MultiverseFanfics

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.

She was jumping excitedly, sticking out her tongue at Bucky. “Daddy, you’re old!” She squealed as he grabbed her by the legs and pinned her to the bed before tickling her sides. “Daddy, daddy! Stop it!” She cried out through her laughter.

“Is Kobalt gonna be good for daddy?” He asked, mock-stern.

She nodded and sat up, turning to face the wall so he could continue fixing her hair in french braids.

“Mamma’s gonna be picking you up after school, okay?” He asked carefully as he pulled the braid tight to her head.

“Are you going away again, daddy?” She asked as she turned to face him, her big brown eyes shining with sadness.

He sighed. He hated disappointing her. “I’ll only be gone a week this time, doll face.”

“Promise?” She asked as she jumped away from the bed and ran to retrieve her schoolbag.

“Promise,” he said as she put her small hand in his. “And when I come back, I’ll take you to Auntie Nat’s, okay?”

It started with the constant headaches, the pounding behind your eyes no matter what you did. You pushed it off, saying it was because you just hadn't drank enough water or because you hadn't eaten yet. You pushed it off even more when the Joaquín and Sam got called into a mission, you just threw yourself into work and got it done as soon as you could. Sam and Joaquín wouldn't need you for a few hours, but you felt the ringer of your phone on just in case. You laid down on the couch, your head still pounding, and closed your eyes.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You were sixteen and you had just been stood up for the first time, and for prom too. You were sitting on the porch of your friend's house, she had gone to prom with her boyfriend and didn't know about you being stood up. "Excuse me," a boy walked up, he was wearing a nice suit. "I don't mean to bother you, but are you ok?"

You wiped the tears running down your face. "I just got stood up for prom," you admitted.

The boy sat down next to you, placing his jacket around your shoulders. "I did too," he whispered and you looked at him.

"You got stood up for prom?" you asked, confusion written all over your face.

"Yeah, she goes to Ransom Everglades," he shrugged.

"Oh, she goes to mine," you muttered.

"That explains why I've never seen you before, I would have remembered such a pretty face," he told you.

You laughed, gently nudging his shoulder. "Where do you go to school?"

"Miami Senior," he told you, standing and offering your his hand. "I'm Joaquín Torres, by the way," he introduced himself.

You took his hand and he helped you stand up as you gave him your name. "What are you doing?" you asked, holding onto his hand as he started walking away with you in tow.

"We both got stood up and my mama always told me that to feel better, all you need is a laugh," he told you, leading you down the street. "I figured some ice cream wouldn't hurt either," he joked, taking you to a car.

There was a part of you that thought that getting into a random boy's car was a bad idea, but there was something about Joaquín that told you that you could trust him. "I don't think ice cream ever hurts," you joked back, getting into his car and making sure to tuck your dress away from the door.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You walked across the stage, a smile on your face, as you heard Joaquín cheer the loudest. You two started dating a few months after you met and now you two were graduating college together. It wasn't a perfect time, you two fought and there were times where you were worried that Joaquín being a frat boy meant he'd cheat; however, Joaquín had made it known in no uncertain terms that he loved you and would never.

You ran to him as soon as you could, both of you hugging in the middle of other students looking for their caps and hugging their friends. Joaquín pulled back only to pull you into a kiss, both of you wrapped up into each other. "We did it!" you cheered, pulling away to look Joaquín in the eyes.

He smiled, moving to walk with his arm wrapped around you. "We did, mi vida," Joaquín replied, leading you off to find your friends so you all could celebrate.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You barely stirred at the phone going off, but you managed to grab it for a moment. "Mmm?" you hummed into the phone.

Your head still pounded, but this was the most sleep you've managed to get since the headaches started. "We're headed him, mi amour," Joaquín told you. "I love you," he added.

"I love you too," you barely managed to get out, laying back down. Your eyes closed and you sighed out, going back to sleep. A warm feeling washing over you, one of peace.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín came practically bounding into your shared house one day, a smile on his face as he sat down on the couch with you. "You haven't looked this happy since I said I do," you teased, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

You listened to Joaquín tell you about how he started working with Sam and you smiled, you knew how much he wanted to get where he was. Joaquín had swapped the topic at some point in his little rant, but you didn't care. You were just watching him talk with a smile. "What?" he asked, a small blush crossing his cheeks.

"Nothing," you mused, leaning in to actually kiss him. "You're just real handsome when you get excited."

The blush on his cheeks got worse as you laughed. "That's not fair, mi amor," he mused.

"What? I can't call my husband handsome?"

"You know what I mean," he teased, reaching over to pull you closer to him. Both of you falling into a fit of giggles.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Even though Joaquín has wanted nothing more, other than marry you, to work with Sam, he told the older man he'd only take the job is Sam hired you. Sam was already reluctant to work with Joaquín and let him use the wings, but you and your counter intelligence masters plus with the fact you were working on your masters in cyber security swayed him.

Which was how you found yourself working side by side with your husband, always privy to his more unsavory way of self sacrifice plays. It seemed that all it took for him to, mostly, stop was a talking to by his very worried and upset wife. Sam has it recorded and uses it as blackmail.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín and Sam walked back into the office after landing, you hadn't been there when they touched down so they assumed you were sucked into work. The sight they walked in on was worse, you were on the couch dead. Joaquín broke as Sam called everyone they could think of, but it was too late. There wasn't anything that could be done.

It was determined you died in your sleep, a brain aneurysm. Sudden and probably why you had such a headache for so long. Joaquín had known you had the headache, but you were prone to migraines and he thought that was all it was. The only comfort Joaquín had was that you died peacefully, that you never had to know a day without him by your side.

The funeral was small, just the people deemed important. Sam lead a lot of it, letting Joaquín sit in the front row staring at your casket. You were in there and Joaquín knew you enough to know you just looked like you were sleeping. He wished you would wake up, scare everyone, and ask why you were in there. He wanted so bad for death to be reversible so you could come back to him.

Sam told Joaquín that he could go say goodbye to you one last time. Joaquín stood in between you and the small crowd, gently whispering that he loves you and that he'll see you as soon as it was his time. Then, he ran his finger over your wedding ring before kissing his fingers and placing them on your lips. Sam watched Joaquín walk back to his seat with sad eyes. There was no mistaking the love you two had for each other, it was almost as if it was fated within the stars themselves that you two would end up together.

People say that as you die you get flashes of your best moments for seven minutes, Joaquín just wished he was one of them. If you were alive, you'd tell him he was all of them.

➽──────────────❥

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“you’re serious?” his voice is low, rough with disbelief.

you sink to your knees between his legs, the hem of your modest sundress brushing the dusty floor. your hands slide up his thighs, bold in a way that surprises even you.

“i want to save you, sam,” you whisper, fingers working his belt open with surprising steadiness. “and maybe… this is how god sent me to do it.”

his breath catches hard when you pull him out, already half-hard and thickening in your palm. he’s big. thicker than you imagined during those restless nights when you touched yourself whispering his name like a sin.

“fuck—sweetheart…” sam’s hand hovers near your cheek, unsure. “you don’t have to—”

you lean forward and take him into your mouth before he can finish the sentence.

the groan that tears out of him is filthy, echoing off the wooden walls of the confessional like a cursed soul crying out. it’s loud. too loud for this holy place.

the sound shoots straight between your legs.

you suck him deeper, tongue sliding along the underside, cheeks hollowing. sam’s head falls back against the wooden panel with a dull thud. “jesus christ,” he hisses, then immediately lets out a breathless laugh. “shit—sorry.”

you pull off just enough to murmur, “it’s okay. you can say his name.” your voice is soft, almost sweet, completely at odds with the way you’re licking a slow stripe up the length of him. “i like hearing you lose control.”

then you sink down again, taking him further until he bumps the back of your throat. your eyes water but you don’t stop, relaxing your jaw and swallowing around him. sam’s hips jerk, a broken moan spilling from his lips. his hand finally settles in your hair.

“you’re—fuck, you’re really doing this,” he breathes, awe thick in his voice. “in here. on your knees for me like a good little—”

you hum around him and his words cut off into another low, wrecked sound. the confessional feels too small, too warm. every wet suck, every quiet gag, every tiny moan you can’t hold back fills the sacred space.

sam’s thighs tense under your palms. he’s trying so hard to stay quiet now, but he can’t. not when you take him so deep your nose brushes the dark hair at his base and swallow again.

that’s it—good girl,” he whispers, voice strained and reverent. his fingers tighten gently in your hair, guiding you just a little faster. “just like that. you’re taking me so well… fuck, look at you.”

you glance up at him through wet lashes. his eyes are blown dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. the sight of sweet, shy christian you with your mouth full of him seems to break something in his brain.

you pull back just enough to whisper, voice hoarse, “after this… i’ll pray for both of us.” then you dive back down, sucking harder, faster, one hand stroking what you can’t fit in your mouth.

sam’s moans grow louder, rougher, bouncing off the confessional walls like sacrilege. his hips start rocking gently, fucking your mouth with careful restraint even as his control frays. “i’m—shit, i’m close,” he warns, voice cracking.

you don’t pull away. you take him deeper, humming encouragement, eyes locked on his. sam comes with a choked groan that sounds almost pained, hips stuttering as he spills down your throat. you swallow every drop, gentle and obedient, until he’s trembling and oversensitive.

when you finally sit back on your heels, lips swollen and shiny, you fold your hands neatly in your lap like you’re back in sunday school.

sam stares down at you, chest heaving, looking thoroughly ruined and completely in awe. “you’re…” he lets out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “you’re not what i expected from bible study.”

you smile softly, a little shy again now that the heat is fading, even as his taste still lingers on your tongue. “god works in mysterious ways,” you murmur, voice sweet and honest.

then you lean forward, pressing one last gentle kiss to the head of his softening cock before tucking him back into his jeans with careful fingers.

“now,” you say, standing up and smoothing down your dress like nothing happened, “kneel with me. we should probably pray for forgiveness.”

sam looks up at you, stunned, flushed, and already half-hard again. but he doesn’t argue. he just slides off the bench and drops to his knees beside you, shoulder brushing yours in the cramped space, the faint scent of candle wax and sex hanging heavy in the air. the candles keep burning, flickering like they know exactly what kind of salvation just took place.

you let out a nervous laugh that dies quickly. “yeah. probably.”

you stare at the ugly carpet for a second, then force yourself to meet his eyes. “i’m still a virgin.”

the words hang in the air. dean doesn’t laugh. he doesn’t look disgusted. he just nods slowly, waiting for you to keep going. he probably already knew.

“we never stay anywhere long enough for me to… you know, actually trust someone. and i don’t want my first time to be with some random guy in a bar who doesn’t give a shit.” you swallow hard. “so i was thinking… maybe we could do it. just once. help me get it over with.”

dean is quiet for a long moment. his green eyes search your face carefully. “you sure about this?” he asks, voice low and serious. “you want me to be the one?”

“i trust you,” you say simply. “and i know you don’t… feel that way about me. i’m not asking for anything more. i just want it to be safe. and kind. i don’t want it to suck.”

dean rubs a hand over his jaw, thinking. then he nods once. “alright,” he says. “if you’re sure. we do this your way though. slow. you tell me to stop at any point and we stop. no questions.”

relief floods through you so fast your eyes sting. “thank you,” you whisper.

he stands up and pulls you gently to your feet. his hands are warm when they cup your face. “no need to thank me, sweetheart. just breathe.”

he kisses you first—soft, unhurried, nothing rushed or hungry. it’s strange at first, kissing your best friend, but his mouth is gentle and patient. he waits until you relax into it before deepening the kiss, tongue brushing yours carefully.

clothes come off slowly. dean talks you through every step, murmuring quiet reassurances when your hands start shaking again. when you’re both naked he lays you down on the bed, covering your body with his own. his weight feels grounding instead of scary.

he spends a long time touching you, fingers sliding between your legs, stroking until you’re wet and breathing heavier. every time you tense up he pauses, checks your face, waits for your nod before continuing.

when he reaches for the condom you almost cry from how careful he’s being. “you still good?” he asks, rolling it on.

“yeah,” you breathe. “just… nervous.”

“that’s okay. we can stop anytime.”

he settles between your thighs, one hand holding himself up, the other brushing hair from your forehead. the head of his cock nudges against your entrance and you tense. “easy,” dean murmurs. “relax for me. breathe out.”

you do. he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stopping every time your breath hitches. the stretch burns, but it’s not unbearable. dean’s jaw is tight, clearly holding himself back, but his voice stays soft. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers when he’s halfway in. “taking me so well. almost there.”

when he bottoms out you both stay still for a moment. you feel so full it’s overwhelming. a tiny whimper slips out of you.

dean presses his forehead to yours. “you okay?”

you nod, arms wrapping around his back. “move… please.”

he starts slow, gentle rolls of his hips instead of thrusting. every stroke is careful, measured. the pain gradually fades into something warmer, deeper. your legs wrap around his waist without thinking. “that’s it,” he murmurs against your neck. “just feel it.”

the longer it goes on, the better it feels. soft moans start falling from your lips. dean keeps his pace steady, never rough, never rushing. his hand slips between you to rub gentle circles over your clit and your back arches.

“dean—”

“i’ve got you,” he says quietly. “let go if you can.”

you come with a surprised cry, thighs trembling around him. dean follows a few thrusts later, groaning low into your shoulder as he spills into the condom.

afterward he stays inside you for a minute, breathing hard, before carefully pulling out. he disposes of the condom and comes back with a warm washcloth, cleaning you up without a word. then he pulls the covers over both of you and tugs you against his chest.

“you alright?” he asks, voice rough but gentle.

you nod against his skin, tears suddenly pricking at your eyes. not from sadness—just from how safe you felt the whole time. “thank you,” you whisper. “really.”

dean presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “anytime you need me, i’m here,” he says simply. “friendship doesn’t change. not over this.”

you close your eyes, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear.

for the first time, losing your virginity didn’t feel like something you had to survive. it just felt like being taken care of by someone who truly mattered. and even though there was no romance, no spark, no “i’m in love with you”, it was still perfect in its own quiet, honest way.

you hold your hand up, betrayed. “i’ve been attacked.”

his face shifts from alarm to confusion to something dangerously close to amusement. “attacked?”

“don’t laugh.”

“i’m not laughing.”

“your mouth is thinking about it.”

he presses his lips together, which is basically a confession.

you glare at him, but your finger is starting to throb, hot and sharp and annoying, and the offended little burn of it makes your eyes prickle more than you want to admit. not crying. absolutely not. just… your body being sensitive.

sam notices, and his teasing fades immediately. “hey,” he says, softer. “let me see.”

you hesitate for half a second, embarrassed by how badly you want the comfort. then you give him your hand.

he takes it carefully, like you’re something breakable and not someone who just declared war on an insect. his thumb rests under your palm, warm and steady, while he bends closer to check the sting.

“it left the stinger,” he murmurs.

“asshole.”

“a little.”

“sam.”

“sorry.” his mouth twitches again, but his hands stay gentle. “come on. i’ve got tweezers in the car.”

“you have bee tweezers?”

“i have regular tweezers.”

“for bee emergencies.”

“apparently.”

he guides you back to the impala, one hand hovering at your elbow though you’re perfectly capable of walking. it should feel ridiculous. it doesn’t. it feels sweet in a way that sneaks under your ribs and sits there.

sam sits you on the passenger seat with the door open, then crouches in front of you, knees nearly touching yours. “hold still,” he says.

“i am still.”

“you’re flinching.”

“it’s an emotionally scarring experience, sam.”

he looks up at you then, and the fondness on his face is so bare you almost forget your finger hurts. almost.

the stinger comes out quick. you hiss anyway, and sam instantly rubs his thumb over the uninjured part of your hand, slow and soothing. “sorry,” he says.

“i’m being pathetic.”

“no, you’re not.”

“i screamed over a bee.”

“you were startled.”

“i want compensation. weren’t you almost a lawyer? do something.”

“that’s fair.”

you laugh before you can stop it, and sam smiles, small and pleased, like he fixed more than the sting.

he cleans the spot with an alcohol wipe, then wraps your finger with a tiny bandage from the first-aid kit. it looks absurd. one little beige strip around the evidence of your near-death experience.

“there,” he says. “better?”

you look at your hand still resting in his. then at him. “maybe.”

his thumb hasn’t stopped moving. “want me to get you another soda?” he asks.

you lean back against the seat, trying very hard not to smile too much. “only if you protect me.”

sam’s eyes warm, soft and shy around the edges. “always,” he says, too seriously for a joke.

and your finger still aches, but now his hand is around yours, and you’re a little embarrassed by how much that helps.

you cup the back of his head with both hands, your smaller arms wrapping around him like you can hold all of him together. his forehead presses to your sternum, nose buried deep in the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. every shaky exhale ghosts hot across your collarbone.

“that’s it,” you whisper, sinking down another inch. he stretches you perfectly, thick and hard and already twitching inside you. “i’ve got you, d.”

a low, broken sound vibrates against your chest. not quite a moan. something smaller. needier. his arms circle your waist, hands splaying wide across your back like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

you roll your hips slow, grinding instead of bouncing. your breasts press soft and warm under his chin, skin on skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. he nuzzles closer, lips brushing the swell of one breast, then hiding again in the crook of your neck like he can’t decide whether he wants to taste you or disappear completely.

“been so long,” he mumbles against your skin. his voice cracks halfway through. “didn’t realize how bad i… fuck.”

you tighten your arms around his head, fingers threading through short hair, cradling him like something precious. you rock a little harder and he groans, the sound muffled against you. his hips lift to meet yours, desperate and uncoordinated, like his body is chasing contact more than release.

“i know,” you breathe. the words feel too honest, too raw. “i’ve got you. just feel me.”

you keep one hand on the back of his head, the other sliding down to grip his shoulder. every time you sink down fully, taking him to the hilt, his breath stutters.

he’s shaking. actually shaking. you can feel the fine tremors in his thighs, in the arms wrapped around you. his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly, then soothing with his tongue. needing to taste, to feel, to consume the warmth he’s been starving for.

you tilt your head, pressing your cheek to his hair. “you’re safe here. with me. let it out, baby.”

a whimper escapes him then. real and quiet and so unlike dean it makes your heart clench. you ride him a little faster, still deep, still close. the wet sound of your bodies meeting is soft. sweat slick between your chests. his nose stays buried in your shoulder like it’s the only place he wants to be.

you squeeze around him on purpose and his whole body jerks.

“shit—sweetheart—” his voice is wrecked. “don’t stop. please don’t stop.”

“i won’t,” you promise, lips against his temple.

dean touches people like he’s waiting for them to break at the contact. but right now, he’s letting you hold him, letting you surround him, letting you fuck him slow while he hides his face in your body. your arms start to burn from holding his head so close, but you don’t loosen them. not even a little.

he comes first, hips stuttering up into you with a muffled groan that vibrates straight into your chest. you follow right after, clenching around him, forehead pressed to his hair as the pleasure rolls through you warm and heavy.

afterward, you don’t move. you stay wrapped around him, his softening cock still inside you, his face still tucked into your neck and shoulder. his breathing slowly evens out, but his arms stay locked around your waist.

you stroke his hair, gentle and slow. “you can have this whenever you need it,” you whisper. too honest. a little clumsy.

dean doesn’t answer with words. he just presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then hides his face again like he’s not ready for you to see whatever expression he’s making.

the ache in your arms matches the faint, sweet ache between your legs. you hold him tighter anyway, and for a little while longer, dean winchester lets himself be held like he matters more than anything else.

you smile into your mug.

you’re still leaning against the hallway wall when missouri opens the door, one hand on her hip, the other holding a dish towel she’s been using more as a weapon than anything else.

two men stand on the porch in the dull afternoon light, both too tall for the doorway, both carrying the particular kind of exhaustion that clings to hunters even when they’re trying to look casual. the shorter one—dean, you guess, because no one else could look that smug while being scolded—has sharp green eyes, a leather jacket, and a grin that arrives a second before his manners do. his gaze moves over the room, then lands on you, and you feel the shape of whatever charming thing he’s about to say before he says it.

your aunt does too. “don’t,” she snaps.

dean’s mouth closes.

you laugh, slow and pleased, because that alone is worth the price of admission. “so this is the goofy looking kid?”

dean turns to you so fast it’s almost impressive. “excuse me?”

“auntie said you were one goofy looking kid.” you take a sip of coffee, eyes moving over him with shameless amusement. “i mean, you cleaned up fine, i guess. but spiritually? i see it.”

behind him, sam makes the smallest sound, not quite a laugh, but close enough that your attention shifts. and there he is…

sam winchester is not loud the way dean is. he doesn’t fill a room by trying to own it. he does the opposite, actually; he stands half a step behind his brother with his shoulders drawn in just enough to make you wonder how many times in his life he’s tried to take up less space than his body naturally demands. he’s beautiful, in that painful, unfinished way grief can make someone beautiful when it has not been kind to them. his hair falls across his forehead, his eyes are tired and watchful, and something about him feels bruised without being soft. not weak. just held together by discipline and guilt and the kind of sadness that has not figured out how to become survivable yet.

your gift reaches for him before you mean it to. that happens sometimes. with certain people. pain has a texture, and sam’s is everywhere, threaded through him so densely that for one dizzy second you taste smoke in the back of your throat and feel heat above you, impossible and wrong. a ceiling. firelight. a woman’s scream cut off by memory instead of distance. love, then horror, then a guilt so deep it almost has a pulse.

you blink, and the room comes back. sam is looking at you. “you saw something,” he says quietly.

you could lie. you’re good at lying when it’s useful, and pretty enough that people usually let you get away with it. your auntie says beauty is a tool until it becomes a trap, and you’ve spent most of your life learning the difference. you know how people look at your dark skin when they want to compliment without sounding stupid, how their eyes catch on your shiny hair and linger half a second too long, how they decide who you are before you speak. sam doesn’t do that. he looks like he’s waiting to see if you’re going to make his grief into a performance.

so you don’t. “a little,” you say. “not on purpose.”

his jaw tightens, but he nods once, like that answer is fair.

dean glances between you, his playful expression dimming. “okay, what the hell just happened?”

“your brother is carrying a lot,” you say, because it’s true and because you want to see what dean does with it.

dean’s face changes. protective before sarcastic, older brother before smartass. that, more than anything, makes you like him despite yourself.

missouri steps in before the air can get too heavy. “and he’ll keep carrying it unless we get this case handled. sit down, both of you. my niece is helping.”

you look at her. “am i?”

“you already know you are.”

“i love being volunteered in my own home.”

“then stop being so gifted.”

dean snorts. sam almost smiles again, and you hate how much you want to earn a real one from him.

the case is ugly. a house at the edge of town, a little girl who keeps seeing her dead father in the hallway, a mother who insists grief is making her child imaginative because the alternative would require believing in something worse.

you go with sam and dean after sundown, partly because missouri tells you to and partly because sam looks at the photographs spread across your auntie’s table with a focus so heavy it feels like penance. he wants to save everyone because he could not save her. you don’t need to touch him to know that. it sits around him, plain as breath.

by the time you reach the house, rain has started tapping against the roof in thin, nervous lines. dean takes the downstairs with his flashlight, muttering something about creepy family portraits and rich people with bad taste, while you and sam move through the upstairs hall together.

sam stays close, not crowding you, just near enough that when the floor groans under your foot, his hand lifts instinctively toward your elbow.

neither of you says anything for a few steps.

“does it always work that way?” he asks eventually, his voice low so it doesn’t carry downstairs. “your psychic thing.”

you glance at him. “my psychic thing?”

his mouth twitches. “sorry. your very normal, not-at-all-terrifying ability to look at people and know things.”

“better.”

that almost-smile appears again, faint and reluctant, and it does something stupid to your chest. you look away first, because you are not about to become weak over a sad man with pretty eyes and a moral injury. except… well…

“it’s not always the same,” you say, running your fingers along the edge of a doorframe. “sometimes i see images. sometimes feelings. sometimes it’s more like… walking into a room where someone left music playing, and even after they turn it off, you still feel the song.”

sam is quiet for long enough that you wonder if you’ve said too much. then he says, “what song am i?”

you shouldn’t answer. it’s too intimate for a hallway in a haunted house, too soft for someone you met less than two hours ago, too dangerous when grief is already standing between you with its teeth bared. but sam’s looking at you like he regrets asking and needs to know anyway.

“one you keep punishing yourself for still hearing,” you say. his face goes still. “sorry,” you add, quieter. “that came out sharper than i meant.”

“no,” he says, and his voice has changed, gone rough around the edges. “it’s okay.”

but it isn’t. you can feel that too.

a noise comes from behind the bedroom door at the end of the hall, like fingernails dragging over damp wood. sam moves immediately, all hunter now, shoulders squaring, grief packed away so fast it makes something in you ache. he reaches for the handle first, and your hand closes over his wrist before you think better of it.

the contact hits harder than it should. warm skin. tense muscle. his pulse under your fingers. and beneath that, a flood of feeling so sudden you nearly sway—fear, guilt, want, restraint, exhaustion, and a loneliness so old it doesn’t belong only to jessica. it belongs to childhood motels and motel breakfasts, to moving schools, to leaving and being left, to wanting a normal life so badly that wanting itself started to feel selfish.

sam freezes. your eyes lift to his. “don’t,” he says, but it isn’t angry. it’s almost pleading.

you loosen your grip, but you don’t step back. “i’m not trying to pry.”

his gaze drops briefly to your hand still hovering near him, then back to your face. “that might be worse.”

the house creaks around you. downstairs, dean swears loudly, followed by a crash and a muffled, “i’m good!”

you should answer. you should move. there is a ghost or a monster or something awful behind that door, and you are standing in a hallway with sam winchester feeling the space between your bodies become smaller than it has any right to be.

“you look at me,” he says, barely above a whisper, “like you know how bad it is.”

“i do know,” you admit.

his throat moves as he swallows. “and you’re still standing here.”

“i am.”

his eyes search your face, and you let him, even though it makes your skin feel too warm and your lungs too tight. there is a certain kind of attention that feels almost like touch before anyone lays a hand on you, and sam has it without trying. quiet, helpless, intense. he looks at your mouth once, quick enough that he probably thinks you miss it, but you don’t. you miss very little. especially not that.

your voice softens. “sam.”

hearing you say his name does something to him. you see it in the way his control slips for half a second, the way his hand comes up slowly, not touching your face yet, just hovering near your cheek as if he has to ask permission from the air first. you could close the distance. you want to. god, you want to, and the wanting is inconvenient and hot and terribly timed, because this man is not ready for anything except maybe surviving the next hour.

still, he leans in.

so do you.

your breath catches when his nose almost brushes yours, when his hand finally settles near your jaw with a gentleness that feels more dangerous than hunger. he’s so close you can feel the warmth of his mouth. close that the almost becomes its own kind of kiss, aching and unfinished.

then he stops. his eyes close, and his forehead nearly touches yours. “god,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, “you have no idea how much i want this—want you. but i can’t.” his thumb shifts once against your skin, not quite a caress, not quite not one. “not right now.”

the words hurt, but not because they’re cruel. they are far from it.

you stay very still, letting them settle where the kiss should have been. “i know.”

he opens his eyes, and the guilt in them is immediate. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t be.” your smile is small, almost teasing because if you don’t make it lighter, you might make it worse. “i have excellent timing, clearly. haunted house. dead girlfriend trauma. your brother fighting furniture downstairs.”

sam lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, and the sound is so soft you want to keep it in your pocket, which is ridiculous. humiliating, honestly.

from below, dean yells, “i could use some help here!”

sam pulls back, flushed and mortified, and you turn toward the stairs before he can see too much of what his almost has done to you. “come on, sad little puppy boy,” you say, gentler than the words deserve. “let’s save your goofy looking brother.”

sam follows you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours once on the way down.

his eyes flick to yours, very serious. “yes?”

“you okay?”

“yes.”

you wait for him to say something else. he says nothing else.

then he leans, just slightly, closer to your shoulder.

you blink. “are you smelling me?”

castiel straightens so fast it would be funny if his face weren’t completely sincere. “no.” a beat. “yes.”

you stare at him.

he looks back, unashamed and somehow a little embarrassed, which is a complicated thing to manage with one face. “you smell pleasant,” he explains.

your brain goes wonderfully blank. “oh.”

“not in an alarming way.”

“great,” you say, trying not to laugh. “love that clarification.”

after that, you start noticing it: he sits beside you during research even when there are six empty chairs. he appears in doorways when you pass, head tilting faintly as if he’s caught some invisible thread of you in the air. once, while you were reaching for a book on a high shelf, he stepped behind you to get it first, and when his sleeve brushed your arm, he went very still.

you turned slowly, then. “cas.”

“i was assisting.”

“you were inhaling.”

his mouth parts. closes. “both things can be true.”

that gets you. you laugh, soft and helpless, and his expression gentles in response, like the sound is something he wants to keep but doesn’t know where to put.

one night, you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, rubbing lotion into your hands because the bunker air dries your skin out terribly. castiel stands near the doorway, watching with that quiet intensity that used to unsettle you before you learned it usually just means he’s curious. or worried. or both.

“it’s this, isn’t it?” you ask, holding up the bottle.

he steps closer. “yes.”

“you could’ve just said you liked it.”

“i did.”

“you said i smelled pleasant and not alarming.”

“that was accurate.”

you bite your lip to hide your smile, but it doesn’t work.

he notices. of course he does. and his gaze drops to your hands, then returns to your face, softer now. “may i?”

your chest gives a tiny, traitorous flip. “smell my hands?”

“yes.”

you should tease him. really, you should. instead, you offer him one.

castiel takes it carefully, his fingers cool at first, then warmer where they settle around yours. he bends over your hand, not kissing it—-just close enough that his breath brushes your knuckles, slow and reverent in a way that makes your stomach twist.

oh. that’s unfair. “cas,” you say, quieter.

he lifts his eyes. “is this uncomfortable?”

you swallow. “no,” you admit. too honest. “that’s kind of the problem.”

something shifts in his face, small but visible, like he’s filing that away with great care.

he doesn’t let go immediately. neither do you. and when his thumb moves once across the back of your hand, barely there, you realize he isn’t there just to smell the lotion anymore. maybe he never was.

before, it used to be you, dean, and sammy.

sam with his too-long legs shoved in the front seat, complaining about dean’s music, stealing your snacks when he thought you weren’t looking. dean calling him princess. you laughing until sam threatened to switch cars at the next gas station. stupid things. little things. the kind of things you don’t know are holding your life together until one person leaves and the other one starts acting as if anything soft has become a liability.

dean doesn’t joke with you anymore. not really. not the way he used to, with his mouth crooked and his eyes bright and all that ridiculous flirting tossed at you just to make you roll your eyes. he barely looks at you unless it’s about the case. location. weapons. salt. iron. exit points.

you miss sam so much it makes you angry, but missing dean when he’s right beside you feels worse.

so, yeah—by the time you pull up outside the old farmhouse, your face is probably doing something awful. dean notices. yet, he picks the worst possible thing to do with it.

“gee,” he says, glancing over as he parks. “poor ghost that has to face you tonight. we might not even need the salt rounds. your face’ll do all the work.”

it’s meant to be nothing. a jab. a little scrap of the old dean, thrown badly into the air between you. but it lands wrong.

you turn your head slowly. “are you kidding me?”

his eyebrows lift, already defensive. “what?”

“don’t what me.”

“it was a joke.”

“no, dean, it was you remembering how to speak to me for three seconds and choosing to be an asshole.”

that wipes the almost-smirk off his face. good.

you hate that it feels good.

he looks out through the windshield at the farmhouse, all black windows and peeling paint, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “we have a job.”

“we always have a job.” your voice comes out sharper than you expect, but you’re already opened up now, you’re already bleeding in the passenger seat, and there is no neat way to stop it. “that’s the problem, right? there’s always some house, some ghost, some excuse not to talk about the fact that sam left and you decided i had to lose both of you.”

his face changes. just a fraction. but you see it.

“you didn’t lose me,” he says, too fast.

you laugh once, ugly and hurt. “didn’t i?”

“i’m sitting right here!”

“no, you’re driving the car.” your throat tightens, and you hate that part. hate the wobble. hate how young you sound. “you’re loading guns and reading police reports and telling me to duck. you’re not here. you haven’t been here since he left!”

dean turns toward you then, anger rising because anger is easier—it’s always easier for him. “what do you want me to say?”

“anything,” you snap. “literally anything real.”

“real?” he repeats, voice low. “you want real?”

“yeah, i do.”

“sam walked out.”

“sam went to school.”

“he left!” dean bites out, and there it is, mean and raw and still not the whole truth. “he left, and dad’s pissed, and everything’s screwed, and i don’t have time to sit around holding hands and talking about feelings because people are dying.”

you stare at him, chest heaving.

outside, the farmhouse waits. the job waits. everything always waits just long enough to take something else from you.

“i wasn’t asking you to hold my hand,” you say quietly. too honest. too tired. “i was asking you not to disappear while sitting next to me.”

dean flinches. then he looks away, swallowing hard, eyes fixed on the house as if the ghost inside is easier to face than you. maybe it is.

you sit there for a few seconds, the engine ticking softly, the cassette still playing low under the silence. neither of you moves for the weapons bag. neither of you apologizes.

finally, dean reaches for the keys and shuts the car off. “let’s go,” he says, voice rough, smaller than before.

you nod, even though nothing is fixed, even though the empty seat still feels louder than both of you, even though you know this conversation is going to crawl into the space between your ribs and stay there.

you open your door before he can look at you again. and when you step out into the cold, you don’t wait for him to follow.

“I’m telling you,” Bucky said smiling. “This is gonna be huge… Tony is gonna throw the party of the year…”

Oh dear Bucky, you said in your mind.

Bucky, your dear and most loyal friend. The man with a metal arm and tons of issue with the modern world and the coffee machine.

“I swear she hates me,” he said one time, referring to the coffee machine.

“She hates you.” You replied mocking him. “You do know she doesn’t have a soul nor a brain so she can’t hate you?”

You always smiled thinking back at that moment. 

“You have to come… c'mon it’s been ages since we saw your pretty face with us outside work…”

Work… if being an avenger could be defined just as work.

The reality wasn’t so easy to get, especially for Bucky.

The coffee machine incident was almost three years ago, when you swore to yourself that no other man could be even remotely made you happy like him. Yes, you had a big crush on the super soldier but now every morning you woke up near Mark.

You forgot how you and Mark met.

Friend of a friend?

Someone you saved during a mission?

Casual encounter in the park with the dog you kept for a week for a Shield’s agent?

You completely cancelled everything the first he hit you.

A slap on your face, strong and calculated. The trace of his fingerprints on your cheek. That day, listening to his reason, he was forced because you got back home late for dinner.

“I was waiting while you were out playing costumes with your friends. I expect a warm and ready dinner the second I’m in,”

You laughed, thinking he was pranking you then he moved closer raising his arm. His dark and angry eyes targeting you, his slim figures appearing gigantic with anger. It burned where his hand hit, but it wasn’t burning like the humiliation of being an avenger slapped by him.

“Kitchen. Now.”

Not recognising yourself, you moved to the kitchen. Moving on autopilot, you took some pots and pans and began to make something. You didn’t cry even if he wouldn’t hear form the couch. You stared at the backsplash of the kitchen. Your lower lip trembled but you regained immediately your composure.

Without speaking, you served him something and walked fast toward the bedroom. In your en-suite bathroom, you opened the shower jumping in without waiting for the hot water. An ice cold stream of water hit your head. Resting the forehead on the glass door, you silently cried.

After that slap, Mark began to hit more and more.

Someone made him angry at work? Slap.

A deal with a client went wrong? Slap.

You not in the mood for sex of something else? Slap before taking advantage of your body.

You didn’t react anymore. You were sadly used to Mark’s behaviour.

The worse in this scenario, was having to lie to your colleagues. Especially to Bucky.

It was a random Friday. The big party Bucky begged you to come was gone. That night, your phone was beeping non stop for the messages you were receiving.

Giirllllll… so many alcohol in here, Nat wrote

I swear this chick wants me, Sam said

I’m sorry for Sam’s messages, Steve texted you.

Btw that lady was really looking at him, he wrote in a second text.

Doll, I miss you here…, Bucky simply wrote.

You smiled at Steve text, and deeply exhaled at Bucky’s one.

Mark of course noticed it. “Your boyfriend’s texting you?” He said, anger already sensed in his tone.

“You know it’s not my boyfriend…” you replied tired, omitting the sadly.

“Bet you’d like tho,” he stood up. “Look at me when I talk to you!”

You kept your eyes down.

He moved closer.

In a rush you felt your hair pulled up, closed in his fist.

“MARK STOP! IT HURTS!”

“As it should you slut. You’re all day with him… I know you’re fucking when you’re together,” he said, closing his fist more on your hair. “HE. CAN’T. HAVE. YOU.”

You moved your legs and kicked him, he lost the grip for a second and you tried to slid out of his presence but you miscalculated and trip on the rug. Coming closer from behind, he gripped your ankle and pulled your toward himself.

Imagining the scene from the outside, the shame of being treated like this grew in you.

You defeated Thanos, aliens and every kind of creatures but now your so called boyfriend was the one hitting you, making you feel like a little and scared girl. The pressure on your ankle didn’t fade, he gripped it even harder and yanked you more. When he was right above you, he left your ankle not before sitting on your lower back.

“Think you need a lesson…”

You tried to shake him off you but in that moment he was way stronger. The fear and panic blocking you. You heard him playing with the belt, sliding it off his trouser and smacking on the floor.

“I’m sure he’s into this type of game so…”

He didn’t finish the phrase, or maybe you blocked out his voice. You only heard the belt ringing into your ear, stinging on your legs. You tuned a little and you see the anger and yet satisfaction in his eyes.

He made the belt swinging behind him, hitting you again. “You like it just as you like it with him?”

You begged him to stop, to free you but he was completely blind by his anger. You tried to explain, again, how you and Bucky weren’t a thing if not just coworkers and friends. He stopped only when he was tired of swinging the belts in the air, leaving you there on the floor crying and sobbing. You tried to touch the parts where he hit you but the pain was unbearable.

After he left the apartment, you stood up crying more from the pain. You reached the bedroom and picked some clothes with a bag. After waiting some times, you got out. Since you were too ashamed, you choose an hotel near the tower and after a quick check in, you entered in the room.

Throwing yourself on the bed you cried more.

Violently and uncontrollably.

In the meanwhile at the tower, a very worried super soldier kept his eyes on the elevator all night. Phone in his hand and ear ready trying to hear every kinda of possible noise. Bucky recently noticed something was off. You smiled less, during mission you much more stiffened and most importantly, he swore you flinched after breaking accidentally a glass some days before.

Something is off, he thought.

The next day, after blocking Mark’s number, you reached the tower.

“Here she is,” Nat said, hugging you. You didn’t know how you could control the pain you felt. “The party was phenomenal… you are definitely gonna be in the next one. No objections.”

You simply nodded. You reached the common room, where the other avengers were standing finishing the meeting for the upcoming mission. Everyone cheered seeing you but Bucky’s eyes stayed on you for a long time.

It wasn’t a mystery you lived far from the tower, but they didn’t know about your relationship. You and Mark lived in your apartment in which he moved immediately.

Once you also got ready, carefully getting dressed in a separate room, you reached the others. When you entered the hangar where the jet was waiting, Bucky circled your shoulders and kissed your temple.

“Missed you yesterday doll,” he said, resting his cheek on your head. “You’re okay?”

You hummed yes and untangled from him.

The mission should have been easy.

Enter. 

Eliminate all the threats. 

Getting on the jet again and spending the night drinking a lot of beer in the common area.

So easy… until it wasn’t.

A grenade exploded right behind the warehouse, fortunately not hitting the jet. An explosion so big and loud that everybody was laying on the ground, ears ringing and throat burning.

“Is everybody alright?” Steve shouted, standing in a quick jump.

“Yeah…” Sam said limping.

“Kinda.” Tony exclaimed checking everybody’s vitals with his sensors.

“Okay.” Nat shouted, croaking his neck.

“Here pal,” Bucky replied. He stood attaching his arm on his shoulder. “Where’s Y/N?” He asked worried.

In the distance, you heard Bucky’s voice. He sounded so worried, for you. The back of your thighs burning from the day before. The ankle Mark crushed in hand was now hurting since you fell on it. You tried to stand failing miserably.

“Doll,” Bucky said running to you. “Here let me help you…” he moved closer to you followed by the team.

“No… I can do it myself… just take my hand…”

Knowing Bucky he was already ready to pick you up, but the idea of his arm under your legs made you tremble. He couldn’t know what happened, let alone knowing you had a toxic relationship.

In that moment, you thought that not telling the team nor Bucky about Mark, was a signal about how wrong it was all the situation.

“C'mon doll, you need help.” He snorted.

“I SAID JUST FUCKING TAKE MY HAND!”

Everything stopped.

Tony, Steve, Nat and Sam blinked trying to look anywhere but you.

Bucky froze. His eyes went down, slightly wet.

“Doll…”

“Please take my hand and stop talking,” you begged him. Your tone now low, sweet almost whispered.

He took your hand and you limped, he resisted the urge to circled your waist. You saw the pain in his eyes, but he kept his mouth shout.

No one dared to speak in the jet.

Bucky saw how you limped on the jet and how you laid on your side. You did that just because your thighs couldn’t handle your weight on them. When you arrived, you held Bucky’s arm without hesitation. He of course helped you.

Again, no one talked when you all entered in the compound.

You untangled from Bucky, looking at him.

You both took the elevator since your rooms were on the same floor. Entering the room you were barely using since living with Mark, you checked the phone, miraculously not broke from the explosion. You saw a voice message from Mark, and you played it.

Bitch… I swear the moment I found you I’m gonna break you so hard you can for-

“The fuck was that?” A voice behind you exclaimed.

Bucky.

You flinched and turned noticing the slightly ajar door. You pushed the phone in your pocket in a second.

“Doll,” he fought for keeping his tone controlled. “What was that?”

“Bucky… you don’t get… it’s nothing I swear…”

“Nothing? You wanna tell me that was nothing? Are you out of your mind?”

You didn’t know what to say. Bucky heard Mark’s message. He heard everything and now he was standing in front of you, hand closed in a fist while the metal one screeched. You moved to the bed limping, feeling his eyes on you. It burned when you sat.

“He’s Mark,” you said looking down. “My boyfriend…” you didn’t dare to look up.

“Your boyfriend? Wait… you have a boyfriend?”

Feeling his eyes on you, you nodded. “He’s not my boyfriend anymore… at least I hope…”

In a rush of laughter, you snorted. Every kind of emotions busted in you.

“Why the secret?” He asked you.

“Don’t know,” you whispered. You did know the reason but you weren’t ready to say it. Bucky couldn’t stand it.

“How the fuck you couldn’t know? It’s your fucking life…”

Hearing Bucky’s voice, made you angry. “You wanna know why? Because I’m fucking ashamed…” you stood abruptly. “Ashamed of your reaction… of being a fucking avenger but getting hit with a fucking belt-”

“A fucking belt? He hit you?”

Panic rushed in your body. You didn’t mean to say it and let Bucky know about it. “No… wait… I-I didn’t mean it like that…”

“And how did you mean it?”

You looked down again, while the tears began to run on your face. You legs began to burn again as you sat.

“Did he hit you?” Bucky asked calmly.

“Buck…”

“DID. HE. FUCKING. HIT. YOU?”

“Yes.”

Bucky jumped out of your room. A movement so quick you almost didn’t see him.

“BUCKY PLEASE WAIT…” you limped behind him.

He run toward the elevator, beating you. You waited for the closed one and once it was there you rushed into it. When the door opened, you caught a glimpse of Bucky’s voice in the common room.

“Stark! Look every fucking camera in this fucking city and find whoever was near Y/N-”

“Bucky what? Are you high?” Tony laughed, but immediately stopped seeing Bucky's face.

“BUCKY BARNES STOP!” You yelled.

“Can everybody explain?” Tony asked very much confused.

“Y/N,” Bucky exhorted you.

Sensing everybody’s eyes on you, you picked the phone from the pocket. Mark’s voice ringing into the silent common area.

Bitch I swear the moment I found you I’m gonna break you so hard you can forget your fucking weirdos avengers and that stupid assassin of yours.

You closed your eyes in the end. Bucky in your room made you pause the message but now you, and everybody else, heard it.

You explained everything.

How Mark seemed pretty normal or at least that was what you remembered since the trauma made you erased him from your mind. You now pictured only the pain, the humiliation and the loss of your freedom.

Nat was ready to fight just as Sam, Steve and Tony.

Bucky was calm, too calm. Knowing him, you knew he was already memorised his tone of voice ready to track him down in the streets if needed.

“Did he really hit you with a belt?” Sam asked.

You nodded. Again, you told them how you spent the night in a hotel after you escaped him. “It was easier like that… the mission today…”

“HOW CAN YOU FUCKING SAY THIS WAS EASIER. YOU SHOULD HAVE COME TO ME FOR GOD’S SAKE. I FUCKING LOVE YOU Y/N,”

You stopped breathing.

“You love me?” You asked shocked.

“Cmon, Y/N everybody knows this,” Bucky said looking down.

You saw around you the others nodding. You looked at Bucky. His head bent down, his eyes locked on the floor and his both hands closed into fists.

In your mind there were only the things Bucky did for you and thinking about it, it was pretty obvious. He always remembered your coffee order, the way you ate your sandwich or the books you liked more. It was when you decided to move closer to him, that you all hear a voice.

“I fucking knew it!”

Mark.

In the tower.

In the common room.

“I knew it. No one has your freaking relationship without any feelings…”

Feeling again scared and little you moved behind Bucky, who put already himself in front of you. As he turned looking at Mark, he gulped. He actually never saw Bucky in real life. He knew of course who he was and what he did in the past but seeing him there in real life was another thing.

Tall, broad shoulders, dirt and blood on him from the mission. He was intimidating and he knew it.

Bucky moved toward Mark, maybe too fast because Mark stumbled on his feet. He felt down, looking Bucky up from the floor. A coward in his natural state, eyes wide opened. Panic and fear rushing through him.

“Did you hit her?” Bucky asked him calmly, making him way more terrifying.

“I…I…” Mark stumbled and stuttered.

“So?” Bucky asked again, lowering near Mark. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you,” Bucky smiled. A smile tight and fake but surely effective on Mark. “In fact… I don’t care why you did it,” he said that keeping his composure but then he snapped.

In a second Bucky stood. Six feet tall, 200 and more pounds standing there in front of a scared little man. He grabbed Mark by the collar of his shirt with his metal hand. He kept him in the air, Mark’s legs swinging in the air. Bucky pressed his hand more on his neck, causing Mark’s face to change colour into a reddish shadow.

Seeing this, you realised how stupid you were.

Fearing a man like this?

Being treated like that?

And then you took a look at Bucky. The man you thought was only your friend, the one who was now defending you and giving him a lesson.

Bucky, sensing your eyes on himself, turned his head. His sweet blue eyes made a strong contrast with what he was doing to Mark.

He looked again at his target, held locked in his hand and threw him onto the floor. Mark coughed touching his neck. Bucky walked closer, lowering near him.

“If I ever saw you near her again,” he looked Mark with a firm glance. “I’ll kill you.”

Ever the loser, Mark nodded.

As he was about to stand, Bucky talked again. “Steve,”

“Yes pal?” Steve replied immediately.

“Call the police please.”

“On it.” Steve said, as Nat approached Mark.

In a bunch of minutes the police arrived and cuffed Mark, pressing charges against him for domestic violence and abuse. Nat asked the policemen to escort him at the station. You didn’t really know if she brought him at the station. Steve, Tony and Sam hugged you one by one whispering sweet thing to you.

You were now alone in the common room with Bucky.

“Buck,” you started. “I can explain…”

“Don’t,” he stopped you raising his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me anything?”

You looked down. “I was scared of your reaction,” you admitted. “Scared of what you might have said…”

“I should have killed him. I was going to… but I stopped…”

You knew why he stopped. Killing a man with his metal hand, keeping him in the air. Too many resembles to his previous life as the Winter Soldier.

“You were defending me,” you said as you moved closer.

“I spend my life defending you… and I’m not gonna stop,” he moved too.

Now you were face to face, chest to chest, the tip of his nose touching your head as he kissed your forehead. You looked up at him, towering over you. You took his head between your hands and pulled him down. Your lips touched his, just a peck until he deepened the kiss. His tongue playing with yours, his hands gripping your waist pulling impossibly close to him.

You felt his heartbeat against yours. Circling his neck with your arms, you breathed in him as he did the same with you. He tightened his press on your waist, lifting you in the air. As he was about to hold you from your legs, you hummed against his lips.

“Buck,” you said out of breath. “Not there please,”

He looked at you, calming his breath too. “Is your stomach okay?”

You looked at him confused but smiling. “I guess…”

“In that case,” Bucky said before lifting you from the waist and gently holding on his shoulder. Your stomach touching his shoulder as he circled your waist to kept you there.

“Right,” you snorted.

He walked you through the compound toward your bedroom. He gently put you down and stood there in front of you. The dirt and dust of the mission still on your bodies.

“I’ll let you take a shower,”

“Stay.”

“Doll, I don’t think it’s the right time.”

“Stay.”

He looked at you, trying to find any trace of doubts. He couldn’t. You knew what you were asking. He knew you were letting him see the pain Mark gave you.

“Okay.”

He stood in the bathroom, looking at you. “You don’t have to show me anything, doll.”

“I want to.”

You began to undress yourself. First the boots came off, then socks and belt. Your fingers rested a little on the shirt. After removing it, you stayed there in front of him with your bra on.

Bucky, always the most skilled spy in the room, immediately noticed some bruises on your hips. You noticed how he looked at your hips and began to unzip your tactical pants.

He wasn’t ready for that.

He noticed at some bruises on your arm, due to the mission and the explosion but looking down he flinched. Your ankle had a handprint on it, purple and dark. Giving him no time to reply, you turned showing him your back thighs.

Red whips landed on your meat. The skin a little puffy, painful and horrible to look at.

“That’s why…” he gulped. “That’s why you didn’t want me to hold you…”

You were naked in front of a fully clothed man and you were at ease. It was Bucky, your Bucky.

He could have took a look at your body but he concentrated only on the bruises Mark left on you. You only nodded.

“C’mon,” he said exhaling. “I’ll help you in the shower.”

He removed boots and socks and belt first, just as you did. When he stood back up again, his eyes never left yours. He took out the edge of his black shirt from his pants, removing it so damn fast that you didn’t even lost connection with his eyes. He moved closer, shirtless and barefoot, only his pants on him. “You don’t need to see if you’re not okay with this…”

You looked at him, at his eyes and caressed a cheek. “You don’t know how much I’m okay with this,”

He smiled at you and unzipped his pants. His boxer did absolutely nothing to hide the excitement. “Sorry,” he smiled sheepishly, covering his bulge.

“No,” you took his hand away. “No need to hide,”

He nodded and slid out of his boxer.

He stood there in all his glorious glory and strength. Broad shoulders and wide chest. His pecs perfectly sculpted along with his abs. His metal arm, shining with the bathroom lights.

“Turn the light off Bucky,” you said while he looked at you confused. “I wanna feel you before seeing you.”

He almost lost the balance, but immediately turned off the light.

It wasn't completely dark in the bathroom due to the big window with the city lights reflecting on it. 

You felt Bucky shifting, coming back in front of you. You saw a glimpse of his arm in the dark, sensing his natural and intoxicating smell too. Raising your arm you caressed his abs, then raising up against his body until his pecs. When you rested the other hand too, he took a deep breathe.

“Doll,” 

“What?” You asked, moving closer until your skin touched his. “Don't you like it?” 

He was liking it, maybe too much. His cock twiched in the air, and when your thigh barely touched his tip he lost it for real. 

Grabbing your neck with his metal hand, he pulled you toward him. He kissed you like his life depended on that kiss. His fingers tangling in your hair while his flesh hand grabbed your hip. “God, sorry… tell me if this is too much…” 

“It's not even enough Buck…” 

He growled against your mouth circling your waist with his arm. He lifted you in a second, keeping you against him. His arm only touched your waist, so your legs could be free to dangle. 

“You're so fucking beautiful, doll…” he panted in your mouth. “I should have killed him… but I didn't… i'm gonna spend my life protecting you.” 

“Bucky…” your words died in your throat as his tongue dove more into your mouth. He was starving. 

In Bucky's mind, while his tongue devoured your mouth, there were only the pain of knowing you alone somewhere near that man. His hands on your body. Bucky hugged you a little more. 

“Buck,” you said pulling out for a second. “I'm not going anywhere…” 

“Oh god,” he said realizing what he was doing. “I'm sorry… did I hurt you?” He whispered putting you back on the floor. 

“What? No! God, no.”

He released a breathe, locked in his throat when eh asked you if he hurted you. 

You smiled at him, moving closer again. You pressed your mouth on his chest, as he push his head behind. His arms remained still at both of his sides. You smiled more and took both of his arm, linking them on your waist.

“I need to take control tonight, Buck… would you let me?” 

“God yes. Please take control on me.” 

Bucky knew you needed it to regain your trust in a man but he couldn't lie to himself, or to you if you ever had asked, that he was turned on by the idea of ​​being bossed around especially by you.

You knelt on the floor, his knees buckled a little. He found again his balance grabbing the counter. 

You hand began to grab the base of his shaft, sliding it up and down. A slow but very effective movement. You thumb worked on his tip. As you saw him closing his eyes, you kissed the tip of his cock. 

“Doll,” 

“Relax and let me…” 

You took his cock in your mouth. Bucky towering over you, his eyes locked on yours. You winked at him and in a rush of pleasure he lifted his hand in the air. You got it immediately and nodded. He rested his hand on your head, fingers tangled in your hair guiding and not controlling. It took him a few more minutes to feel the pleasure raising in his body. 

“Doll please… I don't wanna come in your mouth…” 

“I do.” You replied sucking him more. 

That wrecked him as he came in your mouth. Once he came down from his high, you stood and swallowed all. 

He kissed your lips, starving again. His hands both at the sides of your face keeping you there. 

“Turned around.” He ordered you. 

You nodded smiling and turning. 

Resting your palms on the countertop, you spread your legs. Bucky stayed still for a second, looking at the red whips on your body. He fully stood, chest to your back. Moving your hair, he kissed your neck almost sweetly and devotionally.

“I'm sorry this happened to you, doll.” 

“It's not your fault, Buck.” 

You pushed your head behind, hitting his shouder. It was almost a romantic scene. Two lovers getting back after a fight. 

His hands roamed on your skin, you noticed in the reflection of the mirror. His fingers delicately grazed your stomach, then your belly button making you snort and then he moved them down. Gently caressing your folds at first. You felt a wave of pleasure almost immediately and you pushed yourself more against him. His metal hand circled your waist as his flesh one began playing with your clit. 

“Little precious thing here,” he pinched a little, not hurting you. He felt the wetnees of your core. “Is that all for me?” 

“You know it is, Barnes…”

He lifted your leg on the counter, waiting for a stop from you. You didn't stop him of course.

“Is this…?” 

“It is, Buck.” 

He knelt on the floor, behind you. He kissed the red part on your skin. You flinched a little when the tip of his tongue licked a puffy part on the back of your thighs. You should have stopped him but he was way better than any cream. 

“Please do that again…” you panted. 

“Like this?” He said before licking a stripe on your skin. “Or this?” He kissed the same spot. 

You slouched yourself on the counter, forehead almost touching the mirror. Bucky, behind you, kisse for the last time your thigh. 

He moved fast and efficient. In a second you felt the tip of his tongue in your pussy. 

“Buck!” You yelled. 

“Let me,” 

He dove into your pussy, licking everything he could. He bite your folds and clit a little, your knees menaced to fall but Bucky's arm was pretty secure around your waist. 

His tongue, strong and raw, devoured you. He was good at this and you suspected he knew that. 

“Best day ever, doll.” He said against your core. 

It was now your turn to clench around him. He felt the muscles in your pussy moving, so he inserted a finger too.

“Bucky!” You yelled moaning. 

He pumped his finger in you as his tongue continued his journey. You came on his tongue yelling his name. You turned for a second, grabbing his hair. He moaned and groaned as you pulled his hair more. 

As you came down from your orgasm, keeping his face in you for a second more, you feel on the counter. 

Bucky stood behind you, caging you between his body and the sink. He rested his forehead in the middle on your back. 

“I fucking love you, doll. I'm tired of pretending I don't. I wanna spend my life with you.” 

You smiled as a tear escaped from your eye. “I love you too Bucky. I wanna spend my life with you too…” 

He hugged you, still towering over you. “Let's have that shower.” 

You nodded. 

Entering in the shower, he opened the water. When the stream, not too hot due to your skin, hit the both of you. His body covered you from the direct stream of water. He remained for a second fixing your face. 

“What?” You asked smiling. 

He kissed you with the same damn hunger he had since entering your room. He pushed you more against the wall. 

“Buck,” you asked against his lips.

He hummed. 

“Pick me up and fuck me…” 

“Doll… your legs… what?” 

“PICK. ME. UP. AND. FUCK. ME.” 

He looked at you and hs eyes got darker. He picked you up in a second, weight like a feather in his arms. His hands on your thighs did infact burn but you couldn't care less. Keeping his mouth on yours, he slid inside you in a singular movement. He stayed there fronzen from the pleasure, still keeping you up. When you looked at him nodding, he began to move. 

His thrusts were precise, deep and able to reach every part of you. 

Your nails grabbed him more, on his shoulders. His face went direct in the crook of your neck, hiding himself.

“Can't last, doll… too perfect…” 

“Come inside…” 

He quickened his movements as he felt your core clenching around him. You wanted to keep him inside you forever. 

You felt his warm release in you and you hugged him tighter. 

He held you with his metal arm as his flesh one went on the wall to balance himself. After regaining it, he moved it on your face. He traced the edge of your lips, playing with the lower lips. 

He was still inside you when he stopped trembling. 

He put your down, still keeping you from your waist the proceeded to wash your body and hair. He quickly did his too, soldier efficienty. 

Once he rinsed yoo both, he opened the shower's door and grabbed the fluffiest towel he could. He delicately patted your skin. 

“On the counter… rest on your elbow…” he said blushing. 

“Again?" You asked smirking

“Uh, no…” he blushed more. “I'll apply the cream… if you want…” 

“Oh,” you smiled at his shyness. 

You perched your body on the sink, propping up your ass as he applied the cream. 

“Behave.” He ordered with the less intimidating voice ever. 

“Okay…” 

Once he finished, you felt the relief on your skin. He massagged your thighs with gentle hands, too gentle. Completely the contrary of what he was in the shower. 

You began tearing up a little. 

“Doll, did it hurt?” 

You shock your head no. “It's the way you care,” he stood behind you like he did before. “I suppose i'm not used to it anymore.” 

“I've got you. Today, tomorrow and for the rest of my life.” 

“I know.” 

That night, when he slid in the bed near you, you felt at ease for the first time in a very long time. 

Bucky's metal arm protecting you. His body against yours. His breath on your neck, warm and reassuring. 

“I love you, Buck. I'm sorry if I didn't see it…” 

“I love you too,” he kissed your shoulder. “Now you're seing it… it's all I care about.” 

You closed your eyes with a super soldier on your side and a smile on your lips. 

You heart never so full of love and devotion.