already are. “You need to tell me where you are. Where your body is currently. Sam will go and get it and we will bring you back to the bunker. Meanwhile I will work on a way to bring you back to your body.”

Sudden worry blooms in you. Your physical body is out there somewhere. You worry at what this could mean.

“Cas,” you say, “I’ve been here for days and days. I don’t even know if my body is alive anymore.”

“It might feel like you’ve been there for days,” Castiel answers, “but it’s only been a couple of hours. You’ll be fine. Sam will come and get you.”

You sigh, relieved, and then give Castiel the address and room number of the motel you were staying at. He repeats it, probably to Sam.

“I should continue looking for a way to bring you back into your body,” Castiel says, now addressing you, and the thought of him leaving, the thought of him simply going away again and you going back to the tedium of repetition is almost too much to accept.

“No, Cas, please,” you say, a desperate tone that you don’t like at all in your voice. “Please don’t leave me alone here.”

Cas is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if he’s contemplating staying with you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he genuinely is, and your hopes shatter into a million pieces. “Try to find Dean. I think it would be helpful for you two to connect. It might make the extraction easier.”

“I told you,” you say. “Dean is in the next room. Sleeping.”

“The astral version of Dean,” Castiel explains. You want to make a joke about astral body, but you hold back, because Cas continues. “He’s there as well, but somehow you need to find a way to connect, to communicate.”

“And how do I do that?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” Castiel responds. Great.

There’s silence for a second and then the air wiggles again. “You can do this,” Castiel says, doing his best to sound encouraging. He doesn’t quite hit the right tone, but you appreciate the effort. It’s quiet then.

“Castiel?” you say into the room. No answer. He’s gone. And you’re alone again.

Dean, you think then. He’s here somewhere. You need to find him.

Dean has been doing everything he can for the last few loops. He’s banging on the walls. He’s yelling, trying to find something, something, that will allow him to find you. He hasn’t heard back from Cas, and the worry that causes sits in the back of his head with a heavy, uncomfortable finality.

Currently he’s running his hands over the wall in the bedroom, while you and him are lying entangled behind him. He knows you’re running your fingertips over the inside of his arm and staring off into the distance, because at this point he has seen this scene so many times he knows it by heart, every single word, every single look.

“I don’t want you to worry about that,” the Dean on the bed says as the Dean near the wall runs his hand over the wallpaper, in the hopes that they will catch on something.

“But I do,” you say.

“Just… don’t, okay?” Dean says and the other Dean feels his lips move. He freezes. Why did he do that? Why did he mouth the words he said so long ago? He turns around, looks at the two of you. You’re quiet now, but Dean knows what happened. He’s sure he moved his lips to those words and he didn’t do that on purpose. He doesn’t think that’s a good sign. He closes his eyes. He needs to get out of here.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” you say, but it sounds closer than it’s supposed to. Dean’s eyes fly open and he looks around. It felt like you were standing right next to him when you said it. He watches you get up, his hand reaching after you but then dropping on the mattress, as you walk to your dresser, pull out underwear, start putting it on. Dean just lies in the bed, stares at the ceiling. The other Dean opens his mouth.

“Can we not make a big deal out of it?” he says at the same time as his counterpart on the bed does and then suddenly, there you are.

You’re looking down at the bed, standing next to your double, who’s now pulling a shirt and pants out of the dresser, but you’re looking down at Dean, look at him lying there. Dean, ghost Dean, takes a step forward and for a second, he’s terrified that he can only see you, and that you can’t see him, and that he has to spend the rest of eternity looking at two version of you. But then his movement draws your attention and you look up. Your eyes go wide. You can see him. Dean could cry from happiness. You can see him.

“How—” you start and Dean can only shake his head. His other self is getting up from the bed now too, is pulling on his clothes (Dean almost clears his non-existent throat at the fact that there’s a copy of him right next to the two of you with his junk out), but you don’t take your eyes off him.

The other two of you are moving slowly around you, you leaned against the dresser, quiet, Dean putting on his clothes and then sitting on the side of the bed. You, the ghostly you, hasn’t said anything else, you just keep staring at Dean, so he gives himself a push.

“Hi,” he says, and your eyebrows go up. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Your laugh is half of a choked breath. And then the next second, you frown.

“What did you do?” you ask. Dean’s taken aback.

“What do you mean, what did I do?” he asks, defensive.

“You did something,” you say, crossing your arms. “Cas said you played with some artefacts and that caused this.”

“First of all,” Dean says, one hand going up to indicate the number of his first correction. “I wasn’t playing with artefacts. I touched something and it whammied me… wherever the hell it is we are. Secondly—”

That’s the moment your doubles start arguing again. Dean closes his mouth, annoyed, and when he looks at you, you’re crossing your arms over your chest, looking at him challengingly. God, he loves that look on you, the one you get when you call him on his bullshit.

You’re quiet while your alternative versions bicker. Dean knows they’ll move to the kitchen in a second, and then later the living room. So he waits patiently, and so do you, he notices. He raises his chin.

As the two finally leave the room, he looks you up and down. “How long have you been stuck here?” he asks. You push out your jaw, probably weighing whether to sass him or just answer.

“A long time,” you answer finally, and Dean gets it. Gets that you have been here as long as he has. He lowers the hand he still had raised.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking into your eyes. The hardness in your face wanes.

“I thought it wasn’t your fault,” you say, only a little bit of challenge in those words. Dean chuckles.

“I said I didn’t get us here on purpose,” he answers. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t my fault.”

He almost rolls his eyes at himself, because it’s just too much an explanation for all of this, but he doesn’t. Which is fine, because you do it for him.

“What?” he says. Your arms uncross and instead you raise them defensively.

“I didn’t say anything,” you respond.

“You rolled your eyes,” Dean replies.

“What are you,” you say, giving him an unbelieving look, “the eye rolling police?” Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at the floor, and then up and he catches the sparkle in your eyes.

“God,” you say, “it feels so fucking good to be talking to someone.” Dean groans.

“I know,” he says. “Holy shit.” You both huff and then you’re quiet again.

“Do you think,” you say, voice carful, like you’re unsure about what you’re saying, “that there’s something we need to do? Like something we need to learn, or, I don’t know, accept?”

You probably don’t mean for the last word to carry the meaning it does, but your and Dean’s eyes meet and it’s clear what that entails. Is the reason you’re being shown this day over and over again so that you accept that things are over between you and move on?

“I don’t know,” Dean says, honestly. “Sam was caught in a time loop years ago, and that was all instrumented by someone who wanted him to learn something. So maybe?” He shrugs, just to underline how absolutely clueless he is. He watches you as you chew on your bottom lip, and it is so adorable that despite the anxiety and discomfort he has been feeling, his heart does a little extra ba-dum.

“If they wanted us to accept something,” he starts and he can’t fully look at you while he says it. “Like, that it’s the right thing for us to have broken up, they really should have left out that first part.” It takes you a second to understand what he means, and then you make that face. The one where you’re trying to hide your smile because you don’t want to admit that what Dean said is making you laugh. You lick your lip and try to control the corners of your mouth. Dean can’t help but grin.

No, he realizes, he could see this fight a million times more, and he’d never think it was right for you to break up. He’d always want you back, no matter how often he is forced to watch this.

You open your mouth to say something else, when there is suddenly a rumble, like a distant earthquake. You look to the side, then back at Dean, eyes going wide. It stops and then it starts again, louder, stronger.

“Dean?” you say, probably hoping he has some sort of explanation, but all it does it make him step closer to you and reach out.

Your hands touch before the two of you even know what you’re doing and when they do, it’s like a bolt of lightning goes through you. Dean looks down at where your hands are touching and then back at you, and the feeling, the feeling of touch, is overwhelming after such a long time without it. It’s stronger than anything he’s ever felt. But again, he’s wrong.

He felt this way the first time he touched you too. And every single time since. Like it was the first time he was touching someone in his entire life.

You look into his face and Dean’s not sure if you’re thinking the same thing but the roaring around you is getting louder and more intense, it’s shaking the ground and the walls and the ceiling and the two of you, it vibrates the air around you and in the next second, everything is gone.

Dean’s eyes open and his head shoots up and he sucks air into his lungs so hard that he coughs. You don’t fare much better as you lean over, hand splayed on your chest, shoulders up. Sam grabs Dean by the arms to steady him but Dean’s just confused by it for a second, flails his arms, until Sam has said his name a few times and he recognizes his little brother.

“You’re back, it’s okay,” Sam says, but Dean’s eyes shoot back to you, watches as Cas gently pats your shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks, his lungs feeling like they’re on fire, like he just ran a mile. It seems you’re not immediately aware that he’s talking to you, but then Dean says your name and you look at him.

It feels dramatic, the way your eyes meet, like you’re looking at each other across some great expanse of time and space. Dean must have heard that somewhere, because it sure as hell didn’t come from his brain. But it fits.

“I’m okay,” you say, voice low. Dean nods. Then he turns to Sam, who is looking between you two carefully.

“Now,” Dean says, “what the hell happened?”

The device, according to Cas and Sam, that Dean touched, served as a way for people on both sides of the veil, or those outside and inside of the astral plane, which is the same thing but a different vocabulary, to communicate with each other – a dead person talking to a living person. Dean frowns.

“But neither one of us is dead,” he observes. Castiel tilts his head.

“Yes,” he says, “but you have been dead often enough that the device might have gotten confused, paired you with a living person instead.” Dean nods, takes a sip from his drink. He has died a lot.

“That’s all fine and dandy,” you say from the other side of the table, “but then why did I get dragged in there as well?” Dean looks at you. It hasn’t been that long since he last saw you, in the real world that is, but he feels like he’s trying to make up for lost time without being a weirdo. He keeps stealing glances at you, and sometimes he catches you looking back, and he’s not sure if it’s because you noticed what he’s doing or because you’re looking at him too.

“The device brought people together that had unfinished business with each other,” Sam explains, and Dean looks at you again. You look at him at the same time and then you both look away quickly, like pre-schoolers, when you realize the implication of what Sam just said. Unfinished business. There it is, all spelled out. You clear your throat.

“And then you just relive whatever your unfinished business is,” you say, “until the end of days?”

“No,” Sam explains. “Usually a shaman would be present during the ritual to drag you back out, but, uh, we didn’t have a shaman. So Cas had to bend the rules a little.” All eyes go to Castiel.

“It wasn’t pleasant,” is all he says. Dean sniffs, then leans back, drink in hand.

“One thing I don’t understand,” he says. “Why does one of the people getting sucked in need to be dead? Why not give closure to two living people.” Castiel turns his steely blue eyes to Dean, not a hint of humor on his face.

“The dead deserve closure, too, Dean,” he says. Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. He leans forward, looking a little embarrassed.

“Alright, Patricia Arquette,” Dean mumbles into his glass.

“Okay,” you say, setting down your glass on the table, laying your hands on your thighs and looking around. “I think I should go.” You stand up and Dean feels himself freeze, feels himself try to come up with a reason you should stay. Sam gets up too.

“Uhm,” he says, throwing Dean a look. “You don’t have your car.” You’re standing, looking down at yourself, brushing something invisible off your leg when he says this and you look up.

“I broke into your motel room,” Sam explains, looking awkward. “And kind of, uhm, carried you out.” Dean has a sudden image in his head, of lanky Sam hoisting you over his shoulder and running through the motel parking lot with you, hoping no one sees him. Beautiful.

“Shit,” you say, raise your shoulders and sigh. “Uhm, I’ll figure something out.”

“Dean could drive you,” Sam says, looking at his brother, who has been quiet so far. Dean turns to Sam, sees the scheming look going over Sam’s face. Son of a bitch. He really is the smart one.

“Yeah, I can,” Dean says, getting up as well. He’s still holding the glass with the drink all of you, except Cas, needed when you were done being dragged out of astral hell, and he puts it down on the table to show he is a responsible driver.

You seem unsure for a second, look at Dean with doubt in your eyes.

“Sure,” you finally say. “That would be great.”

Sam sits down and in a move that is unusual for him, props up his legs up on the long wooden table.

“Do you think they believed the story?” Castiel asks, looking over at the hunter. Sam shrugs.

“Seemed like it,” he says. Castiel is quiet for a moment, then speaks up again.

“It doesn’t feel right… to lie to Dean,” he says, grimacing a little. Sam nods as he reaches for the glass he poured earlier. He deserves it, after today.

“I know,” he answers, raising the glass to his mouth. “But you saw him. He wasn’t doing well. Hasn’t been for weeks. And he was never going to get off his ass on his own. We just… pushed him in the right direction.”

“By sending him and the woman he loves into a micro universe,” Castiel clarifies, “that tortures everyone who ends up there with their biggest regret.”

“Not torture,” Sam points out, recalling the exact translation of the text he read. “Confronts. That’s different.”

“And then,” Castiel continues, ignoring what Sam said, “we left them in there for much longer than we originally planned.” Sam spreads out his arms.

“We didn’t know it would be that complicated to get them out,” he responds.

“We knew there were risks,” Castiel points out. Sam gets up with a groan. He walks to the little bar cart, pours a new glass and carries it over to Castiel. Then he sits down again.

“My brother has sacrificed himself again and again,” Sam says, his voice now serious. “He deserves something good. If this is how he gets it…” Sam looks down into the glass he has picked up again. “I just wanted them both to understand how ridiculous they’re being.” Castiel sighs while he studies the earnestness on Sam’s face. Then the angel raises his glass.

“Let’s hope they understand this time,” he says, a sweet and placating look on his face. Sam looks up, takes a moment, then raises his glass as well.

“I’ll drink to that,” he says, and then he does.

The beginning of the drive is incredibly awkward.

Dean and you are both sitting there in the car, staring straight ahead, not saying a word. It’s dark out, late, and now Dean thinks he should have simply offered for you to stay the night. But he completely blanked on that. Sam’s the one with the manners, so now here you are, driving down the dark country road.

“So,” he says after a few miles, “unfinished business.”

“Yeah, how about that?” you say. Dean smiles, the grip on the steering wheel relaxing a little.

“I still don’t totally get it,” you say, and Dean dares to quickly look over at you. There’s only a little bit of light to see you by, but he can see your features, the moonlight gleaming off your skin. “I mean it sounds really complicated. This whole astral projection thing.” Dean nods.

“Yeah, not sure I need to get it,” he says, fingers drumming on the wheel a little. “Just happy that we got out of there.”

“You know,” you say a second later, “while we were in there, I was sure there had to be some kind of… I don’t know. I was sure there was something I had to do? To get out, I mean. Like in Groundhog Day.” Dean nods and chuckles.

“Exactly like Groundhog Day,” he answers. “Like there was something I had to learn, to realize. Or that I had to date Andie MacDowell.” By the movement he tracks out of his periphery, Dean’s pretty sure you’ve turned to face him.

“Can’t knock Andie. So did you learn anything?” you ask, and Dean’s pretty sure he can hear an edge of humor in your voice.

“Uhm,” he says, pretending to think for a second. “That I’m a pretty big idiot.” It’s quiet after he says it, and Dean can’t stand it. “I know,” he adds finally, “you could have told me that yourself.”

“Hmm,” you say, “I think I was busy being a pretty big idiot myself.” Dean looks over at you, already shaking his head.

“No, you weren’t,” he responds, looks back at the street. “Not half as big as I was.” To his surprise, he hears you chuckle.

“Glad we established that,” you say. Dean nods. You’re quiet again.

“Thought about you the other day,” you say, and Dean raises his eyebrows, indicating for you to continue, like he hasn’t been thinking about you every single day since that day. “You left a bunch of your stuff, and I was… packing it up.”

Dean swallow. Not the association the was hoping for.

“Maybe you should pick them up,” you say, and Dean tries hard to control his face, but he’s not sure he succeeds. “In case, there’s stuff in there you need.” He only nods. Nothing else to add to that.

More silence, dark miles disappearing below the two of you. Then Dean speaks up again.

“I was repeating the words from the argument when you showed up,” he says, staring straight ahead even though he’s pretty sure you turn to him. “Just… said them, without planning to. And then there was that weird earthquake when we started talking to each other. Do you think—”

“I think that was just Cas pulling us out,” you interrupt him. Dean presses his lips together. Seems your defenses are fully up. “And as for the repeating, I think we were just starting to go crazy.”

Okay, Dean thinks. Okay. He understands. None of it meant anything.

It’s over.

He pulls into the parking lot of your motel a little later. He turns off the engine, then turns to you, expecting you to already be booking it out of the car, get away from him as quickly as possible.

To his surprise, you’re sitting there, still staring ahead, deep in thought.

“You want me to walk you to your room?” Dean asks, unhelpful as all hell, because he doesn’t want to walk you anywhere. He wants you to stay right there. Preferably for eternity.

(The irony of wishing for something to remain the way it is for eternity after what he just got out of isn’t lost on him.)

You turn to him, frowning.

“I can walk to my room,” you say and Dean sighs.

“I wasn’t saying you can’t walk to your room,” he replies. If this is the argument you really end things on, it’s even more stupid than the last one. But if it means you’ll stay for a few more minutes? Dean’s totally fine with it.

“You know that’s not how it works, right?” you ask, and Dean has no idea what you’re talking about.

“You know problems don’t just go away because you’re stuck in a room with someone,” you say, and Dean wonders if you maybe have lost it a little bit. “Or in a car.”

“What?” Dean asks.

“I mean,” you continue, voice heated, “nothing’s changed. None of our… our issues,” at this you do sarcastic quotation marks, as if you’re quoting from a self-help book. “None of them have disappeared. They’re all still there.” You lower your hands and look at him.

“I know,” he says, still not entirely sure where you’re going with this.

“So nothing’s changed,” you repeat.

“Well,” Dean says. No, technically not. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that this means something.

“What happened doesn’t mean anything,” you say in that moment, and it would be annoying if it wasn’t so damn perfect.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says, looking sideways at you. “Maybe nothing’s changed.” You nod, maybe confused because he is agreeing with you, but you don’t say anything else.

“But I…” Dean starts, then stops, looks out the front window. How can he say that this feels like a sign for him to get his shit together without sounding like a maniac?

“You what?” you ask, and there’s still that finality, that hardness in your voice, but also something else. Something soft and wounded.

Dean wants to find the right words. He’s not always good with them. But he really wants to find the right ones.

“I don’t want this to be over,” he lands on, because it’s what he feels. He turns to you. “I don’t want us to be over.”

He expects you to shut him down, but you don’t. Instead you just look at him.

“I want a second chance,” Dean says, and while he’s pouring his heart out, he might as well do it all the way. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Again, there’s that look on your face. The one that tells him you can see right through him. That he can maybe fool himself at times, masterfully even. But he can’t fool you.

“Do you want to come inside?” you ask. Dean’s heart does a little jig.

“Y—yes,” he says.

“To talk,” you clarify, and Dean can’t keep the grin off his face.

“Sure, I love talking, it’s my favorite thing to do,” he says. You press your lips together. He’s made you laugh, but you don’t want to admit it.

“Let’s go,” you say but neither of you moves. You stay where you are. Not for eternity, but just for a little bit.

clark's hands roam under your shirt, all over your body as he kisses you passionately, his tongue exploring your mouth. "you're so sexy," he murmurs against your lips, his fingers teasing at the hem of your shirt. "i need to have you right now."

he quickly removes your clothes, leaving you naked and exposed on your shared bed. clark kisses down your neck to your chest, his destination clear, as he continues making his way down. "spread your legs for me, baby," he commands, his voice low and husky.

you obey, trembling with anticipation as clark settles between your thighs. he spits on his fingers, getting them nice and wet before circling your tight hole. "look how eager you are for me," he teases, smirking as you whimper.

"please, clark... i need you," you beg, rocking your hips, desperate for more than what he’s giving you right now.

"patience, baby," he chuckles, slowly pushing one finger inside you. "i'll take good care of you."

he slowly works your hole open with his fingers, preparing you to take him. "open your mouth," he says suddenly, and you comply without hesitation.

clark withdraws his fingers from your hole and with that you let out an involuntary whine. "suck," he demands. "get them nice and wet for me."

you do as you're told, taking both fingers all the way to the back of your throat, tasting yourself on his skin. you hollow your cheeks, swirling your tongue around the digits, coating them thoroughly. he watches, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly, the dominance radiating off him thickening the air.

once he's satisfied, clark removes his glistening fingers from your mouth with a pop and his slick fingers find your hole, circling the tight ring of muscle. he doesn’t tease. he presses in, breaching you with a single, deliberate thrust, adding a third finger. you gasp, arching off the bed at the sudden addition of the third finger. “cl-clark!” the cry is half-protest, half-pleasure.

"relax," he commands, his voice rough. he leans down, capturing your gasp with his mouth in a deep, claiming kiss as he scissors his fingers, stretching you wider.

"clark, please," you moan, arching your back. "i'm ready, i-i swear."

"shh," he whispers, kissing along your jaw. "almost there." he continues fingering deeper until he's satisfied that you're prepped enough.

then, finally, he withdraws his fingers abruptly, leaving you clenching around emptiness. his hand moves to his own cock, already thick and straining, glistening with pre-cum. he strokes himself once, twice, his eyes never leaving yours. he positions himself, the broad head nudging against your stretched, aching hole.

there’s no slow entry. no gentle easing. he grips your hips hard enough you know bruises will bloom tomorrow, lifts you slightly, and slams home with one devastating thrust.

you scream. not pain, not exactly, but a shockwave of pure sensation. he sheathes himself fully, balls-deep in one motion, splitting you open in the most exquisite way. the bedframe groans beneath his power. he doesn’t pause, doesn’t let you adjust. he pulls back and drives in again with the same brutal force. and again. and again.

it’s not making love. it’s fucking. primal, possessive, overwhelming. he’s a force of nature unleashed inside you. each thrust feels like it rearranges your insides, hammering against your prostate with jackhammer intensity. the sound is obscene – the slap of skin on skin, the wet slide of him plunging into your depths, your own ragged cries punctuating every drive. he fucks you like he’s trying to break you apart and remake you in his image.

“mine,” he snarls, his voice thick with exertion and possession. he shifts your hips higher, changing the angle, hitting that spot inside you even harder. your vision whites out. you’re babbling, incoherent pleas and curses spilling from your lips. your cock throbs untouched, leaking onto your stomach. you’re pinned beneath his impossible strength, utterly helpless, reduced to a vessel for his need. he owns you in this moment, completely.

he pounds into you relentlessly, the pace frantic, desperate. sweat glistens on his brow, muscles straining with the effort of holding back just enough not to shatter you, yet unleashing more force than you’ve ever felt. the heat builds, unbearable, coiling tight in your belly. you’re sobbing with it, overwhelmed, shattered.

“gon-gonna come,” you gasp, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. “clark, please!”

he lets out a guttural groan, pistoning into you with renewed ferocity. “come,” he orders, his voice ragged. “come for me. now.”

it’s the command, the sheer force of him filling you, that snaps the coil. your orgasm detonates, tearing through you like a supernova. you convulse violently, crying out his name as stripes of white paint your stomach and chest. your ass clenches rhythmically around his thrusting cock, milking him.

he shouts, a raw, unfiltered sound that shakes the room. his hips stutter, then slam into you one final, earth-shattering time as he buries himself deep. you feel the hot pulse of his release flooding your insides, wave after wave, impossibly thick and hot. he collapses forward, bracing his weight on his forearms beside your head, crushing you beneath him, his breath ragged gasps against your ear. you feel tremors running through his powerful frame – aftershocks of exertion and ecstasy.

the silence crashes in, thick with the scent of sex and sweat. he remains buried inside you, softening slowly. his weight is immense, pinning you completely. you’re wrecked. boneless. every muscle sings with exertion and the deep, satisfying ache of being thoroughly used. your hole feels impossibly stretched, tender, and full of him.

slowly, carefully, he lifts his head. his eyes meet yours, the storm clouds receding, replaced by a profound tenderness mixed with a flicker of lingering darkness and undeniable satisfaction. he brushes sweat-soaked hair from your forehead, his touch infinitely gentle now, a stark contrast to the fury moments before.

“okay?” he rasps, his voice rough. the question holds layers – concern, possessiveness, awe.

you manage a shaky nod, a breathless whisper escaping your swollen lips. “y-yeah…clark…yeah..” you’re fucked. utterly, completely fucked.

Dean sat slouched in the old wooden chair you’d dragged into the middle of the room, one leg kicked out, the other bent, arms resting loosely on his thighs like he was waiting for an oil change to be finished. No dramatic contrapposto, no Michelangelo reaching-for-God bullshit. Just Dean—naked, unimpressed, and visibly counting the seconds until he could put his jeans back on.

You’d begged for three days straight.

“It’s literally just anatomy, Dean. It’s clinical. It’s for my grade. I’m not asking you to do porn. I’m asking you to sit there and exist while I draw the way light hits a deltoid.”

He’d said no eighteen different ways: too weird, too awkward, “I’m not a damn model, sweetheart,” he wasn’t built like those skinny art-school boys, what if Sam walked in, what if he got a cramp, what if—

You’d cut through every excuse with the same stubborn, earnest logic.

“I would never ask Sam. Ever. That would be disgusting and wrong on levels I can’t even process. I don’t know any other guys I trust enough to not make it creepy. You’re my best friend. You already know what I look like crying at three a.m. over a bad critique. This is just… skin. Muscle. Bone. It’s not sexual unless we make it sexual, and I’m not going to make it sexual. I swear on my entire portfolio.”

You’d looked at him with those big, tired, please-don’t-make-me-fail-this eyes, and something in his chest had cracked.

“Fine,” he’d muttered eventually, rubbing the back of his neck. “But the second it feels fuckin’ weird—for either of us—we stop. No questions. No guilt trips. Deal?”

“Deal.”

And now here you were.

Three hours in.

He was trying so hard to be bored. Staring at the bookshelf, then the ceiling, then the floor—anywhere but you. But you weren’t looking at his face.

You were studying the way the tendon along his inner thigh shifted when he adjusted his weight. The soft dip above his hip bone. The heavy hang of his cock resting against his thigh, soft and unthreatening—until it wasn’t.

You noticed the exact moment it started to thicken.

First just a lazy twitch. Then a slow, inexorable swell. By the time it was half-hard it was already obscene—thick, flushed, curving slightly upward like it had its own opinion about the situation.

“You’re staring,” he muttered without look at you.

“I’m studying,” you corrected, smudging the shadow under his collarbone with your thumb. “There’s a difference.”

“Feels the same from this side.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “You’re doing great. Just… don’t move.”

He snorted. “Yeah, ’cause I was planning on doing cartwheels.”

Silence stretched again. You dragged the charcoal slowly down the line of his sternum, following the faint trail of hair that disappeared below his navel. Your eyes flicked lower—purely professional, you told yourself—and then stayed.

Dean was hard.

Not half-hard now, not maybe-kinda-sorta. Fully, obviously, unignorably hard. The head flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach, a bead of precome already glistening at the slit.

You swallowed. Your grip on the charcoal tightened until it nearly snapped.

Dean noticed you noticing.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice gravel-rough. He dropped one hand like he was going to cover himself, then froze halfway. “This is—shit, this is exactly the awkward vibe I said—”

“It’s biology,” you said quickly. Too quickly. Your voice came out huskier than you meant it to. “Normal reaction. Blood flow. Autonomic nervous system. Happens to models all the time.”

“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, but the flush crawling up his throat was brighter than the lamp. “You get a lot of dudes rock-hard while you draw ’em?”

“Only the ones who secretly like being looked at.”

The words slipped out before you could catch them.

Dean’s eyes snapped to yours. Something dangerous flickered there—something that wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

Ignore it.” he exhaled through his nose, jaw tight.

“I’m literally drawing your dick right now. Kinda hard to ignore.”

He shifted, thighs flexing. The movement only made it worse—his cock jerked against his stomach, dark head glistening at the tip.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is why I said no.”

You set the charcoal down. Leaned back in your chair and let your gaze drag over him, slow and deliberate.

“It’s a really good erection, you know. Anatomically speaking.”

He barked a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re killin’ me.”

You set the sketchpad aside. Slowly. Deliberately.

“I can stop,” you offered, even as your pulse hammered in your throat. “We can call it. Like we agreed.”

He didn’t move to cover himself. Didn’t look away.

Instead he stood.

The motion was slow, predatory in a way that made your stomach clench. Every muscle in his torso shifted under skin still dusted with charcoal smears from where you’d blended too hard earlier. He crossed the few feet between you without breaking eye contact.

You didn’t stand. You just tilted your head back, watching him tower over you, cock bobbing slightly with each step.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

You didn’t.

He reached down, caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, tilted your face up further. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth—smearing charcoal there too.

“You’ve been lookin’ at me like that for twenty minutes,” he murmured. “Don’t bullshit me now.”

Your breath hitched. “Like what?”

“Like you wanna climb inside the drawing and lick every line you just put on paper.”

Heat flooded your face, your chest, lower. You opened your mouth to deny it—then closed it again when he stepped closer and the head of his cock brushed your bottom lip.

You didn’t pull back.

Instead you parted your lips just enough that the salt-slick tip slipped inside.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. His hand slid into your hair, not pulling, just holding—like he needed the anchor.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

You took him deeper. Slow. Letting your tongue trace the thick vein underneath, savoring the way he shuddered. The charcoal on your fingers left faint black streaks along his hip as you gripped him there, steadying him while you worked your mouth.

He didn’t last long like that.

Maybe thirty seconds of wet heat and soft, desperate sounds from the back of your throat before he pulled out with a groan, hauled you up by the arms, and kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin.

Clothes came off in frantic handfuls—your shirt, your bra, jeans yanked down with your underwear still tangled in them. He lifted you onto the edge of the table, sketchpad and charcoal hitting the floor with a clatter neither of you cared about.

He spread your thighs with rough palms, stepped between them, and dragged the head of his cock through your folds—once, twice—coating himself in how embarrassingly wet you already were.

“Dean—”

“Say it,” he growled against your mouth. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want it.” Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Want you.”

He pushed in on one long, steady thrust.

Your head fell back on a broken moan. He was thick—thicker than your fingers had ever managed on lonely nights—and the stretch burned so good you saw sparks behind your eyelids.

He didn’t give you time to adjust.

He fucked you like he’d been waiting years for permission. Hard. Deep. The table creaked under the force of it. Charcoal dust smeared between your bodies wherever skin met skin—black streaks across your breasts, his ribs, the inside of your thigh where he hooked your leg higher.

You clawed at his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper, more.

“Goddamn, you feel—” His voice cracked. “So fuckin’ good.”

You laughed breathlessly, deliriously. “You’re ruining my reference material.”

He grinned against your throat, teeth grazing. “I’ll pose again later. After I make you come so hard you forget how to hold a pencil.”

He angled his hips just right on the next thrust—hitting that spot that made your vision white out—and you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like a live wire. You cried out his name, thighs clamping around his waist, nails leaving red half-moons in his shoulders. He fucked you through it, relentless, chasing his own release with short, ragged strokes until he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken groan.

You felt him pulse inside you—hot, thick spurts that made you shiver all over again.

For a long minute neither of you moved. Just panting, sweat-slick, charcoal-streaked. His forehead rested against yours.

Eventually he huffed a laugh.

“So… how’s the anatomy study goin’?”

You smacked his chest weakly. “Shut up.”

He kissed you slow this time—lazy, sated.

“Next time,” he murmured against your lips, “you’re drawin’ me after I fuck you stupid. Fair warning.”

You smiled, already reaching for the discarded sketchpad.

“Deal.”

And somewhere on the floor, the half-finished drawing of Dean—still hard, still perfect—smiled back at you in charcoal and sin.