MultiverseFanfics

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you refuse to leave because “the job isn’t done” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean is trying to drag you out of a house that is actively collapsing, and you’re standing there stubborn as hell because the ghost’s bones are still in the basement. he’s yelling, you’re yelling, the ceiling is falling in, and somehow you’re right. annoying. heroic. terrible for his blood pressure. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you touch the cursed object because it “felt important” ๋࣭ ⭑ you know better. sam knows you know better. and yet there you are, holding the antique locket with both hands because your instincts told you it mattered. yes, it wakes the spirit. yes, sam looks betrayed. but also yes, it gives him the missing piece of the case, so now he has to be mad and grateful. tragic for him.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you start talking to the monster ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you to stay quiet, and you immediately begin psychological warfare with whatever is crawling out of the dark. somehow, you insult it, distract it, confuse it, and make dean miss his shot because he’s too busy staring at you like, “are you flirting with it?” maybe. a little. but it works. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you improvise a fake identity no one asked for ๋࣭ ⭑ sam has a clean cover story. you ruin it with one sentence. now you’re apparently newlyweds, cult survivors, and part-time antique appraisers, depending on who asks. it nearly blows the case wide open, but your chaotic lying gets the witness to overshare everything. sam hates that it worked. hates it deeply.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you go back for the victim ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you the building isn’t safe, and you look at him with those soft, devastating eyes before running back inside anyway because someone is still crying for help. he’s furious in that very specific way that means terrified. you almost get trapped, but you save the kid, and dean can’t even yell properly afterward because his hands are shaking. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you trust your gut over the lore ๋࣭ ⭑ the books say one thing, your heart says another, and sam is visibly suffering because he wants evidence, not vibes. unfortunately, your vibes are correct. you follow the emotional pattern of the haunting before the facts catch up, and it almost gets messy, but you find the truth first. sam apologizes.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make yourself the distraction ๋࣭ ⭑ you step into the middle of the room and basically dare the monster to look at anyone else. dean is horrified and turned on, which is a deeply inconvenient combination in a life-or-death situation. you almost get thrown through a wall, but you keep every eye on you long enough for him to finish the job. afterward, he calls you insane. lovingly. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you perform under pressure a little too well ๋࣭ ⭑ sam needs a distraction, and you give him a whole dramatic production. loud voice, confident smile, full commitment. it’s effective, yes, but also wildly risky because now the entire room is watching you, including the thing with teeth. sam saves you at the last second and then gives you the most exhausted, fond look in human history.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you notice the clue and immediately follow it alone ๋࣭ ⭑ dean turns around for three seconds and you’re gone because you found dust patterns, weird symbols, or a suspicious draft no one else clocked. he is pissed. deeply. but then your “little theory” turns out to be the entire case, and now he has to admit you’re brilliant while still yelling about you wandering off. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you correct the ritual mid-crisis ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is chanting, everything is shaking, dean is yelling somewhere, and you have the audacity to go, “wrong pronunciation”. he looks at you like this is the worst possible time for notes, but you’re right. obviously. you nearly get both of you thrown across the room, but the corrected ritual works, and sam is never emotionally recovering from your competence.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you charm the wrong person beautifully ๋࣭ ⭑ dean says, “don’t flirt with the suspect,” and you hear, “be unforgettable.” now the vampire is smiling at you, dean is clenching his jaw, and the situation is spiraling in a very pretty direction. you almost become dinner, but you get the confession, the address, and dean acting jealous while claiming he is “just focused on the case”... sure. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you try to negotiate with something evil ๋࣭ ⭑ sam says it won’t listen. you say everyone listens if you say the right thing. horrible logic. weirdly effective. you talk long enough to delay the attack, but also long enough for the demon to get interested in you personally, which is less ideal. sam pulls you out of it, furious and impressed in equal measure.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you follow the danger because you know it’s hiding something ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you not to go down the hallway, and you give him that look that says you already know the hallway is important. he hates that look. you almost get ambushed because you absolutely walked into a trap on purpose, but you also expose the real threat before it can reach him. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you let the monster think it has you ๋࣭ ⭑ sam hates your plans because they always involve getting too close to the edge and smiling while you do it. you let the thing corner you, let it talk, let it reveal too much. it works, but sam looks ten years older by the time he gets you out. he doesn’t yell. worse. he goes quiet. devastating.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you press the cursed button ๋࣭ ⭑ there is always a button. a lever. a door. a weird little box with ominous carvings. dean says, “don’t touch that,” and baby, your hand is already moving. does it unleash something horrible? yes. does it also reveal the hidden chamber with the bones? also yes. dean is so mad he could kiss you or throw you in the trunk. undecided. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you take the “shortcut” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam has a map. you have confidence. this is where the problem begins. your shortcut leads straight into danger, but it also gets you to the victim before the monster can finish the job. sam is panting, glaring, and muttering your name like a prayer and a complaint.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the hard call before he can ๋࣭ ⭑ dean wants to protect everyone, including you, including people who don’t deserve it, including himself least of all. you see the ugly choice first and take it. it nearly gets you killed because you don’t ask permission, but it saves the hunt from going worse. dean hates how cold it looked. hates more that he understands. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you ignore the emotional risk and go tactical ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is still weighing the moral consequences, and you’re already moving because the window is closing. you almost get hurt making the efficient choice, but you stop the monster before it reaches anyone else. sam argues with you afterward because he has feelings about methods. you argue back because you have results. delicious tension.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ your plan makes no sense until it saves everyone ๋࣭ ⭑ dean asks what you’re doing, and you say, “trust me,” which is his least favorite sentence in any language. your plan is weird, risky, and not explained until after the explosion. yes, he almost dies of stress. yes, it works perfectly. he spends the ride home calling you a menace while absolutely respecting the hell out of you. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you solve it sideways ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is looking at the lore. you’re looking at the pattern no one else noticed. then you do something wildly unconventional and nearly get dragged into another dimension, casually, because apparently that’s how your brain works. sam is horrified. fascinated. furious that he didn’t think of it first.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you follow the crying ghost ๋࣭ ⭑ dean says it’s bait. you say it sounds sad. he stares at you like you are the reason hunters should have insurance. you follow it anyway, and yes, it almost gets ugly, but your softness leads you to the truth of the haunting faster than violence would have. dean still yells. gently, though. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you try to save what might not be saveable ๋࣭ ⭑ sam knows that look on your face. the one that says you’re about to choose compassion over safety. he tries to stop you, but you’re already reaching for the lost soul, the cursed kid, the monster that used to be human. it nearly destroys you. but sometimes, somehow, you’re right to try. and sam remembers why he loves that about you.

somewhere beyond the walls, the safehouse has started waking in pieces—pipes knocking, footsteps passing faintly down the hall, a cupboard opening and closing in the kitchen. none of it matters. not with soldier boy between your thighs, committed to making sure you never contribute a useful thought to society again.

he’s been down there for what feels like forever and somehow not long enough. the sheets are pulled over his head and shoulders, turning him into a broad, shifting shape beneath the fabric. you can feel every movement—the slow drag of his tongue, the press of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way his big hands hold your thighs open to prevent you from closing them.

you fist the pillow above your head, back arching when he licks a slow, filthy stripe from your entrance up to your clit and sucks gently. 

the wet heat of his mouth is obscene. 

he groans against you like he’s the one getting devoured, the vibration shooting straight up your spine.

“ben—” you gasp, hips twitching.

he doesn’t answer with words. instead he slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his tongue flicks fast and relentless over your clit. the dual sensation makes your toes curl. 

you bite your lip hard enough to sting, trying not to moan too loud, but it’s useless. the sound slips out anyway, breathy and broken. under the covers he makes another low, satisfied noise. he’s fucking enjoying this. you can tell by the way he keeps pressing closer, nose buried against you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough. his shoulders shift as he works you open, fingers thrusting slow and deep while his mouth stays glued to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that has your thighs trembling around his head.

“you taste so fucking good in the morning,” he mutters, voice muffled under the sheet. he drags his tongue through your folds again slowly, collecting every drop of wetness. “could stay here all goddamn day.”

you reach down blindly and grip his hair through the fabric, tugging. just enough to tell him you’re losing your mind. he chuckles darkly and rewards you by sliding a third finger inside, stretching you open while his tongue circles your clit faster.

your legs shake harder. the coil in your stomach winds tighter with every wet stroke, every curl of his fingers against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes. 

you’re panting now, chest heaving, free hand clutching at the sheets beside you.

he senses it. soldier boy already knows exactly when you’re about to fall apart. he doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and humming while his fingers fuck you deeper, faster, slick sounds filling the quiet room.

your body tips over the edge with an ugly, breathless gasp you barely manage to bury against the back of your wrist. every muscle draws tight at once, then breaks apart beneath the force of it. the sheets twist under your fingers. your head pushes back into the pillow. your legs clamp around his shoulders before you remember that breathing is generally considered useful.

ben keeps you there through it.

not stopping. not letting you squirm away even as you’re twitching and oversensitive, he keeps licking slow, lazy stripes through your soaked folds, fingers still buried inside you. gentle now, but insistent. like he’s not ready to let the moment end.

“ben… fuck, i can’t—” your voice is wrecked.

his mouth brushes your thigh once more.

“you can,” he answers, voice rough and smug under the covers. “give me one more, baby. i’m not done with you yet.”

you stare at the ceiling, hair messy against the pillow, chest rising hard beneath the shirt you never bothered pulling off. “you are so incredibly pleased with yourself right now.”

he pushes the sheet back just enough to look up at you. his hair is a mess, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark with pure hunger. the sight alone makes your stomach flip. he looks like he’s having the time of his life down there, cheeks flushed, stubble wet with you.

“you say that like i didn’t earn it.”

you let your hand fall over your face. “i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.” 

he presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your soaked folds before crawling up just enough to rest his chin on your lower stomach. the sheet pools around his shoulders now, revealing the broad expanse of his back, the thick muscle shifting as he settles between your legs again.

you peek at him from beneath your arm, still trying to catch your breath. your body feels liquid, humming, but the ache is building again under his gaze. soldier boy looks up at you through his lashes, green eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening with your release. he looks obscene. beautiful. entirely too proud of himself.

he turns his head and presses a slow kiss to the inside of your left thigh. his stubble scrapes gently against the sensitive skin, sending a shiver racing up your spine. then another kiss, higher this time, closer to where you’re still throbbing and slick. his rough thumbs stroke soothing circles on the backs of your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you exposed.

you can’t look away.

his eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, watching every flutter of your lashes, every small twitch of your mouth. it feels more intimate than it should—the way he studies your face while his mouth worships your skin. like he’s memorizing how you fall apart for him.

“ben…” you whisper.

he answers by dragging his tongue in one long, slow stripe up your inner thigh, tasting the mess he’s already made of you. then he dips lower again, nose brushing just above your clit as he kisses the crease where your thigh meets your body. his breath is hot against your soaked center. 

you feel yourself clench around nothing, aching for more.

finally, he lowers his mouth again. this time it’s gentler. almost reverent. his tongue slides through your folds in one smooth, unhurried drag, collecting the fresh wetness that’s leaked out of you since your first orgasm. 

he groans quietly. 

his thumbs keep stroking your thighs, rough pads pressing into soft skin, grounding you while his mouth works you open again.

you let out a shaky breath, fingers threading back into his hair. he hums in approval and pushes his tongue inside you.

the sensation is overwhelming in its softness. he fucks you with his tongue in slow, deep strokes—pushing in, curling slightly, dragging back out. wet, filthy sounds fill the room as he laps at you, savoring every drop. his nose nudges against your clit with every forward thrust, giving you just enough friction to make your hips twitch.

“fuck, ben…” you moan softly.

his eyes flick up to yours again. they’re half-lidded, drunk on the taste of you. he holds the eye contact as he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two thick fingers, sliding them in easily. then his mouth returns to your clit, licking slow, broad circles around the swollen bundle of nerves. the combination is devastating.

he doesn’t rush. every movement feels luxurious. his fingers pump in and out of you in a steady rhythm while his tongue traces lazy patterns over your clit—circling, flicking, then pressing flat and dragging up. every time your breathing hitches, he adjusts, finding the exact angle that makes your thighs start to tremble again.

you’re so wet it’s embarrassing. you can hear it. the slick glide of his fingers, the obscene sounds of his mouth devouring you. 

your arousal coats his chin. drips down toward the sheets. soldier boy doesn’t seem to mind. if anything, it makes him more eager. he groans deeply when a fresh rush of wetness meets his tongue, like the taste of you is driving him insane.

“that’s it,” he murmurs against your pussy, voice thick. “give it to me, baby. let me feel you gush.”

his words send heat flooding through you. you roll your hips against his face, chasing the building pleasure. he lets you use him, eyes never leaving yours, watching with dark satisfaction as you start to lose control again.

his free hand slides up your body, pushing your shirt higher until he can palm one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between rough fingers. the added stimulation makes you cry out softly, back arching. the floorboards creak in the hallway. he pinches lightly, then soothes with his thumb, all while his mouth stays working between your legs.

you’re trembling harder now. the second orgasm is building slower than the first but deeper—a heavy, coiling heat low in your belly that threatens to drown you. your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging harder. soldier boy moans in response, the vibration making your toes curl.

he curls his fingers inside you again, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust. his tongue flicks faster over your clit, matching the rhythm of his hand. the floorboard outside the bedroom door creaks a second time. closer. you can feel yourself getting wetter, slick sounds growing louder as your body prepares to give him exactly what he wants.

“ben—fuck, i’m close again,” you pant, voice breaking.

he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he presses closer, burying his face deeper between your thighs. his shoulders flex as he works you harder, fingers pumping faster, tongue relentless. his groans are constant. low and hungry, like he’s getting off just from the way you’re falling apart on his mouth.

your thighs start shaking uncontrollably around his head. your breathing turns ragged. the pleasure coils tighter and tighter until it feels almost unbearable. you’re right there— right on the razor’s edge, muscles locking up, vision starting to blur at the edges—BANG BANG BANG!

the sound tears through the room hard enough to punch every thought clean out of your head. 

you jolt.

not gracefully. not in any way your body will forgive once the adrenaline wears off. one second, you’re hovering right on the edge of something devastating, fingers twisted in soldier boy’s hair, every muscle pulled tight around the promise of release. the next, panic fires through you on instinct and your legs clamp shut around his shoulders before shoving outward with considerably more force than either of you expects.

the sheet shifts violently.

the mattress jerks beneath you.

soldier boy disappears.

there’s a heavy thud beside the bed, followed by a silence so complete it feels medically concerning.

your eyes widen. your chest is still rising too fast, skin flushed, legs trembling from an orgasm you were approximately three seconds away from having before the universe decided you had experienced enough joy for one morning.

outside the door, butcher speaks with infuriating calm. “need you in the kitchen, love. five minutes.”

you stare at the empty space between your thighs where ben’s head had been moments ago.

then you lean cautiously over the side of the mattress.

soldier boy is on the floor. actually on the floor. one broad shoulder is pressed against the rug. the sheet has followed him halfway down and is now tangled around his waist in a undignified knot. his hair’s wrecked, mouth still wet, expression blank with the pure disbelief of a man who has survived bullets, explosions, decades of torture, and the collapse of several governments only to be thrown out of bed by a startled woman with questionable reflexes.

for one horrible second, neither of you speaks.

his eyes lift slowly to yours. “what… the fuck?”

you wince, still breathing hard, thighs trembling from the ruined orgasm. soldier boy is sprawled on the floor like a disgruntled greek god who just got kicked out of olympus. the sheet is barely covering his hips, doing nothing to hide the very obvious, very angry erection curving against his stomach.

“i panicked!” you whisper-shout, sitting up on your elbows. “butcher knocked like he was trying to break the damn door down.”

soldier boy pushes up on one elbow, glaring at you with pure betrayal. “you threw me.”

“i didn’t throw you.” you try, but it sounds weak even to your own ears. 

he completely ignores you. “with your legs. i was two seconds from making you come so hard you’d forget your own name and you launched me like i was a fucking football.”

“you’re the one with super strength! how was i supposed to know i could actually move you?”

“i was distracted,” he growls, gesturing sharply at his glistening chin and the very obvious evidence of how thoroughly he’d been enjoying himself. “my face was buried in your pussy.”

your face burns despite the fact that modesty left this room a long time ago. “yes, benjamin. i was there.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

“oh, please. you survived.”

“barely.”

you stare at him. “you’re bulletproof.”

“not the point.”

outside the room, butcher’s footsteps retreat down the hallway. soldier boy pushes himself upright with the offended dignity of a man attempting to pretend he didn’t just get launched—nay, yeeted—off a mattress in nothing but a tangled sheet. he stands, muttering under his breath while he searches for his clothes.

you bite the inside of your cheek. “you know, training really has paid off.”

his head turns slowly. “don’t.”

“hips first,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “shoulder follows. fist last. apparently, legs are also very effective.”

“keep talking.”

“maybe tomorrow we can work on your balance.”

he catches his shorts from the floor and drags them on with an irritated movement. “you caught me off guard.”

“grandma at bingo all over again.”

his eyes narrow. “you think this is funny?”

you look at the sheet still hanging crookedly from the bed, then at his wrecked hair. “a little.”

“unbelievable,” he mutters, bending to retrieve his shirt. “my girl throws me off the goddamn bed seconds away from seeing heaven, and thinks it’s funny.”

the words pass so naturally beneath the rest of his complaining that you almost miss them. your mouth parts, but he’s already pulling his shirt over his head, too busy being insulted by the entire morning to notice the silence that follows. by the time his face emerges again, you have rearranged your expression into something far safer.

“butcher’s waiting,” you remind him.

he looks at you for a beat. then he steps back toward the bed.

“ben.”

“relax.”

one hand catches the back of your neck. he kisses you before you can argue, rough and unhurried enough to make your breath catch. the taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, warm and indecent, and the smug bastard knows exactly what he’s doing when he deepens the kiss for one lingering second before pulling away.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw. “we’re evening the score later.”

then he walks out, leaving you flushed, disheveled, and staring after him while butcher calls your name from the kitchen again.

dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.

“couples,” he says, leaning over the hood of the impala while the mechanic pokes around under it with the world’s fakest concerned face. “all the missing people were couples. newlyweds, honeymooners, road-trippers. car trouble. small-town hospitality. then poof.”

you glance toward the garage office, where the mechanic’s wife is watching you through the blinds with a coffee mug held near her mouth and not a single sip taken. “so they’re sabotaging cars.”

“yep.”

“and feeding people to whatever’s in the orchard.”

“probably.”

“great. very rural.”

dean’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay sharp. “which means we need bait.”

you already know what he’s going to say before he says it. worse, he knows that you know. the grin spreads slow and smug across his face, all dangerous charm and bad ideas, and you hate that your stomach reacts before your brain can file a complaint.

“no,” you say.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“my face is handsome and innocent.”

“your face is about to suggest we pretend to be a couple.”

he points at you, delighted. “see? this is why we work.”

you stare at him.

he leans closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mechanic can still see the shape of intimacy without hearing the words. “come on. little hand-holding, little sweet-talking, maybe you call me honey if the mood strikes—”

“i’m not calling you honey.”

“baby?”

“absolutely not.”

“snookums?”

you almost smile. “i will leave you here to get sacrificed.”

“hot. committed to the role already.”

the mechanic comes back wiping his hands on a rag that looks cleaner than any rag should coming from a garage. “looks like you folks might be stuck here overnight.”

dean’s expression changes instantly. warmer. easier. he slides an arm around your shoulders, as if the weight of him tucked close to your side is something your body has always known how to make room for.

“that so?” he asks, disappointed in a way that is almost convincing. “well, damn. guess that ruins the anniversary plans.”

you blink. anniversary.

right. you turn into him because if he wants a show, you can give him one. your hand lands on his chest, fingers spreading over the worn softness of his shirt, and you feel him inhale under your palm. almost nothing. but there.

“it’s okay,” you say, looking up at him with your sweetest, deadliest smile. “we’ll make our own fun.”

dean’s eyes flick down to yours.

the mechanic clears his throat.

you win.

by sundown, the entire town thinks you and dean are married, or engaged, or disgustingly in love depending on who you ask—because dean keeps changing the story just to annoy you. at the diner, he tells the waitress you met during a bar fight. at the motel, he says you proposed after saving him from drugs, which earns him a kick under the check-in counter hard enough to make his smile twitch. later, walking down the quiet road toward the orchard, he holds your hand because people are still watching from their porches, and you tell yourself that is all it is.

his palm is warm and rough against yours, fingers lacing too easily. every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckle, casual in a way that makes you want to accuse him of doing it on purpose. the worst part is he isn’t even talking that much now. the case has settled over him, sharpening the edges of his attention, but the fake closeness stays. shoulder bumping yours. hand firm around yours. his body angling slightly ahead when the road darkens.

“you’re quiet,” you comment.

he hums, “thinking.”

“dangerous.”

“about us.”

your heart trips.

then he adds, “our fake marriage. i think we need a dog.”

you exhale through your nose, trying not to laugh. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, you married me.”

“fake married.”

“vows are vows.”

the orchard rises ahead, black against the fading sky, rows of trees scratching at the air. the sweetness of rotting apples thickens with every step, and beneath it there’s something older—wet earth and old blood. your grip tightens around dean’s before you can stop it.

his teasing drops immediately. “hey,” he murmurs. “you good?”

he says it softly, and that’s a problem, because there’s no audience, no performance… just dean, close enough that his breath warms your temple, looking at you like your answer matters more than the thing waiting between the trees.

“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”

he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.

the town makes its move near the scarecrow post, of course. three men come out with shotguns, the mechanic among them, all apologetic smiles and dead eyes, saying things about tradition and harvest and how you seem like such a nice couple.

dean keeps himself between you and the guns, mouth running because fear and fury both turn into sarcasm on his tongue.

“hate to break it to you,” he says, backing up with you toward the field, “but our relationship is actually in a really fragile place right now. sacrificing us would be super insensitive.”

you elbow him. “dean.”

“what? communication is important.”

then the scarecrow moves. not creaks. not falls. it moves—wooden limbs snapping loose, burlap head twisting toward you, black pits where eyes should be. the townies scatter fast, cowards underneath all that civic pride, and dean shoves you behind him for half a second before you shove back because you are not decorative bait, thank you very much.

“dude,” dean blurts, staring up at the thing as it lurches out of the dirt, “you’re fugly”.

“focus,” you snap, grabbing the kerosene from his bag.

“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”

the fight is messy and fast. you duck under a swinging arm that smashes into an apple tree hard enough to split bark. dean fires salt rounds that barely slow it down, and somewhere between the shouting and the panic, he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of reach with such hard, automatic terror that it punches through all the fake feelings.

you burn the scarecrow together.

flame catches straw, then burlap, then whatever old evil is stitched into the thing. it screams in a voice made of dry leaves and bone, collapsing into the dirt while the orchard glows orange around you. dean stands beside you, breathing hard, soot on his cheek, hand still wrapped around yours.

the town is quiet now.

you look down at your joined hands. so does he.

“guess we can get a divorce now,” you say, because if you don’t make a joke, you might say something honest and ruin both your lives.

dean’s smile comes slow, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “nah,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “we survived a sacrifice. pretty sure that’s legally binding.”

you laugh, soft and breathless, and the sound shakes more than you want it to. his thumb brushes your knuckle again, not for the town, not for the case, not for anyone hiding behind curtains.

you should pull away. you don’t. and when you finally walk back toward the impala, your hand still in his, the pretend part feels a little too far behind you to reach.

Jax stared at the text longer than he should’ve. Parked behind the wheel of an unmarked black van on the edge of Charming, he was supposed to be watching the road and not his phone. One of Unser’s trucks was headed out to Nevada, and with theft spiking along the route, SAMCRO had stepped in to babysit. Call it private security. Call it paying back a favor. Either way, his eyes weren’t where they should be.

His eyes shifted once up to the empty road ahead and then back to the phone burning a hole in his hand.

YOU: Can I trace the veins with my tongue, baby?

Normally, he'd laugh and text back something filthy or smug, because that's just how they played. She'd flirt, he'd bite, they'd find a way to meet up later and burn it out of their systems. That's the way it'd always been.

But today had been absolute shit. One of the guys had been picked up on some bullshit warrant. Gemma had been stirring the pot again, constantly dropping blatant hints that she wanted Jax to have some babies. Clay was being a dickhead, like usual. Tig was kissing Clay's ass, following him around like some lovesick puppy.

He began typing out a response.

JAX: Where you at?

Admittedly, you frowned at his text. Not from sadness but the ripple of disappointment. It was lacking the usual filth that you'd become spoiled with any time the two of you had a round of sexting together.

YOU: Your house.

For a moment, you paused and contemplated sending the second portion as you tipped back a shot of whiskey. Then, you typed it out because... fuck it, right?

YOU: You cranky today or what?

Jax glanced down the second his phone buzzed, brows furrowing. He glanced up again, watching as Unser's truck left the warehouse lot without a hitch, then back down to your text message.

JAX: No. I'm just trying to not blow my fuckin' load right now.

Your hand tightened slightly around the spare key that'd been swirling around the corner as you waited for him to show some sort of zest in the conversation. That fuckin' response did it, made your stomach flip and your thighs clench.

Here you were, in his fuckin' house surrounded by Harley memorabilia and his bourbon, causing the prince of Charming to almost bust a nut clear across county lines.

YOU: Yeah, don't. I want to swallow it. 🍆💦

Jax could've left two minutes ago, but he was still parked on the side of the road, toothpick perched between his lips as he ground his molars.

JAX: Nah. I'm fucking that pussy and cumming inside it. You want to taste something? You can taste it leaking out of you after.

He hit send and tossed the phone into the cupholder, then put the van in drive and drove straight to his place. Usually, he'd detour at Charming to drop off the van and then ride home in his bike, but he had other pressing matters to tend to.

She barely had time to turn around in the kitchen before Jax was inside. His hoodie was half-zipped, jeans hanging low, jaw set like he hadn’t taken a full breath in hours.

“Jax-”

“Shut up.”

His voice was low and dangerous. Not angry but definitely wound tight. His blue eyes swept over her body like it pissed him off how much he wanted her, like every breath she took was one more second that he had to wait.

He kicked the door shut with his boot and stalked toward her; every step measured like he was keeping himself from snapping. The air shifted.

“You wanna send me texts like that?” he asked, eyes locked on your mouth. “You wanna say shit, like you’re gonna trace the veins with your tongue?”

You swallowed. Heat bloomed low in your belly, stumbling to formulate a coherent response. “I-”

He grabbed her chin, tilting her face up hard enough to make her gasp. “Nah. No backing out now. Get on your knees.”

Her legs moved before her brain did, knees hitting the hardwood just as he tugged his belt open with one hand.

“You don’t get to tease me all day and not back it up.” He pulled himself free, thick and already aching hard, tip flushed. “You wanna trace something?”

He stepped forward, cock right in front of your face now, and let out the softest, filthiest groan when your breath hit it.

“Then fuckin' trace,” he growled. “Start with the vein running up the side. You know the one.”

You did. You leaned in, tongue dragging slow and deliberate from the base up along that thick line of pressure, and his hand fisted in your hair immediately, hips twitching forward on instinct.

“Fuck. That’s it.”

His voice cracked around the edge, throat tight like he was holding something back. Like letting go too soon would ruin him and the filthy reputation he'd built up until this point.

“Yeahhhh… just like that. Make me regret not burying it in you first.”

Your tongue moved slow, tracing that thick vein like you promised you would. You felt his hand twitch against the top of your head where his hand rested now, all while a low groan escaped his mouth.

You hollowed your cheeks, and you took him deeper, just to prove you could. That about made him come undone completely, voice stuttering for a moment, the kind that cracked him open just enough. His breath quickened, his hips bucked forward as he clenched his hand around the counter.

You gagged just once, eyes fluttering as you looked up at him with more determination, and then you repeated the same movement again, swallowing his entire cock with ease this time around, causing that same vulnerable whimper to leave him.

His head had tipped back now just for a split second, hand bunching around your hair while his hips bucked forward again. He was on the verge of an orgasm, you could feel it. The way his cock throbbed against the roof of your mouth, the way his thigh clenched right where your hands rested. Your mouth got him worked up twice in one night and that, that was a badge of honor you'd wear with the utmost pride.

It's like he could sense the fucking pride behind your tongue. The second you backed off and glanced up at him with tear pricked eyes, intending on taking him in your mouth again.

He grabbed your arm and yanked you up to a standing position, putting a halt to your plan. He crashed his mouth with yours, all tongue, teeth, and amicable frustration now. Your ass hit the counter and you think he's going to take you right there, but instead, he growls against your mouth.

"Bedroom. Now."

You took a few steps, but he was already behind you, hand wrapping around your wrist to tug you faster, guiding you straight through the hallway.

He shoved the bedroom door open and kicked it shut with his boot.

You turned to face him, but before you could speak, he was on you again, hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he lifted you like it was nothing and dropped you onto the mattress.

“You think you can just say shit like that?” he said, crawling over you, his necklace dangling low between you as he settled between your thighs. “Send me those texts."

You smirked, breath catching. “Maybe I like getting you worked up.”

He scoffed, hand gripping your jaw. “Yeah? Then you better take what you started.”

And then he was there. Inside you in one long, slow push that had your eyes rolling back. No warning, no teasing this time. Just thick and deep and hot, his forehead pressed to yours as he held still for a second, barely breathing.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, dragging his hips back just to sink in again, deeper. “You feel that? That’s mine. You’re mine.”

You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

He kissed you then but not in a hurry like before. This one was deeper. Heavier. Like he needed it.

“You said that you wanna swallow me,” he whispered against your mouth, “but I’m gonna fill you up instead. Gonna come so deep you’ll be leaking by the time I’m done.”

He started moving. Slow, purposeful strokes that had your hands clutching the sheets, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Say it again,” he grunted, pace building. “Say what you want.”

“I want you to come inside me,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Please, Jax.”

That did it.

He buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, hips grinding deep as he came. Hard, low groans spilling from his chest as he gave it to you, everything he’d been holding in since you sent that damn text.

gif credit: @/blackthornluce, divider credit: @/cafekitsune

dean is dean. he flirts when he’s bored, when he’s nervous, when the waitress is pretty, when the bartender has long legs and a low-cut shirt. the women he notices are always beautiful in that uncomplicated, glossy sort of way. slim waists. narrow hips. the effortless confidence of somebody who knows exactly what happens when a guy like him looks across a room and smiles at them.

you know what happens, too. you’ve been hunting with the brothers long enough to see the pattern.

and the harsh truth is that it shouldn’t bother you. you know the softness of your stomach doesn’t make you less capable of putting a bullet through a moving target. you know your thighs are strong enough to carry you through a graveyard at a sprint, your arms steady enough to haul sam upright when something throws him into a wall. you love your tattoos. you like the curve of your waist and the way your brown hair falls around your face when you stop trying to tame it. you don’t need to become smaller to deserve anything.

it would be easier if he stopped touching you. it would be easier if you wanted him less.

“it’s gonna open up again if you keep glaring at it that hard.” dean’s voice brings you back to the motel room. 

rain taps steadily against the window, turning the parking lot outside into a blur of wet pavement and neon. the room smells faintly of bleach, damp denim, and the pizza sam has abandoned on the small table beside an open laptop. sam is in the shower, washing graveyard dirt out of his hair while you sit on the floor between dean’s knees at the edge of one bed. 

his flannel is open. the black t-shirt underneath is pushed up far enough to expose the shallow gash along his ribs, angry and red but no longer bleeding. you’ve cleaned it carefully. all that remains is the bandage, which would be easier to apply if dean would stop watching your face.

“i’m not glaring,” you mutter.

“you’ve got the murder eyes.”

“these are my regular eyes.”

his mouth twitches. “nah. regular ones are bigger. cuter.”

you press the adhesive strip down harder than necessary.

dean sucks air through his teeth. “jesus, annie.”

“sorry.” you are not. still, the brief sting of guilt settles uncomfortably beneath your ribs when he lifts one hand and curls his fingers loosely around your wrist. 

his thumb brushes your pulse once, absent and affectionate, as if this is not slowly hollowing you out from the inside. his expression changes when you pull away. not dramatically, though. dean is too practiced for that. he drops his hand and reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it back into place with a shrug that is almost convincing.

“all fixed,” you say, standing before he can find another reason to keep you close.

his gaze follows you. “you okay?”

“fine.”

“you’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

you busy yourself with the first-aid kit. the gauze packet refuses to slide into the side compartment properly. you try again, jaw tight. “probably because i’m fine a lot lately.”

“right.” the answer is dry enough to scrape.

you’ve been trying to put space between you for three weeks. it’s not working particularly well because hunting doesn’t offer much room for distance. there are still hours folded into the impala beside him, cramped motel rooms, diner booths. 

but you’ve stopped curling against his side on the couch when sam puts on documentaries none of you are truly watching. you sit in the back seat more often. you avoid the kitchen when dean cooks breakfast in his robe, bare-legged and half-awake, because he always presses a kiss to the crown of your head when he reaches over you for the coffee grounds.

it’s embarrassing how badly you miss something you never had.

“we should get a drink,” dean says.

you glance at him. “we should sleep.”

“we killed a nest of vamps in a barn that smelled worse than the trunk after that rugaru in ohio. we earned a drink.”

the bathroom door opens before you can argue. sam steps out with damp hair and a towel draped around his shoulders, his eyes moving between you and dean with the cautious awareness of somebody who knows exactly what you’re both feeling and keeping bottled down.

“drink?” dean asks him.

sam looks at you for half a second too long. “i’m going to finish the research.”

“nerd.”

“somebody has to make sure there isn’t a second nest.”

“annie?”

you should say no. you’re tired, and your nerves feel worn thin beneath your skin. sitting in a bar with dean is an exercise in pretending you don’t watch him without meaning to. 

instead, you sigh. “one drink.”

his smile comes too easily, bright enough to make your chest hurt. “that’s my girl.”

it’s a thoughtless phrase. dean is already grabbing his jacket when he says it. he doesn’t even notice how still you become.

but sam does. his gaze catches yours over dean’s shoulder, sympathetic in a way you cannot bear to acknowledge, so you look down and zip the first-aid kit closed.

the bar is attached to the motel, a narrow room with battered tables, a glowing jukebox, and the sort of carpet that has survived several decades through sheer stubbornness. a baseball game plays silently on the television above the liquor shelves. dean orders whiskey. you ask for a beer and slide onto a stool with one empty seat between you, a small act of self-preservation that lasts approximately two minutes before dean moves closer when somebody needs to squeeze past. he doesn’t move away again.

you talk about nothing. that’s one of the worst parts. it’s easy with him. even now. you make dean laugh so abruptly he nearly chokes on his whiskey, and the warm, pleased feeling in your chest arrives before you can stop it.

“you’re trouble,” he says.

“i’m delightful.”

“you’re a pain in my ass.”

“and yet you keep me around.”

“somebody’s gotta supervise you, kid.”

the nickname comes softer than it should be, threaded through with fondness. dean shifts closer and drops his arm around your shoulders, drawing you against his side with an ease that feels practiced. his fingers rest against your upper arm. his thumb moves once over the fabric of your shirt.

you know you should push him away. instead, you let yourself have it. just for a minute. 

the bartender appears in front of you with dean’s second whiskey. she’s pretty, with sleek blonde hair and a smile that lingers when she places the glass down. her eyes move toward dean’s arm around your shoulders before returning to his face.

“anything else for you two?” she asks.

“think we’re good,” dean says.

she smiles. “your girlfriend keeping you out of trouble tonight?”

it should be nothing. a stranger making an easy assumption. a moment dean could laugh off in a dozen harmless ways. he could remove his arm. he could change the subject. 

instead, his body tenses beside yours.

“annie?” his laugh comes out uneven. “nah. she knows better than to make that mistake.”

the bartender gives him a smile, already turning away.

dean’s arm remains around you.

that’s what breaks something open. the weight of his hand still resting comfortably against your arm, the warmth of him wrapped around you while he says it. it’s the easy, careless expectation that you’ll sit here and take whatever scraps he gives you because you always have.

you move before you think better of it, shoving his arm off your shoulders as you stand.

his expression changes immediately. “hey—”

“i’m going back to the room.”

“what? hang on.”

you walk out before your face can betray you. rain catches in your hair as soon as you step beyond the awning. the motel sign flickers overhead, buzzing pink and blue against the dark.

“annabella.” the use of your full name follows you into the parking lot.

you don’t stop.

“come on,” dean calls, closer now. “would you slow down for a second?”

you should go to the motel room. sam is there. the door is less than thirty feet away, warm light visible behind the curtains. but the thought of walking in and seeing the pity on sam’s face makes your stomach turn, so you keep moving, passing the impala and reaching the edge of the lot.

“where the hell are you going?”

“for a walk.”

“in the rain? it’s already dark!”

“i need air.”

“annie, get back here.”

you turn then, rain sliding down your cheeks, anger burning hot enough to overpower the ache lodged beneath it. “stop telling me what to do.”

dean freezes, even if for a second. then, his jaw tightens, his fear disguising itself as irritation so quickly you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him this well.

“fine,” he says. “you want air? take a minute. but you’re not walking down some dark road alone in the middle of nowhere.”

“just leave me the hell alone, dean.”

dean’s face closes in that familiar, infuriating way. the wall comes up. he stands beneath the motel lights with rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket.

you walk away.

the road is nearly empty, slick with rain and edged by wet grass. you fold your arms across your chest and keep moving, breathing through the pressure building behind your eyes, furious with him and with yourself and with every stupid little moment you have held too close.

you make it less than half a mile.

the roar of the impala reaches you first. headlights sweep across the road before the car pulls sharply onto the shoulder ahead of you, tires spitting water across the gravel. the driver’s door opens almost before the engine cuts.

“get in the car.”

you stop walking. “no.”

“annabella.”

“i said no.”

his hands flex uselessly at his sides. “then talk to me.”

“there’s nothing to talk about.”

“bullshit.”

“go away, dean.”

“not happening.”

“you can’t order me into the car because you feel guilty.”

“guilty? this isn’t—” he breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. his eyes are wide and bright beneath the passing sweep of another car’s headlights. “i don’t know what the hell just happened back there.”

a laugh catches painfully in your throat. “of course you don’t.”

“so tell me.”

you stare at him. dean has always been able to do this, somehow. he digs and digs until the truth is bleeding between your teeth, then acts surprised that it has a shape. you are exhausted. too tired to make it prettier for him. too tired to protect him from a feeling he has been carelessly feeding for months.

“i’m in love with you.” 

you hate how much it hurts that he stills. you hate that some small, humiliating part of you has waited for this exact second anyway, always searching for proof that you might have misunderstood him. but he says nothing, and the silence is unbearable.

you nod once, swallowing hard. “yeah. that’s what happened back there.”

“annie—”

“i know.” your voice cracks. you look away, blinking against the rain. “i know you don’t feel the same way. i am not asking you to. i thought i could handle it. i thought it would pass if i stopped being stupid about every little thing you do, but you keep—”

you press the heel of your hand against your chest, frustrated by the tears slipping free despite your best efforts.

“you keep touching me as if i’m yours. you keep looking at me as if there is something here. you pull me into you, and you call me your girl, and then you flirt with women who look nothing like me because that’s what you actually want. that’s fine. it is. you’re allowed to want whatever you want. but i can’t keep standing beside you while you remind me that i’m not it.”

“no.” the word comes out rough.

you shake your head. “i’m tired, dean.”

“listen—”

“i’m tired of trying to be grateful for whatever version of you i get. i’m tired of feeling pathetic every time you put your hand on me and i let myself think about what it would feel like if you meant it. i never wanted to make this your problem, but i can’t do it anymore.” your breath shudders. “i can’t keep hunting with you. i can’t keep living like this. i don’t want to see you again.”

panic strips every trace of irritation from his face. “don’t say that.”

“dean—”

“don’t.” he moves toward you, then stops himself so abruptly it looks painful. his voice drops, ragged at the edges. “don’t say you’re leaving.”

you wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “what else am i supposed to do?”

for one awful second, he only stares at you. then, dean winchester sinks to his knees on the wet roadside.

gravel crunches beneath his jeans. rain beads in his hair. he reaches for you carefully, both hands settling against your hips as if he needs something solid to hold on to, his fingers curving around the softness of your body without hesitation.

“dean, get up.”

“no. listen to me.” his voice breaks. “please.”

you look at him and his eyes are wet. maybe it is only the rain.

“you’ve got this wrong,” he says, each word unsteady. “god, annie, you’ve got it so so wrong.” his thumbs press lightly into your sides, grounding himself more than you. “i meant it every time i touched you. i mean it right now. you think you’re not what i want because you don’t look like some woman at a bar? sweetheart, i know exactly what you look like. i know how you fit against me. i know i’ve spent months trying not to stare at your mouth whenever you smile. i know i think about putting my hands right here so often it makes me feel sixteen and stupid.”

the softness of it nearly ruins you.

“then why?” you whisper. “why would you say that?”

his expression folds inward. “because i’m a coward.”

you shake your head automatically, but dean doesn’t let you rescue him from it.

“i know how to lose people,” he says. “i’m good at that. i know how to want something for one night and walk away before i screw it up. but you love people with your whole damn body, annabella. you hold on. you make space. you keep showing up.” his grip turns gentler. “and i wanted all of it. i wanted you so bad i convinced myself the decent thing was leaving it alone, because you deserve better than getting stuck with me.”

there it is—the ugliest, most familiar part of him. the piece that believes love is another weapon he might mishandle if he lets himself hold it too tightly.

“dean,” you whisper.

“but i feel it too.”

the words stop you cold. 

his hands tighten around your hips, enough to keep you there while his voice turns rougher with every breath. he looks terrified. not of the rain, or the roadside, or the possibility of something lurking beyond the dark line of trees. of you. of what he’s saying and what happens after he can’t take it back.

“i love you too, annabella.” his throat works around the words. “so damn much it scares the hell outta me.”

you stare down at him, unable to move.

“you think i don’t know what i’m doing when i touch you? you think i don’t notice every time you lean into me, or when you fall asleep on my shoulder, or when you wrap your arms around me after a hunt and hold on a little tighter because you know i need it?” his eyes search your face desperately. “i notice everything. i remember everything. that’s the problem.”

rain slides down the sharp line of his cheek. his voice lowers.

“people close to me get hurt.”

“dean—”

“they do.” he shakes his head before you can soften it for him. “and i can’t—annie, i can’t be the reason something happens to you. i can’t get you killed because i got greedy and wanted something good for myself. i can’t watch you bleed because some monster figures out exactly where to stick the knife.” his breath catches, and for a second, he has to look away. “i’d die if something happened to you. i would lose my damn mind.”

your chest aches so fiercely that breathing feels strange.

“something could happen to me anyway,” you say quietly. “i’m a hunter.”

“yeah, well, i hate that too.”

a wet, startled laugh slips out before you can stop it. dean’s gaze snaps back to your face. something fragile loosens in his expression when he hears it, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth despite the fear still sitting plainly in his eyes.

“there she is,” he murmurs.

your fingers find his wrists. his pulse beats hard beneath your touch.

“you don’t get to decide what risks i’m allowed to take,” you tell him. “not for me. and you don’t get to love me halfway because you’re scared of what happens if you let yourself have it.”

his face crumples for half a second before he catches himself. “i know,” he says. “i’m sorry.”

you believe him. that’s the dangerous thing. you believe every messy, frightened word of it.

dean rises slowly from the gravel, his hands sliding around your waist as he stands. he stays close when he reaches his full height, close enough that the warmth of his body cuts through the rain, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours.

“i’m probably gonna screw this up,” he whispers.

“probably.”

his mouth twitches. “little harsh.”

“you earned that.”

“yeah.” his thumb brushes your side. “fair.”

then his gaze drops to your mouth, and all the teasing drains out of him.

“annie,” he says softly.

dean cups your face with one hand and draws you against him with the other, his mouth warm and careful for all of two seconds before months of restraint crack open between you. the kiss turns deeper, needier, rain cold against your cheeks while his body presses solidly into yours. there’s nothing uncertain in the way he holds you. nothing apologetic. his palm spans the curve of your waist as if he has wanted to know the shape of you beneath his hands for far too long.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. both of you are breathing too hard.

“you’re freezing,” he murmurs.

“whose fault is that?”

“yours, obviously. walking dramatically into the rain. real chick-flick behavior.”

you stare at him.

“what?” he gives you a toothy smile. “too soon?”

a laugh breaks out of you, shaky and helpless, and dean smiles properly this time. 

“say you won’t leave.” the words leave his lips carefully. there’s no demand in his tone. no typical dean winchester stubbornness. just a little more vulnerability that he’s willing himself to show because he cannot physically move without making sure. 

you nod once. “i’m staying.” 

relief softens his entire face. he kisses the corner of your mouth before bending suddenly and sliding one arm behind your knees.

“dean!”

he lifts you easily against his chest.

you grab his shoulders, startled laughter spilling out of you. “what the hell are you doing?!”

“saving you from pneumonia.”

“put me down.”

“nope.”

“dean!”

he carries you back toward the impala, holding you securely against him while your arms circle his neck. by the time he reaches the passenger side, your anger has softened into something tender and sore. not gone. not forgotten. but no longer yours to carry alone.

dean lowers you carefully onto your feet and opens the door.

“seat,” he says, pointing inside with a stern expression that lasts less than a second. “now.”

you roll your eyes as you climb in. “bossy.”

“yeah, yeah.”

he rounds the hood and slides behind the wheel, rainwater dripping from his hair onto his jacket. the engine rumbles to life. for a moment, neither of you speaks.

then dean reaches across the space between you and leaves his hand resting palm-up beside the gearshift. an offering. you look at it, then lace your fingers through his. his grip closes around yours gently.

dean pulls back onto the road with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours between you, as if he’s still afraid you might disappear the second he lets go.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the fake relationship feel steady, domestic, and way too believable for his comfort. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t overperform. that’s what gets him. you lean into him calmly, fix his collar without thinking, remember the fake backstory, and somehow make it feel lived-in instead of staged. dean jokes because he has to survive somehow, but he keeps looking at you when you’re not watching, caught off guard by how easy it feels. the fake dating ends, technically. his brain does not receive the memo. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam settles into the act too easily, then panics because easy has never been safe for him. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re warm, grounded, and practical about the whole thing, which should make the case simpler. instead, sam starts noticing stupid things. the way you touch his sleeve to get his attention. the way you answer questions about your “relationship” with quiet confidence. the way it doesn’t feel ridiculous when someone calls you two a sweet couple. he tells himself it’s just good cover. poor man. lying to himself.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the cover story keeps changing because you’re both committed to the bit, not necessarily the truth. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean starts with a simple fake backstory and you immediately add unnecessary details. now you met at a gas station during a thunderstorm. now he proposed with a onion ring. now you have a dog named meatball. dean should be annoyed, but he’s laughing too hard under his breath. the chemistry is quick, messy, and very obvious, and half the witnesses probably think you’re either deeply in love or about to commit insurance fraud together. both are believable. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam thinks he’s prepared until you start improvising and his brain decides flirting is research. ๋࣭ ⭑ you keep him sharp. every question from a witness becomes a chance for you to add another layer to the fake relationship, and sam keeps up beautifully, even while internally screaming. he corrects your fake anniversary date without missing a beat. you call him “honey” just to see his jaw twitch. by the time the case is over, your fake relationship has lore, tension, and unresolved emotional consequences. as god intended.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the fake affection feel real, and dean starts malfunctioning quietly. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t flirt aggressively. you just care too naturally. you brush dust off his jacket, ask if he’s eaten, touch his arm when he gets tense, and suddenly dean is fighting for his life in a public place. to everyone else, you look like a couple with history. to him, it feels dangerous because he can’t tell where the act ends. worse, he doesn’t really want it to end. classic dean disaster. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you make sam look loved, and honestly, that is almost rude of you. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is good at pretending when he has to be, but with you, it doesn’t feel like pretending enough. you soften around him in public, and he softens back before he can stop himself. when someone asks how long you’ve been together, he answers smoothly, but there’s something in his face that gets too real. you notice. he notices you noticing. nobody is normal for the rest of the case.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you look too good on his arm, and dean immediately starts acting territorial while pretending it’s for the cover. ๋࣭ ⭑ this is dangerous because both of you know how to sell a scene. you walk in confident, glowing, leaning into the role with just enough drama to make people look twice. dean loves it. hates it. loves it again. the problem starts when someone flirts with you and he reacts a little too fast, a little too sharp, hand sliding to your waist like the claim is automatic. later, he says it was strategy. sure, dean. strategy with heart eyes. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you make the fake dating look effortless, and sam spends the whole case pretending he is not affected by your sparkle. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam knows you’re playing a role. he does. he is intelligent. allegedly. but when you smile at him across a room, call him handsome, and tug him closer for the cover, his careful little wall starts cracking. he admires how easily you command attention, but what really gets him is when that attention turns gentle with him. suddenly, the performance has a pulse.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you have the cover story memorized, the details organized, and dean hates how hot competence looks on you. ๋࣭ ⭑ you treat fake dating like a case file with emotional accessories. dates, jobs, backstory, reason for being there—you have it all ready. dean makes fun of you until your preparation saves his ass three separate times. then he starts enjoying it. the best part is how you correct him mid-conversation with a sweet smile and a hand on his chest, fully in character, absolutely lethal. he may survive the monster. you are the real problem. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you and sam are so prepared that people assume you’ve been married for years, which is inconvenient for everyone’s feelings. ๋࣭ ⭑ you two are a fake-dating machine. coordinated, thoughtful, detail-oriented, almost scary. sam appreciates how seriously you take the cover, but the intimacy sneaks in through the practical stuff: fixing his tie, passing him information without speaking, remembering the exact lie he told ten minutes ago. it becomes less “pretending to be close” and more “revealing how close you already are.” rude.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the fake romance pretty, easy, and socially lethal, which means dean is doomed. ๋࣭ ⭑ you know exactly how to play a room. dean knows how to flirt, but you know how to make people believe in the love story. you laugh at his jokes, touch his arm at the perfect moments, look at him with warm little glances that make even him forget this is fake. he keeps trying to stay cocky, but you are making him look adored in public, and unfortunately that hits somewhere deep. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam relaxes into your charm until he realizes he has stopped pretending to enjoy your company. ๋࣭ ⭑ with you, the fake dating is elegant. soft smiles, quiet teamwork, easy conversation. sam doesn’t have to force much because you naturally smooth over the awkward edges. witnesses trust you. strangers compliment you. someone says you two make a beautiful couple and sam laughs politely, but later he is haunted by the fact that he didn’t hate hearing it.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the fake dating is all eye contact, tension, and dean pretending he isn’t one comment away from losing composure. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t need to be loud. that is the problem. you stand close, speak low, look at him like you know exactly what he’s hiding, and dean gets defensive in that very specific way that means he is affected. the cover works because everyone can feel the tension from across the room. unfortunately, so can the two of you. by the end, the case is solved and the fake relationship has created several real problems. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam tries to keep distance, but you make pretending feel too much like confession. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is cautious with you because fake intimacy does not stay fake for long. not with the way you notice every shift in his face, every hesitation, every lie he tells smoothly to everyone except you. you play the role beautifully, but there’s always an edge underneath it, something private and intense. sam starts the case guarded. he ends it wondering when exactly you became someone he doesn’t know how to step away from.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you turn fake dating into an adventure, and dean is having the time of his life while pretending you’re a liability. ๋࣭ ⭑ your cover story is barely stable because you keep adding ridiculous details just to make him react. dean complains, but he’s grinning. the whole thing feels fast and messy: fake arguing in public, fake making up five minutes later, stealing food from each other’s plates, flirting with danger and also with each other. he says you’re impossible. he says it fondly. there’s the problem. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you drag sam into the performance until he accidentally enjoys not being so controlled for once. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam tries to keep the fake relationship believable. you make it memorable. you take his hand, pull him into a dance, invent a wild vacation story, and make him laugh when he absolutely should be focused. he gets nervous because you’re unpredictable, but there’s relief in it too. with you, he gets to be someone lighter for a night. that kind of thing sticks.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you both act like this is strictly tactical, which would be more convincing if the tension wasn’t wearing a suit. ๋࣭ ⭑ you and dean fake date like people entering a negotiation. clean, controlled, mildly hostile, extremely watchable. the chemistry is not fluffy—it’s sharp. you correct his approach, he needles your seriousness, and somehow everyone buys you as a couple because apparently bickering with mutual respect is a love language. dean says you’re bossy. you say he’s reckless. both of you are correct and turned on by the argument. unfortunate. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam respects your control so much that the fake dating becomes a slow-burn workplace hazard. ๋࣭ ⭑ you and sam are careful. maybe too careful. no unnecessary touching, no sloppy improvising, no messy emotional leakage. which, naturally, makes every small gesture feel enormous. his hand at your back. your fingers fixing his sleeve. the shared look when someone asks if you’re serious about each other. you both answer the case question perfectly. neither of you answers the actual question.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you refuse to fake-date in the expected way, and dean is attracted to the chaos against his will. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean expects flirtation. you give him weird couple lore, emotional distance, and a fake backstory so specific it sounds real. he spends half the case trying to figure out if you’re messing with him, flirting with him, or conducting a social experiment. probably all three. he acts annoyed, but the truth is, you keep him on his toes, and dean’s stupid heart loves a challenge even when his mouth complains. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam gets your rhythm faster than most people, which makes the fake relationship feel oddly comfortable. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t do conventional romance well, even fake. sam doesn’t mind as much as expected. he follows your logic, adds to your weird little cover story, and somehow the two of you become the most believable couple in the room because there’s no performance pressure. just quiet understanding, dry comments, and a shared braincell doing something suspiciously intimate.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the fake romance feel tender, and dean immediately starts using jokes as emotional self-defense. ๋࣭ ⭑ you lean into the role with sweetness, and dean does not know what to do with that. he can handle flirting. he can handle teasing. he cannot handle you looking at him like he matters while calling him your boyfriend for a cover. the case works because people believe you adore him. the problem is, by the end, dean is starting to believe it too, and that terrifies him more than the monster. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam tries to keep it fake, but you bring out the tenderness he usually keeps locked away. ๋࣭ ⭑ with you, fake dating turns soft almost immediately. lingering looks, quiet check-ins, hands held a second longer than necessary. sam knows it’s for the case, but you have a way of making pretend feelings feel safe enough to touch. by the time it’s over, he’s gentle in a way that gives him away. he thanks you for the help, then looks at you like the fake part was the thing he liked least.