This is my first one-shot for Jack Abbott (The Pitt) — not my first time writing (been doing that for a while now), but definitely my first time diving into this man and this show… and yeah, I’m completely addicted at this point, no shame 🤷♀️
⚠️ Warnings:
Emotional angst
Patient death / overdose
Hospital/medical trauma themes
Age gap
Attending x doctor dynamic
Kissing / tension / questionable decisions 👀
⚠️ Important:
This is my original work. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim it as your own anywhere. Respect writers.
This is a raw, emotional one-shot—kinda messy in the best way, a little chaotic, very feelings-heavy… basically me putting my heart on paper and hoping it hits someone the same way it hit me while writing it.
I would love to hear what you think—seriously. Comments, reactions, screaming, crying, all of it. Tell me your favourite part, tell me if it hurt, tell me if you’re mad at me for the ending 😅
And if you want more of this universe… just say the word 👀
Yet another night, yet another 12—maybe 15—hour shift. Verdict’s still out, we’ll see. Coffee in hand, smile on my face as I walk into the Pitt. Night shift is a whole other beast—one that doesn’t like to be tamed, but runs wild into the open, breathing down every doctor’s and nurse’s neck. And don’t even get me started if it’s a full moon—it’s like the crazies are even crazier. But hey, I live for the adrenaline.
Heading to the nurse’s station, I catch a glimpse of him—the man I have the biggest crush on… Okay, fine, maybe it’s more than a crush… but I ain’t acting on it. He’s my attending, and nearly fifteen years older than me. So I keep my distance. Don’t wanna cosy up to the Bossman.
I take another sip of my steaming hot vanilla latte, my tongue darting out to catch a drop sliding down the lid.
He nods curtly. No smile, but no annoyance either—just courtesy. “Doctor.”
I nearly choke. “Dr. Abbott—hi. You doing good? Are you? What are you up to? Having a good shift?”
Can I please just stop rambling?
He squints his light eyes. “How much caffeine have you had already?” Then adds, “Try to breathe between words.”
I can feel my cheeks burning. “Uhm… yeah, too many.” I shake my head. “Excuse me—patients and all that.”
I walk briskly into an emergency room where an older man scolds me. “Can’t a man get some sleep?”
I mumble an apology and step back out, feeling his eyes burn a hole through me. Goodness, I hope he can’t read minds—because if he could… yeah, I’d be in serious trouble for having fantasies and feelings about Jack Abbott.
I sigh as I disappear around the corner, closing my eyes for a second. I’ve always been horrible at this—romantic feelings, all of it. And the worst part? I sabotage myself. Always falling for the emotionally unavailable, stoic, brooding types—the ones still hung up on an ex, carrying baggage bigger than an airport line, or with an age gap wide enough to make people assume I’ve got daddy issues… or that grey is my favourite colour. And don’t even get me started on the fact that age lines (aka wrinkles)? Yeah… kind of a turn-on.
I rub my temples, which does nothing to fix the frayed, messy strands of my hair.
Mumbling under my breath, I mutter, “Falling for him… that’s the easy part.”
I straighten up.
This is gonna be a long shift.
I’ve been running—from the feelings, from myself, from him… from something, nothing, everything. Hell if I know.
The only time I’m okay is when I’m focused on a patient. And we’ve had some crazy calls tonight—drunk college students who thought they were Superman, Spider-Man… heck, whatever superhero is cool. Is “cool” even still a cool word? Hell if I know. Shows you how life passes you by—one second you’re young, the next you’re in your thirties getting excited about an early night in, binge-watching a series with a tub of ice cream.
A sudden shiver runs down my spine as his breath brushes over my ear.
“Doctor… are you just gonna stand there, or finish your chart?”
I glance down. “Jack—I mean, Dr. Abbott.”
A knowing smirk crosses his face. “Yeah, last time I checked, that’s my name.”
My cheeks flare pink. “S-sorry… I’m just a little tired.”
He studies my face. “Yeah? I can tell.”
He lifts his hand toward my arm—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin all the way up to my shoulder.
I—
Is he going to—
My heartbeat spikes—honestly, probably illegal at this point.
His hand moves past me. He grabs a pen.
“Damn pens nowadays,” he mutters, already scribbling on the chart.
And just like that… gone.
Everything after that is a blur. I think I said something like, “Yeah… darn pens,” before walking away—
Okay, fine.
Nearly running.
From him.
A patient comes in—late teens. Drug overdose.
Damn it.
He starts coding, and I’m on him instantly, chest compressions, counting under my breath like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered. I keep going. Longer than I should. Longer than anyone should.
This one hits harder than most—maybe it’s his age, maybe it’s the parents watching, maybe it’s the way his mom keeps whispering his name like he can still hear her.
I keep going.
Trying.
Begging.
His voice cuts through everything. “Doctor, stop compressions. It’s been too long.”
The mother screams, collapsing to the floor.
I try to stop. I do.
But I can’t.
It’s like my arms don’t belong to me anymore.
His hands—rough, steady—close over mine. Grounding me. Forcing me to stop.
Silence crashes in.
I stare at the clock on the wall. “T-time of death… 02:46.”
The parents are crying. Broken.
I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin, and walk out before the tears spilling over can catch up with me.
I think I’m moving fast—faster than anyone could follow.
But he still catches up.
His voice is low. Controlled. “What was that?”
I turn, looking up at him. “Sorry, Dr. Abbott. Not all of us can be so… so…” I swallow hard. “Hardass about death like you are.”
He squints, those light eyes sharp. “Clearly you’re emotional, because that’s no way to speak to your attending.”
I let out a humourless laugh. “Excuse me? Emotional—what, because I’m a woman? Or because I actually dare to feel something?”
His throat bobs. “Doctor, you’re out of line. Take a break and come back when you’re a little more stable.”
My chest heaves. “Y-you—”
The wetness on my cheeks stops me cold.
Great.
Crying. In front of him.
I turn on my heel and storm off toward the roof—the one place where I can actually breathe. I try to control my breathing as I stare out over the city lights. After a second, I give up and sit down, knees pulled to my chest, chin resting there. Tears soak into my scrubs while the cool breeze does nothing but make everything worse.
I barely hear the rooftop door open—
but I feel him.
I always do.
His voice is low. Softer than I’ve ever heard it. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just know how to control it. You do this job long enough… you learn. Because if you don’t, it’ll break your heart until there’s nothing left.”
I glance up at him, standing over me. “I really don’t need a lecture… or a pity talk… or whatever. I need to be alone.”
He nods once. “Fine. We don’t have to talk.”
I squint as he lowers himself down beside me, groaning slightly, rubbing his knee—his prosthetic—like it’s acting up again.
I turn my face away. Not looking at him. Not giving him that.
But of course, he doesn’t let it go.
“You know… you did everything you could. Fentanyl’s no joke. The chances of survival are almost none.”
I let out a shaky breath, tears slipping free again. “Just stop, Jack. I really don’t need this right now.”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing under my chin, turning my face toward him before I can stop him.
“Then what do you need, huh?”
I search his eyes, my voice barely there. “I need every patient to be okay… for children to go home to their parents… for parents to live as long as their children…”
My voice falters.
“…for everything to be okay.”
He smiles—sad, quiet. “You chose the wrong job then, sweetheart.”
I sniff, letting out a weak, humourless huff. “Wow. Gee. Thanks. You’re great at this.”
That actually earns a small laugh from him. “I work night shift for a reason. The fewer conversations I have with people, the better.”
I shake my head, turning my face away from him. “Whatever.”
He sighs, rubbing his forehead.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then his arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug.
I gasp, startled. “W-what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His voice, when it comes, is softer than before. “I can’t make things okay for you… but I can be there for you.”
A fresh wave of tears hits, and his arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer. My head drops to his shoulder, tears soaking into his scrubs now.
We don’t speak.
Not at first.
Somewhere between the distant city noise and the steady rhythm of our breathing, my tears slow. My heart doesn’t race as hard.
I find something I didn’t expect—comfort.
In his arms.
In this moment.
In him.
He glances down at me. “There we go… see? All better now.”
I nod slowly, looking up at him through damp lashes. “Thank you… I needed that.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “Could’ve sworn I’m a doctor.”
I let out a soft giggle, lightly slapping his arm. “Ugh, you’re so full of yourself.”
He smiles—really smiles this time—and holds my gaze.
His hand lifts, brushing gently against my cheek, his thumb wiping away the last traces of tears.
My eyes drop to his lips.
Dangerous mistake.
His voice is barely a whisper. “Beautiful.”
He leans in.
I gasp softly as his lips meet mine.
The kiss is slow at first—careful, testing—like he’s giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
Instead, I melt into him.
And then it shifts.
Deeper. Warmer.
His hands come up, holding my face, pulling me closer as the kiss turns more intense, more certain. My hands press against his chest, grounding myself as everything else starts to blur.
For a second—just one—I let myself get lost in it.
In him.
Then reality crashes back in.
What the hell am I doing?
I pull back suddenly, breath unsteady, lips tingling. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.”
His expression shifts—surprise, something darker flickering behind those light eyes.
I don’t wait.
I get up and run—straight for the door.
I don’t look back.
I don’t want to see his face.
And I know…
He won’t be right behind me. Not immediately.
In mere seconds, another emergency comes in. And another. And another.
Before I know it, morning creeps in and day shift starts filtering through the doors.
Not once do I look at Jack.
As a matter of fact… I avoid him. Completely.
I head into the locker room, exhaustion finally catching up with me. I just want to go home—no, need my bed.
I close my locker and turn around—
—and there he is.
Leaning against the lockers, irritation written all over his face… along with something else I can’t quite name.
His voice is low. “You’re just gonna leave after what happened?”
I look anywhere but at him. “It was a mistake. A—”
“A mistake?” he cuts in. “Really? Is that how it felt?”
I glance up at him. “I… uhm—”
He steps closer. “You’re gonna lie to my face? Really?”
I shake my head. “J-Jack… you’re my attending.”
He nods once. “Yeah. So?”
I blink, confused. “So? It’s wrong. You’re my boss… you’re older—”
He huffs. “Oh, so it’s my age now?” He steps even closer. “Because I guarantee you—I can make you feel things no guy your age ever could.”
I suck in a breath. “N-no… don’t…”
His hand plants against the locker behind me, trapping me in. “Don’t what?”
I force myself to hold my ground. “Don’t act like you like me.”
He goes still. Then his eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t like you.”
My stomach drops. “W-what?”
He leans in, his breath brushing my ear.
“I’ve fallen for you… since your first week.”
My breath catches. “I… I’ve been here for two years…”
“You think I don’t know that?” he murmurs. “It’s been torture. Not knowing if you felt the same. Wondering every damn day.”
I shake my head, heart pounding. “W-we can’t do this.”
His hand comes up, thumb brushing my lower lip, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Tell me right now you don’t feel anything for me,” he says, voice low, rough in a way I’ve never heard before, “and I’ll walk away. I’ll stop.”
My breath stutters.
“Y-you know I do…”
That’s all it takes.
His lips crash against mine—desperate, consuming, like he’s been holding back for far too long. My fingers tangle in his hair as I kiss him back just as fiercely, everything else fading away for a second.
His voice brushes against my lips, breathless. “I could get used to this…”
His mouth trails along my jaw, down my neck, and my head falls back before I can stop it—
Footsteps. Voices.
Reality.
“Stop—” I whisper.
He pulls back instantly, searching my face.
“I… I can’t.”
And this time, I don’t hesitate.
I walk out—fast, before I can change my mind.
Before I can fall any harder.
Tears blur my vision as I push through the doors.
Because falling for him?
That’s the easy part.
Knowing he feels the same…
That’s the part that ruins you.
I can’t let this happen. Real love doesn’t happen to someone like me.
No.
As I step out into the early morning light, the sun just beginning to rise, I make a decision.
Last night… was my last night shift.
Because I can’t keep working with a man I love.
Better to break my own heart now… than give him the power to do it later.
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Jinkies my loves, its the end of HURTING ANGEL... like whatttttt.... the only warning is.... your gonna need tissues... and a whole lot of "what, just happened moments" - comment, like everything you crazy kids do these days... except don't copy my work... okayz y'all enjoyz... <3 @jackles010378 @angelbabyyy99 @winchesterwild78 @brittanilynn94 @alwayscaskett810
It had been days. Weeks maybe.
Bridget had been thrown in the hole more times than she could count. Crowley kept saying he was working on a plan, while Lainey recovered somewhere out there—with her biological father, Sam Winchester. Bridget never thought she could hate someone as much as she hated him. But hell, if she ever got her hands on him, heaven help her—because she wouldn’t be able to stop beating the ever-living crap out of him.
Her attorney Luke had stopped by. She didn’t like him—cocky bastard—but he was the only one who could get her out of this legally.
As she sat across from him, her mind echoed with Crowley’s last visit.
“I got everything ready, love. For the jailbreak. My minions are lined up.” She’d told him no. She wanted to do this the right way. No running. No hiding. She was done living like a fugitive, always watching her back.
Luke walked in with that usual smug grin—until he saw her.
Beaten. Bruised. Leaner. Tighter. Stronger.
He cleared his throat.
“Tomorrow, this time—you’re out. I found your sister. She signed the papers. Took a little persuasion, of course... but you’re going home, Miss York.”
Bridget stared at him. Her heart stuttered.
The nightmare was finally ending.
Laughter burst through her tears. “Thank you. Thank you.”
Luke chuckled, already turning to leave.
“Don’t thank me. The Devil already did—with the little fortune he paid me.”
And just like that, he walked out, all smug and slinking, like a damn Cheshire Cat.
The moment the sun touched her face as she stepped out of those prison gates, it felt unreal. Never in her life had sunlight felt so good. She blinked against the brightness, scanning the crowd—until her eyes found Crowley’s.
She didn’t think. She ran.
He actually laughed when she collided into his arms.
“My love.”
Her arms wrapped tight around his neck just as his lips crushed against hers in a kiss so fierce it almost hurt. Damn, it had felt like forever since they’d held each other.
On the drive home, Crowley tried to make conversation—keeping it as light as a man called the Devil possibly could.
Bridget just stared out the window. Her mind was loud with one name.
Lainey.
How was she doing? Was she okay? Did she miss her?
“My love?” Crowley’s voice finally cut through the noise.
She turned to him. Those blue eyes that once held so much life… now looked dull. Faded. Almost grey.
“Yes?”
His fingers threaded gently through her blonde hair. “We’ll get Lainey back. We’ll be a family.”
She leaned into his touch, but her voice came out fractured.
“I—I did things in there. Things that… that aren’t what a mother is supposed to do. What if she hates me?”
He shook his head immediately. “No, love. She won’t.”
Bridget looked up at him, eyes silently asking how could you possibly know that?
He gave her the faintest smirk.
“Your daughter loves me. And I’m the Devil.”
That did it.
The tears slipped down her cheeks.
His hand covered hers.
They felt different. Rougher. When he glanced down at her small, fragile hands, they weren’t fragile at all anymore. Open wounds. Split knuckles. Fighter’s hands. The kind that told stories no one should have to live through.
He flinched — not at the damage, but at what she must have endured.
His voice barely made it past his lips.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
Her eyes widened. “No! Crowley, don’t— it’s not your fault.”
“But I walked away,” he said quietly.
She shook her head, almost desperate. “Not your fault. I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you everything about me. B-but I’m ashamed.”
He pulled the car to the side of the road and parked, turning fully toward her.
“I could never be ashamed of you,” he said, steady now. “You— you made me believe in love. In caring about someone. You and your daughter are the best things that ever happened to me.”
Bridget broke then, tears spilling freely.
Crowley reached into his coat and pulled out a small red velvet box.
“It’s not as romantic as I planned,” he muttered. “But Bridget York… will you marry me?”
She laughed through her tears. “Yes. Yes!”
He slid the oval diamond ring over her bruised knuckle and kissed her like a man who had finally found something all his money could never buy.
They pulled apart eventually, both breathless.
Crowley rested his forehead against hers, a faint smile on his lips.
“Let’s go get our daughter.”
Her eyes widened. “Our?”
He nodded. “Yes, my love. My lawyers have drawn up the papers. If it’s alright with you… I’ll legally adopt her. I’ll be her father. You’ll be her mother.”
His voice softened. “But only if you want me to.”
She laughed and cried all at once. “Yes. Yes, babe. She’ll have a real father. I couldn’t ask for better.”
He shook his head lightly. “I don’t know how you can love a man like me… but I’m very glad you do.”
With that, he pulled back onto the road, heading toward the mansion where Sam Winchester was staying with their daughter.
They were going to get her back.
And come hell or high water, no one would ever take her from them again.
They pulled into the driveway of the expensive estate.
Crowley stepped out first, dressed in his crisp black suit and tie. Bridget followed in a simple summer dress, her hair lifting softly in the breeze.
The front door opened before they could knock.
Sam stood there, jaw tight. “What the hell?”
Bridget didn’t hesitate. Her voice was steady, sharp. “Where’s my daughter? Is she okay?”
“She’s my daughter, not yours,” Sam shot back. “And how the hell are you out of prison?”
Crowley stayed slightly behind her. He knew she didn’t need saving.
“Because, Sam,” Bridget replied evenly, “I am Lainey’s legal guardian. My sister signed over all parental rights.”
Before Sam could argue, laughter echoed down the hall. Dean appeared, Lainey in his arms, both of them mid-giggle.
And then Lainey saw her.
“Mommyyyyy!”
Bridget pushed past Sam and ran.
Dean set the little girl down, and Lainey sprinted straight into her mother’s arms.
“Honey—” Bridget dropped to her knees as Lainey collided with her.
“Mommy, mommy, you’re here! Love you!”
They clung to each other, both crying, both laughing.
“I’ll never leave you again,” Bridget whispered into her daughter’s brown hair.
Lainey cupped her mother’s face in tiny hands. “Mommy, love you. You’re so pretty.”
Bridget held her tighter, like she could stitch time itself back together.
Then Lainey looked up and spotted Crowley.
Her eyes lit up. She ran to him, arms raised. “Cowley! Daddy!”
He bent down and lifted her easily. “My little monkey.”
She frowned with all the seriousness a child could muster. “I’m not a monkey.”
He smirked. “No. You’re my daughter. That makes you my monkey, love.”
She giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Bridget stepped closer, and Crowley opened one arm for her without thinking. She slipped beside him, looking at the man she would spend a lifetime loving — and for the first time in years, she felt something steady.
Peace.
Lainey turned toward Sam. “Uncle Sam, can I go home now?”
Sam’s face went pale, but Dean stepped in gently. “Yes, sweetheart. Go home with Mommy and Daddy.”
And that was that.
The three of them walked to the SUV.
They drove away as a family.
Lainey chattered endlessly in the back seat — happy, healthy, alive.
Bridget sat in the passenger seat, her fingers intertwined with Crowley’s. Despite the noise, despite the scars, despite everything — she felt calm.
Safe.
Crowley glanced at her, his thumb brushing over her knuckles — the same knuckles that had fought to survive.
For the first time in his long, ruthless life, he felt rich.
Not with gold.
Not with power.
But with love.
And as he looked at the woman beside him — his once-broken angel — he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
He would spend the rest of his life making sure she never felt alone again.
Hi loves , 2nd last chapter, can ya'll believe this , like what.... warnings... lemme think, get tissues... your gonna need it hehe... Love ya'll, and remeber to comment and like and everything in between, except don't copy my work, thank you....
Dean stood there, jaw tight, fists clenched, heart splitting down the damn middle.
He didn’t want this. Hell, he hated it.
But Sam said it was the “right thing.”
Legal. Justified.
According to the law, Bridget York had kidnapped that little girl.
And maybe on paper, that made sense.
But as he watched her get dragged away, sobbing, begging—while Lainey screamed like her world was ending—Dean couldn’t shake the look in Bridget’s eyes.
That wasn’t a kidnapper.
That was a mother.
Sam hadn’t shown up to watch her be taken—too busy prepping for the transplant. Doing the heroic thing.
Dean scoffed bitterly. “Sammy’s a good man,” he muttered under his breath.
So why did this feel so damn wrong?
Lainey had gone limp, too tired to scream anymore as the nurses wheeled her into the OR. Her tiny fingers trembled from crying. Dean stayed in the waiting room, pacing like a caged dog, trying to convince himself they did the right thing.
Then—
CRACK. A fist slammed into his jaw.
He staggered back, stars bursting in his vision, instinct kicking in before logic could. He threw a punch—then another. He didn’t care who it was.
Until that voice cut through the chaos like a blade dipped in acid.
“Bloody hell. What did you do?”
Dean turned, blood dripping from his split lip—only to lock eyes with him.
Crowley.
The Devil himself. The man who ran the city's underbelly like a damn kingdom.
Dean’s voice dropped, rough and defiant.
“I did what I had to. The law’s the law.”
Crowley stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his fury ice-cold and lethal. He grabbed Dean by the throat, his grip like iron.
“You self-righteous little shit,” he growled. “You let them take her? You let that little girl think her mother abandoned her?”
Dean’s hands went to Crowley’s wrist, but the man didn’t let go.
“You want a war, Winchester?” Crowley’s eyes blazed. “Because I will burn this whole bloody hospital to the ground if you don’t get her out.”
Dean didn’t back down. “I did what was right.”
Crowley’s eyes were pure fire. “You better hope and pray I get her out of jail, or I’ll kill you in the blink of an eye.”
Dean shoved him off, voice low and bitter. “Get the hell off me. She’s the criminal, not me.”
Even as the words left his mouth, they tasted like ash. He didn’t believe them—not for a damn second. But he had to protect his brother.
Crowley slammed him hard against the wall before finally releasing him. He turned on his heel, his coat snapping behind him as he stalked away.
“You better find a way to fix this, Dean Winchester,” he barked, disappearing around the corner like a storm.
Dean stayed there, chest heaving, fists clenched. He should’ve been furious at Crowley. Hell, he should’ve put him through the damn wall. But all he felt—boiling, unrelenting—was anger for one person.
His brother.
Sam Winchester.
The ride in the back of the police car was a blur. Sobs tore through her, relentless and ugly. The image of her daughter, Lainey—screaming, crying, being dragged away—looped in her mind like a damn horror reel. She couldn’t even remember what the officers had said. Hell, she didn’t care. Her little girl was about to go into surgery without her… without her mother.
At first, she’d fought the cuffs, twisting against the cold metal like it mattered. But now? Now she was just numb. Her body trembled, her heart shook like a leaf in a storm, and her mind—Damn, her mind—was nothing but static, haunted by Lainey’s cries.
Now she sat in a shitty little steel chair in a room that smelled like old coffee and sweat, staring blankly at the wall. A door creaked open. A detective stepped in, holding a paper cup and wearing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m Detective Novak,” he said, voice soft. “But you can call me Cas.”
Bridget didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she didn’t have the damn strength. Not anymore.
“I brought you coffee,” he continued gently. “Thought you might need it.” He set it down in front of her, then unlocked the cuffs. “No need for these.”
Another smile. Another lie.
She didn’t even blink.
He sat down across from her. Cas had seen a lot over the years, but something about this—this broken mother, this tangled mess of pain and silence—this one was gonna haunt him for a long, long time.
But he still had a job to do.
He started off soft—talking about being a dad himself, how he'd do anything to protect his kids. It almost sounded human. But then came the words that gutted her:
“Lainey isn’t your daughter. She’s your sister’s child. And according to the law, you stole her. You kidnapped her. You never reached out to the father, Sam Winchester. You’ve got no legal papers saying you’re her guardian. In all honesty, Miss York, you’re a criminal. A kidnapper.”
He sat back, adjusting his tie like he hadn’t just shattered her entire existence.
“Here’s what I can offer: lesser sentence, if you cooperate.”
Still, she didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stared. Hollow.
Then the door swung open.
A tall man in a sharp suit strolled in, a smirk dancing on his lips like he owned the whole damn station. His voice was smooth—slithering—as he announced himself:
“Luke. Luke Christopher.”
He turned to Bridget with that smug confidence only high-end lawyers and devils possess.
“I’m her attorney. And this interrogation is over.”
Cas stood, jaw twitching. He knew this guy. Everyone did. Luke was the town's infamous fixer—the guy who took on mobsters, drug lords, rich assholes and always, somehow, won.
What the hell was he doing here?
Luke dropped his briefcase on the table like it was a warning shot. “Stop harassing my client.”
Cas glanced at Bridget one last time. Still no reaction. Still blank. Still breaking.
And then he left.
Luke slid into the chair beside her, leaned in close, and dropped his voice to a near-whisper.
“Miss York, I’m here to tell you something very important.”
A pause. Then:
“The Devil sent me to get you out of here. And I will.”
He straightened up, his tone all business now. “I’ve already got people out looking for your sister. If we can get her to sign those custody papers, we’ll bury this case. You hear me?”
But she didn’t move. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even blink.
It was like the light in her had gone out.
Luke sighed, stood, and headed for the door.
“I’ll make some calls. We’ll talk soon.”
He disappeared.
The coffee had gone cold.
The tear streaks were still fresh on her cheeks.
But Bridget York?
She wasn’t in that room anymore.
It was like her soul had already left.
A few hours had passed, and somehow, she was being transferred — no holding cell, no due process, just straight to prison. It was obvious: someone high up and filthy rich was pulling the strings.
The guard shoved the orange jumpsuit into her hands. She went through the entire intake — fingerprints, photos, the whole damn routine — without saying a single word. Not one.
They marched her down the corridor like livestock.
“Fresh meat!” someone hollered.
“Pretty little rich girl,” another jeered.
The guard didn’t flinch, just pushed her into the cell and barked the rules — the when’s, the what-not’s, all of it. She stood there frozen, like a porcelain doll someone had tossed into the gutter.
As the guard turned to leave, he muttered under his breath, “She’s not gonna last long in here.”
When Crowley found out they’d sent her to prison? He lost his freaking mind.
Orders flew from his mouth like bullets — sharp, loud, frantic. He barked at everyone he knew, called in every favor, twisted every arm. They all gave the same empty promise: We’ll do what we can.
But his fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.
The thought of her — his girl — sleeping in that cold, filthy cell?
He was ready to burn the whole damn city down.
The guard shouted, “Shower time!” like it was some kind of invitation to hell. It wasn’t optional. They marched her down with the others, cold tiles under bare feet, fluorescent lights flickering like they knew something wicked was coming.
The jeers started immediately.
“Slim pickings this week, huh?”
“Devil’s girl, lookin’ soft as butter.”
Bridget didn’t flinch. She didn’t even hear them. Her mind was stuck in a loop — Lainey’s face, her voice, the way her little hand gripped hers before surgery. Did it go okay? Is she awake? Is she scared?
The punch came before she even registered the threat.
A voice growled behind it, “You the Devil’s girl, huh?”
She hit the floor hard. Then came another kick. Then fists — two, three of them — raining down. Mean-looking women with busted knuckles and prison ink joined in, laughing like jackals.
Then the words came like a knife:
“Your daughter’s better off without you.”
Bridget’s eyes snapped open.
“What did you just say?” she asked, voice low, cold, coiled like a snake.
The woman with the neck tattoo grinned, “Oh, she speaks.”
And then Bridget snapped.
She shot up and slammed her fist into the woman’s jaw with a sickening crack. And she didn’t stop.
All that rage, all that pain, every damn thing she buried for years came flooding out. She fought like hell — feral, raw, unrelenting — until the guards finally pulled her off.
She was dragged to the infirmary, face bloodied and bruised, hair matted with sweat and grit. Her once-soft blue eyes now burned with fury. Not sorrow. Not despair. Fury.
As the doctor patched her up, she closed her eyes.
And she remembered.
Before the cushy reporter job, before Lainey, before the world told her to play nice — there was this.
Orphaned. Broke. Drunk. Angry. A teenage girl stealing cars, throwing punches, doing whatever it took to survive.
That Bridget? The one nobody dared fight with?
She was back.
Because Lainey didn’t just need a mother.
She needed a fighter.
And ain’t no damn person — cop, lawyer, or billionaire — gonna keep her from her daughter.
The phone rang. Crowley answered on the first buzz.
“Yeah?”
Then came her voice. Different.
Heartbroken, yeah—but cold. Hard. Not like the woman he made love to just nights ago.
“Crowley. I know you don’t owe me anything—”
He cut her off fast.
“Love, I’ll get you out of there. I’ll burn this damn town down if I have to, but I will reunite you with Lainey.”
She paused. Sounded… alone.
“I’m sorry. About everything—”
“No.” His voice cracked. “Don’t. I’m the one who’s sorry. For walking out. For making it about me. You did what any mother would do. You protected your daughter.”
Then silence. The kind that pressed on your chest.
And you could almost hear her crying through it.
“How’d the surgery go?” she whispered.
He clenched his fist. Jaw tight.
“Good. She… I’m not allowed to see her. I’m not family. But my men said she’s in recovery.”
Bridget let out a fragile breath. “I’m glad she’s okay.” A beat. Then, brittle: “I miss her… I miss you.”
“I know, my love. I’m coming for you. I promise.”
The line went dead.
Crowley stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then whispered to no one but the ghosts,
“I love you.”
Just before dawn, I’m in the office again. We’re finally getting closer to Volchek. From what I’ve gathered, he’s a bitter man—a man with a grudge against America. Then again, doesn’t every other terrorist?
As the team filters in, I greet each one with a polite smile, keeping my head down, keeping the routine. But then he walks in. Mark. Laughing with Oliveras like the past never happened.
I literally want to puke.
The way he kissed me and just left—like we didn’t share history, like he didn’t taste like goodbye. I glance away, pretend to be busy, refuse to look up. He doesn’t exist to me. Not anymore.
Blythe calls us in for an update. I nod along, but if I’m honest? I don’t hear a damn word. My brain’s too busy replaying the look Oliveras gave him—the same look I used to give him. Like he hung the damn stars.
Now, all he’s hung me on is this jagged sense of brokenness I can’t seem to shake. Not that I’d tell anyone. I prefer to keep it all locked inside where it can’t spill out and ruin what’s left of me.
The room empties out one by one until it’s just me and Nathan. His voice breaks through the fog.
“Hey. You with me?”
I look up, meet his sharp blue eyes. “Yeah.” I try to sound neutral.
He studies me, unimpressed. “I need your head in the game.” Then, after a pause that feels heavier than it should, he adds quietly, “You’ve been seeing someone—for what happened?”
My stomach twists. The memories claw at the edges of my mind. My hands start to tremble. The room fades, his voice turning to static as the flashbacks hit—fast and merciless.
Nathan’s voice reaches through the haze, softer now, steadier. “Hey… breathe for me, okay?”
His voice sounds distant, muffled—like I’m underwater again.
Nathan studied her. She looked so damn fragile, like one wrong breath could shatter her. Against his better judgment—against every rule he lived by—he reached for her.
Her body trembled as he pulled her in. The movement was instinct, not logic. He shouldn’t have done it. He knew that. But the feel of her shaking against him gnawed at something deep inside.
He’d read the report. The one that wrecked her whole life.
A sadistic killer.
A chase gone wrong.
An eleven-year-old boy.
And a choice no one should ever have to make.
She’d tried to save the kid—Damn, she had. But the bastard cornered them both, his gun pressed to the boy’s head. Then he handed her the weapon, laughing, whispering that one of them had to die.
And when she refused?
He wrapped his hand over hers, finger over finger, and pulled the trigger for her.
Her body fired the shot.
His mind committed the murder.
The rescue team had burst in seconds later, too late to stop any of it.
After that… she didn’t speak again.
Her fingers clenched in his shirt now, knuckles white, silent tears soaking into the fabric. He should’ve pulled away—kept his distance. But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t care about the wet stain spreading across his chest. Didn’t care about protocol, boundaries, or the voice in his head warning him this was a bad idea.
He just wanted her to be okay.
He needed her to be okay.
I looked up through wet lashes. It was the first time since that day that I’d actually broken down. His blue eyes caught mine—striking, intense, but soft in a way that stole the breath right out of me. The air between us felt heavier somehow, like the room itself was holding its breath.
This is wrong, I told myself. He’s my boss. The team leader.
And I’m not over Mark.
He’s different—steady, older, grounded—but I can’t. I shouldn’t.
My mind’s a bloody tumble of thoughts when he finally leans closer. I inhale sharply, heart climbing into my throat—then he steps back, clearing his throat like he hadn’t just tilted the whole axis of my world.
“Uh—yeah,” he mutters, tugging at his tie, the motion all nerves and authority at once. “Just wanted to make sure your head’s in the right place.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle—twenty-two years in the Bureau etched into his face. He’s got a few years on me. A good couple. Enough to make this whole thing even more impossible.
I wipe my tears fast. “Thanks. I’m good.”
He nods once, stepping behind his desk again. “Good. You’re dismissed.”
Walking out of that glass office, I can feel the stares, even if everyone pretends they weren’t just watching me fall apart.
The bathroom mirror doesn’t lie. The woman staring back at me isn’t me—not really. She looks tired. Hurt. Hollowed out.
Those events—that day—I never spoke about them. Never could.
It’s my fault that little boy will never graduate, never get married, never be a dad.
I splash cold water on my face, like that’ll erase the memories. But I should know better. Some ghosts don’t wash off.
Mark’s emerald eyes darken, almost storm-colored now. What the hell just happened in there? Blythe—of all people—holding her.
She’s his.
No. Was.
He lost that right the day he broke her heart and walked away.
His fists clench anyway, a muscle in his jaw ticking hard. The guilt burns, the kind that crawls under your skin and won’t stop. Especially after what he did weeks ago—kissing her like it meant something, like he still had a claim. Then walking out. Again.
And now Oliveras.
He’d fallen into her bed because it was easy. Because she knew about his condition and didn’t look at him like he was dying. There was no emotional baggage, no history. Just noise and distraction. But she wasn’t her.
She never would be.
All day, he’s in a foul mood. The headaches pound, the tumor behind his eye reminding him he’s on borrowed time. But worse than the pain is the thought of someone else touching his woman.
By the time night drags itself over the city, he’s back in Oliveras’s bed, tangled sheets and skin that should’ve meant escape—but didn’t. The image of her in Blythe’s arms won’t stop replaying. Over and over.
What the hell is wrong with him?
He glances over his shoulder. Amber’s asleep, her breathing steady, peaceful. It makes him feel even worse.
Mark swings his legs out of bed, grabs his shirt off the floor, and steps outside. The night air hits cold and sharp. He takes a breath, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
I couldn’t sleep. Hell no.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Tom — that sadistic bastard — and the way he made me pull the trigger. So I walked, no plan, just the night stretching out in front of me. Ended up at that little diner on the corner, the one that always smells like burnt coffee and loneliness. Slid into a torn leather booth, ordered a cup and a slice of chocolate cake. Asked for a pen, started sketching on a napkin — the old man in the corner, sitting there like he’s waiting on someone who’ll never come.
I watched cars drift up and down the street, trying to fill my mind with anything but the heartache, the PTSD, the everything that feels so raw… so broken. I popped in my earbuds, listening to the police scanner — it calms me, somehow. The chaos steadies me. Then his voice cuts through the static — Nathan Blythe.
“10-13. Officer down.”
My heart just… stops.
What happened to Nathan Blythe?
Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, sprinting. Sirens screaming somewhere up ahead. The scene’s chaos — red lights, shouting, blood. They’re loading him into the ambulance.
“Nathan!”
I don’t even think. I climb in. The medic doesn’t argue, just nods. Nathan’s pale, clammy, groaning. I grab his hand — cold, shaking — and whisper, “Please… please, you’ve got to hold on.”
The words barely leave my mouth before the monitor starts to scream.
Author’s Note:
Hi loves 💕 This is a one-shot featuring Mark Meachum (from Countdown). I’ve been itching to write something raw, emotional, and messy with him, and this poured straight out of me. Expect angst, heartbreak, unresolved tension, and a hell of a lot of feelings. This piece is told through my OC’s POV—she’s a profiler-turned-teacher dragged back into the field, and guess who she runs into again? 👀 Yeah… you already know it’s going to hurt.
Warnings: (18+)
Heavy angst / heartbreak
Toxic ex energy
Mentions of trauma (gun use hesitation, implied past FBI case)
Violence / gunfire
Death mention (teen victim)
Harsh words / emotional cruelty
Profanity
Enemies-to-lovers tension
If any of these are triggering for you, please read with caution. 🖤
Pairing: Mark Meachum x F!Reader (exes, unresolved feelings)
Genre: Angst | Thriller | Slow-burn | Enemies-to-Lovers Vibes
Word Count: 1325 - Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @cutedisneygirl @angelbabyyy99 @k-slla if anyone else wants to be tagged let me know in the comments.
He stood there, all 6’1 of him, those emerald-green eyes colder than I’d ever seen.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
Still calling me sweetheart like he didn’t just rip my chest open and leave me bleeding. We were supposed to be forever—forever—and then out of nowhere, he says it. His voice rough, detached, like he’d rehearsed it in front of the mirror.
“I… I just don’t love you anymore. Sorry.”
Before I could breathe, before I could fight, before I could even beg, he shut the door. And just like that, he walked out of my life the same way he came into it—fast, reckless, and without warning.
Months later, I’m still wearing the damn ring. A promise ring—like we were kids. Except now it hangs from my necklace, dangling against my chest like a constant reminder of what could’ve been.
I shake my head as I walk into the office. Whispers echo down the hall.
“I heard she’s a teacher.”
“Yeah, what’s a woman like that doing on a taskforce like this?”
I keep walking. Straight into Nathan Blythe’s office.
“Mr. Blythe.”
He stands, offering his hand. His smile is professional, almost polite, but those weathered blue eyes? They’ve seen some shit. The wrinkles on his forehead only seal the story. His voice—smooth, charming even—fills the room.
“Glad you could make it.”
I sit, arms crossed. “Why did you call me?”
He smirks. “I think we both know.”
I shake my head. “No. Just… no.”
His smile falters. “Listen. You’re the best profiler there is.”
I shift in my chair. “I quit the FBI for a reason.”
His tone hardens. “I know. I know what happened to you.”
I flinch. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not recall that time.” Standing now, I smooth my hands over my jeans. “Sorry, but I’m a teacher. I don’t do that anymore.”
He rises with me. “You love your students, don’t you?”
I nod once.
His words cut sharp. “Without your help, there won’t be a future for them. I need your skills. They need you.”
My jaw tightens. “For goodness’ sake, don’t guilt-trip me.”
But hours later, I found myself standing in a room full of misfits—reckless agents, officers, DEA wild cards. Broken pieces shoved into one messy puzzle. And somehow, I was one of them again.
I tucked myself into a corner at the back—old habit, old comfort. Corners let me watch, study, analyze. Some things about me never change.
So far, I’ve met Luke Finau—practically a gentle giant. Smart, solid, graceful. A family man through and through. Agent Bell, the career type, sharp-edged but reliable. Then Evan Shepherd—long brown hair, computer tech, with just enough field training to hold her own. She’s kind, steady. And the DEA agent, Amber Oliveras. She radiates don’t mess with me energy. Taller, older, with the kind of beauty that could’ve carried her onto magazine covers if she wanted. Some women really get all the luck, huh?
Still, they all seemed decent in their own ways. But apparently, there was another wildcard coming.
My pen slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.
“Dammit,” I muttered, ducking under the table to grab it.
That’s when I heard it. The laugh. That familiar laugh. The one I used to live for, the one that rolled through my kitchen when I danced barefoot on the tile just to make him smile.
My chest tightened. The voice followed—low, magnetic, achingly familiar. Just a few syllables and I was trembling.
He was joking about being late when I peeked out from under the table. And there he was.
Mark Meachum.
Older, maybe, but still devastatingly handsome. That navy t-shirt. The brown leather jacket—the one I gave him for his birthday. His hair longer now, his beard neat, sharp.
And then his eyes met mine.
Air. Gone. My lungs forgot how to work.
Those emerald orbs that used to shift hazel under the sun—no trace of them. These eyes were ghostly, haunted, almost dead.
I froze. My body refused to move.
And he walked right past me.
Not a glance, not a flicker. Straight to his desk.
Like three years of us had never happened.
My hands trembled. Profiler or not, I was still just a woman with a shattered heart. Months later, and it hadn’t healed—it had only scarred.
I couldn’t stop watching Mark with Oliveras. There was something there. Tension. Maybe romantic, maybe not—but definitely deeper than casual. The way they spoke, the subtle shifts between them… it was the same way I used to watch psychopaths plan their next move. Calculated. Intimate. Dangerous.
I barely noticed Blythe introducing me to the team. Shepherd’s elbow snapped me back, forcing a stiff nod of hello before I retreated again into silence.
Blythe explained the threat. A bomb. An unknown man targeting the city. He wanted every angle covered, every skill on the table—which apparently meant me. And without knowing a damn thing about my history with Mark, Blythe paired me with him. And Oliveras.
Yippee-ki-yay.
In the car, Oliveras claimed the passenger seat, leaving me in the back. “The new guy,” I thought bitterly. The ride stretched long and heavy, silence pressing down like a weight.
Then Oliveras broke it.
“Why so quiet today, Meachum?”
His response was low, dismissive. “Not now, Oliveras.”
Her attention flicked back to me. “What’s your story?”
I forced a polite smile. My nails dug crescents into my palms because the truth? I kind of wanted to slap her—but she hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just… there. Too close to him.
“Not much of a talker,” I said smoothly.
She nodded, but before the silence reclaimed us, Mark let out a scoff. Low. Sharp. It cut like glass.
“Hell, woman. I know you. All you ever do is talk.”
My throat closed. I turned to the window, eyes burning, swallowing back the tears clawing their way up. He didn’t even look at me. Like I was nothing
We reached the factory. They looked the part—agents in uniform stride, guns ready. And me? Jeans, boots, and a faded rock ’n roll shirt. The odd one out.
Their weapons were drawn instantly, bodies moving in sync. I wanted to puke at how perfect they looked together. My gun stayed in its holster. I walked in slow, like there wasn’t danger breathing down our necks.
The darkness swallowed me as my eyes adjusted. Shapes. Vehicles. Shadows. Then—
A body.
My legs moved before my brain caught up. A boy. Teenager. Wrong place, wrong time.
I dropped to my knees, fingers at his neck. No pulse. Warm blood still sticky under my hands. Minutes too late.
I stood, heart hammering—and that’s when I saw him. A man, tall, maybe six feet, dark eyes sunk deep into a handsome, merciless face. A gun aimed straight at me.
My hands shook. I tried to draw. I couldn’t. My body refused. I hadn’t pulled a trigger since… since…
The shot cracked the air. My knees buckled.
But it wasn’t the bullet. It was him.
Mark slammed me to the ground, his weight crushing, his familiar woody cologne choking my senses. His eyes, furious, pinned me in place.
“What the hell? He could’ve shot you, dammit!”
My lips trembled. “I… uh… thanks.”
He rolled off, yanking me to my feet like I weighed nothing.
“Thanks? He got away. We’re here to catch—”
“I know that!” My voice cracked, anger spilling. I looked up at him, searching. “Who are you even? Because this—this isn’t the man who made me chicken soup when I was sick. Or the man who sat through those cheesy romcoms he swore he hated, just to hold me.”
His glare sliced through me. His words cut deeper than any blade.
“I’m still me. Just not the kind who wastes time on an emotional, clingy woman like you.”
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the office.
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A/N: Hey y'all I know it's been a while, sorry... But here ya go... Enjoy... But this chapter broke my heart! So hold tissues close by. *Warning*... Hospital scene's, child abduction mentioned, light swearing please be 18+. 💕 *Word count* 1450 around there💙💓❤️.. y'all this is book is nearly done ❣️🥹 I'm happy and sad about it ❤️.
She stood there, trembling hands clenched at her sides, watching Crowley storm off—his fury trailing behind him like smoke. The tears were thick on her lashes, blurring everything but the hollow ache in her chest.
Just days ago, it felt like heaven. She had him—this impossible man who loved her like she was sacred—and she had Lainey, her light, her reason for breathing. A perfect, stolen slice of happiness.
Now? It's gone. Shattered. Like the universe dangled joy in front of her face just to snatch it away with a cruel laugh. A cosmic middle finger. And all she could do was stand there, soaked in the ruins.
She could still hear Lainey’s laughter echoing in her head—sweet and carefree, like the waves crashing just beyond the shore. Crowley’s arms had been around her, warm and secure, as they watched the little girl build crooked sandcastles and fire off endless questions about shells, seagulls, and starfish.
It was perfect. Too perfect.
Then everything shifted.
The fever started slow. Just a little heat in her cheeks, a little whine of discomfort. They thought it was the flu. A bug. Something harmless.
But it wasn’t.
Within hours, Lainey’s condition spiraled. She grew lethargic. Pale. Struggling to keep her eyes open. Crowley didn’t hesitate—he had her airlifted to the nearest hospital before Bridget could even think straight.
And then came the tests. The quiet looks. The clipped tones from doctors who’d seen this too many times.
Kidney failure.
Immediate transplant.
Time is running out.
Bridget clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, fury and helplessness clawing inside her. She couldn’t donate. She freaking couldn’t.
Her organs had been compromised—harvested and butchered that night someone left her for dead. The night she met Crowley.
She looked up at him, voice cracking under the weight of panic.
“We need to do something. I-I can’t lose my daughter…”
Crowley didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, staring at the little girl connected to tubes, machines hissing and beeping like a countdown. He looked at Bridget—the fierce, fiery woman who’d walked into his life like a storm—and now looked like she was barely standing.
He swallowed the knot in his throat.
“I’ll get tested,” his voice low, rough. “I’ll get every bloody one of my men tested. We'll find a match. We'll save her.”
But fate didn’t give a damn about kings or killers.
A few hours later, the results came in. Crowley was a match—but he couldn’t donate. His kidneys were shot. Years of booze, brawls, bullets. He’d survived everything the world threw at him, but now? Now his body failed him when it mattered most.
He slammed his fist into the wall, letting out a guttural sound of frustration.
And then—he heard her.
Bridget. Quiet. Crying. Mumbling to herself.
“I have to call her… I have to call my sister… and her boyfriend. From back then.”
He turned to her slowly, a frown forming.
“What? Why?”
Her eyes—those eyes that always saw through him—were wide, terrified.
“L-Lainey… she’s not my daughter.”
He stared at her. She kept going, voice trembling.
“I mean… not biologically. She’s my sister’s. My sister was sixteen and… I promised her I’d take care of her…”
Crowley stood too fast. His chair clattered behind him.
“You lied?” His voice cracked with rage. “Bloody hell, Bridget!”
She flinched, already crying.
“I didn’t think it mattered—”
“Didn’t matter?” His voice rose, venom in every syllable. “I love that little girl like my own flesh and blood! And you don’t think I deserve to know?”
“I just didn’t think you needed—” she started, reaching for him.
He backed away, face twisted in disbelief.
“You didn’t think? You used me.”
Her mouth fell open. “No! I didn’t—”
Tears streamed down her face, but he didn’t soften. Not yet.
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t come at me with your bloody excuses.”
He turned, storming off down the hallway, leaving her frozen in place, her cries echoing behind him.
He didn’t know the full story.
He didn’t care.
Not right now.
She sat next to Lainey, her eyes rimmed red, bloodshot, burning from the tears that refused to stop. Her gaze clung to the little girl lying there, tubes running into her fragile arms.
Her daughter.
She didn’t give a damn what the world said. She raised her. She fed her, clothed her, protected her, loved her. Ruby didn’t do any of that. Ruby—her little sister—just carried her for nine months while she was high out of her mind.
Ruby was only sixteen when she got knocked up by some guy at a college party. She looked older than she was—fake ID, heavy makeup, that reckless fire in her eyes. Bridget would never forget his name.
Sam Winchester.
That bastard. They met at some house party, one of those blurry, beer-stained nights where nothing good ever happened.
Bridget clenched her jaw.
She had been just fourteen when their parents died in that car crash. Fourteen—and left to raise her four-year-old sister alone. She did whatever it took to survive. Things she’d never say out loud. Things she still hated herself for. But it kept Ruby alive.
And then Ruby turned up pregnant.
Bridget tried. Damn, she tried to support her. To be there. But the day Ruby gave birth, she just... handed the baby to Bridget, looked her dead in the eye and said, “I don’t want her.”
How the hell do you just give your child away?
But Bridget didn’t hesitate. She took Lainey in her arms and never let her go. Not once. Because Lainey was hers. Not by blood. But by everything else that matters.
Now, she was losing her.
Bridget blinked back more tears as she scrolled through Google on her phone. Her thumb hovered over the name that popped up on screen. Sam Winchester—now some hotshot lawyer, suit-and-tie, squeaky clean.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she hit dial.
Ring.
Voicemail.
Figures.
Her voice shook as she left the message.
“Hi… this is Bridget York. Please call me back. It’s urgent.”
She hung up, her hand trembling. All she could do now was wait. And pray. And hold onto Lainey’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
She must’ve dozed off, slumped in that cold, unforgiving hospital chair, her hand still wrapped tightly around Lainey’s. She never let go. Not once.
The pale morning sunlight barely broke through the window blinds when she felt it—a presence looming. Heavy. Staring.
She blinked, waking fast, her body stiff, her soul even more so.
A man stood over her, tall, broad, intense. Something about him was familiar… but she couldn’t place it. Not until his emerald eyes locked onto hers.
“What’s your problem, lady?” he growled, voice rough and edged in steel.
She blinked, confused. “E-excuse me?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. What do you want—money? Fame? Why the hell did you call Sammy?”
The name made her stomach drop.
Then it hit her.
Her breath caught. “You’re Sam Winchester’s brother…”
He didn’t answer.
“Please,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “Please, you have to help me.”
He held up a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t. He doesn’t owe you a damn cent.”
She shook her head frantically. “No—it’s not about money! I need him tested. His daughter—Lainey—she needs a transplant. She’s dying.”
Dean froze.
His stance shifted. Just slightly. But enough.
“…What?” he asked, voice hollow now.
So she told him everything. From the beginning. The party. Her sister. Sam. The baby. The promise. The fear.
And he just… stood there. Silent. Listening.
When she was done, he didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions. He just nodded, face unreadable. And walked away with one quiet promise:
“I’ll handle it.”
Only after he was gone did it hit her—Dean Winchester. She’d seen him before. In a newspaper. A feature she’d proofread years ago at the paper she worked for. He wasn’t just anyone.
He was a billionaire.
She exhaled slowly, chest aching, but for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of something real.
Hope.
The rest of the day, she stayed by Lainey’s side, brushing fingers over her soft hair, whispering comforts. Trying to explain, in the gentlest way possible, why her little body felt so weak.
It nearly shattered her when Lainey opened her eyes and asked in a small, strained voice,
“M-Mommy? Where’s Cowley?”
Bridget bit her lip hard, fighting the tears.
“He… he went to get help, baby. So we can make you feel better.”
Lainey smiled faintly.
“I love Cowley. Is he my daddy now, Mommy?”
Bridget couldn’t stop the tears this time.
“Honey… I… I don’t know.”
Lainey blinked slowly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I never had a daddy.”
She didn’t know how to answer Lainey’s question. Her chest ached, her voice frozen in her throat. But before she could even think, the door swung open—and in walked Dean Winchester.
Her eyes locked on him, desperate.
“D… Did he agree?”
Dean met her gaze, unreadable.
“He’s a match,” he said flatly. “They’re prepping her for surgery now.”
Relief hit her like a wave. She ran to him without thinking, throwing her arms around him.
“Thank you—thank you, thank you…”
But he shoved her off.
“Get off me.”
Then he turned to the two uniformed officers behind him.
“Take her.”
Her smile faded. “What? No—what’s going on?”
The officers stepped forward, grabbing her arms. Cold metal cuffs clicked over her wrists.
“No! Wait— stop!” she gasped, jerking against their hold. “What is this?!”
Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“You think you can just steal a child?”
Her knees nearly buckled.
“What?! No! She gave her to me. She never wanted her. I’ve been her mother since the day she was born.”
He stared her down.
“I looked into it. There’s no legal guardianship. No custody. No adoption records. You kidnapped that girl as far as the law’s concerned.”
She shook her head, tears already flooding her face.
“No—but I raised her! I fed her, loved her— I’m blood, please—”
But it wasn’t enough.
Lainey’s screams split the air.
“MOMMYYYYY!!!”
Bridget lost it.
“It’s okay, baby! It’s gonna be okay! I love you!”
The officers started dragging her down the hall as she kicked and fought like a wild thing, screaming, sobbing, pleading.
“Please—just let me say goodbye—please—”
They didn’t stop.
Nurses and doctors rushed toward Lainey’s room as Bridget was hauled away like a criminal. Her baby’s cries echoed behind her, every sob a dagger.
The elevator doors slammed shut. One of the officers read her rights.
Her legs gave out. She crumpled to the floor, hands cuffed, heart shattered.
This one-shot was born the moment I heard “Cry” by Lee Brice—yeah, that song ripped me open, and out came Beau Arlen, bruised knuckles and broken heart. The prompt that lit the fire? "Do I have to take it off again?" from @jacklesversebingo Beau just wouldn't shut up after that. This is my love letter to regret, to stubborn men who break late, and to the kind of love that lingers in the quiet. As always, reblogs and comments keep the muse fed 💌
—Nesca / LadybugBooklover 🐞
⚠️ Content Warnings:
Mature emotional themes (regret, heartbreak, male vulnerability)
Alcohol use (mentions of beer as a coping mechanism)
Adult language (soft cussing & emotionally charged dialogue)
Suggested sexual imagery (not explicit, but references intimacy)
Mentions of past relationship conflict/divorce Not suitable for readers who dislike angst or emotional vulnerability in male characters.
📜 Copyright Notice:
This work is 100% original fan fiction based on the character Beau Arlen (no copyright infringement intended). Do not repost, translate, or copy this work without permission. Tumblr reblogs = LOVE. Copy/paste or reposting = don’t be that gremlin.
The curtains were drawn tight, but the shadows didn’t care. They slipped through anyway, dancing across the jagged lines of his face—the face of a man who once wore charm like a second skin. Beau Arlen. Sheriff. Symbol of strength in a town that clung to tradition like gospel.
But that strength? It cracked the moment he saw you again.
He sat there, fists clenched, jaw tight with the kind of grief that don’t come from bullets or bloodshed, but from love gone wrong—twice. You’d think a second divorce would sting less. Hell, you'd think he'd be numb by now. But no. This one gutted him.
And deep down, beneath all that badge-and-gun bravado, he knew it—he knew it was his fault. But damn it, he’s always been a stubborn mule. The kind of man who'd rather break than bend.
He stared down at his phone, thumb hovering, twitching—like so many damn times before. Just one call. One more chance to say what he never could.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with regret. He could still see her—the way she looked today, standing there like a memory he didn’t deserve. Hair dancing in the breeze, that familiar smile teasing her lips like the past hadn’t burned everything down.
But her eyes… Hell, those eyes. They gave her away. They always did. Beneath the soft glow, they held the weight of a wrecked marriage her first, his second, shattered by his hands. His silence. His pride.
It felt like it all shattered just yesterday—the yelling, the tears, the final blow. But it’d been six months. Six freaking months, and still, the memory burned bright, fresh as blood on snow.
He could still see her face—twisted in pain, lips trembling as she begged him to fight for them, to choose them. Her voice, cracked and desperate, haunted him worse than any ghost. He remembered every damn tear, every choked word.
And worst of all? He remembered how he didn’t say a single thing.
He’d always been a proud man—too proud, if you asked her. But now? Sitting in the dark, in the house they once called home, there was nothing left of that pride. Just misery. Just a broken man with shaking hands, twisting the golden band on his finger like it could somehow rewind time.
“Do I have to take it off again?” he muttered, same as he had six months ago when she walked out the door. Still couldn’t do it. Not then. Not now.
His emerald eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and in the silence, his father’s voice cut through like a blade. “Man up, boy.”
He clicked his tongue, scoffing. “Yeah? Who says men don’t cry?” he whispered to the empty room. “They do… when they lose the only good thing they ever had.”
A dry, bitter chuckle scraped from his throat as he stared down at the bottle in his hand. Cryin’ into his beer again. Or was it the pillow on her side of the bed last night? Shit. Didn’t matter.
Either way, he was drowning. And damn if he didn’t feel pathetic.
He still couldn’t look at taillights the same. Not since she drove away, tears cutting down her soft porcelain cheeks, headlights fading into heartbreak.
There was no denying it—he was a man undone. A man hurting.
Before he knew it, his thumb hovered over her name. Then, dialed. Just like that. And when she answered, it felt like the world stopped.
“Sweetheart?” Her voice—soft, brittle, angelic.
“You don’t get to call me that no more, Beau.”
“Well, shit,” he murmured, “at least I know I’m functioning then.”
He sighed, already wounded.
“S… Sorry. I know. How’re you doing?”
She cleared her throat, but he heard the tears anyway.
“Good, I guess. If you count out the heartbreak, the lonely nights, and the empty mornings.”
He let out a shaky breath.
“Oh? That’s what good is nowadays?”
She giggled, a sound that twisted the knife in his chest.
“For the last six months, it has been.”
Her sarcasm was raw, sharp-edged.
A pause.
Silence.
Then her voice cracked.
“Why can’t you just say what you really feel? Dammit, Beau—I wish you would.”
Then he breathed out the truth like a confession:
“You wanna know how I feel? Fine.”
The only response was the quiet sound of sniffles.
“I miss you. I love you. And I hate myself.”
“I hate my pride. I hate that I let you go. I hate waking up in that cold-ass bed without you beside me.”
“I miss your sleepy smile, your dancing in the kitchen with my damn t-shirt barely covering your thighs—Dammit, I miss everything about you.”
His voice broke.
“I love you… but mostly, I’m sorry.”
Then—the line went dead.
He stared at his phone like it had betrayed him. She hung up. After all that. After finally bleeding the truth, she ended the call.
“Damn,” he whispered.
He left the half-drunk beer sweating on the table, dragged himself toward the bedroom like a man twice his age. Crawled into bed, sinking into another sleepless night—
Ding-dong.
“What the hell,” he muttered, pulling himself up, bare-chested, worn grey joggers hanging low on his hips. No shirt. No energy to fake it.
He yanked the door open—then froze.
There she stood.
Beautiful. Real. There.
He barked out a surprised laugh. And without a word, he swept her into his arms, spun her around, and kissed her like a dying man clinging to oxygen.
She smiled, eyes shining.
“Hello there, Sheriff.”
He knew they had shit to work through. Wounds that hadn’t healed. Words that still needed saying. But one thing was certain—
A/N: Awww my loves, Y'all know how I feel about this book - it's so close to my heart like for real and honestly in this Chapter we learn a little more about Clay and Kacie and just ahhhhh it's so - ya know what just read it and find out... Xo
Warnings: Some light swearing, mentions of people dying, betrayal, and alcohol consumption.
Please Note: This is a work of fiction, but it is MY work, so please don't go stealing like some lil evil gremlin okay?... Mwaaahz thanks.
Cover/Pics/etc: Pinterest, and Pinterest.
Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @cutedisneygirl @cutedisneygirls-blog @angelbabyyy99 tags are open so if ya want to be ya know tagged ... let me know, DM, comment shout it from the rooftops... Xo...
Kacie’s fingers curled around her coffee mug. It had been a month—thirty damn days—since she came back to Memaw’s farm. She still hadn’t spoken to her mother. Tried calling once. No answer. Honestly? A blessing in disguise.
Clay helped on the ranch here and there, but let’s be real—Kacie didn’t know jack about running the place. One look at the bank statements told her everything: the ranch was drowning. Fast. And she didn’t know how to swim.
She was an artist. A broke one. With zero business sense and nothing but dried-up paint tubes and regret. Maybe her parents were right. Maybe she should’ve gone to college. But hell—sitting in a classroom never felt right.
Now here she was. Middle of nowhere. No plan. No money. No clue.
The only thing she knew? She had to save the ranch. Memaw would’ve wanted that.
Her eyes drifted out the window, landing on the herb garden. The scent of rosemary, the dirt under her fingernails—it always grounded her.
Then it hit.
“That’s it,” she gasped, nearly knocking over her mug.
Grabbing a notepad, she scribbled fast:
Candles
Tea
What else?
Maybe she could sell her herbal goods at the weekend markets. Maybe make something of this mess.
She sighed, chewing the end of her pencil.
“Darrn-it, this is probably the dumbest idea ever…”
But maybe—just maybe—it was worth a shot.
She ran outside barefoot, twirling through the sunlight, laughing breathlessly as the wind caught her hair. That was just Kacie—wild, impulsive, jumping from one idea to the next like a skipping stone on water.
It wasn’t a choice. It was just... who she was.
She collapsed to her knees in the herb garden, dirt clinging to her skin, rosemary brushing against her palms. The sun warmed her face, but her chest ached—tight, like it always did when the grief crept in.
Her eyes shut. Tears spilled.
She cried for Memaw.
She cried for the ranch, for the mess it had become.
She cried because something about the herbs, the sunlight, the moment, made her feel again—and that scared the hell out of her.
That familiar darkness whispered at the edges. Depression never really left. It just curled up quiet sometimes, waiting for her to slow down.
She used to call her friends when it got bad.
But they were gone now.
She used to paint. But the muse had packed her bags months ago.
So she just sat there.
Soft sobs.
The scent of lavender and sage.
Birds singing like the world wasn’t falling apart.
And somehow... that was enough.
For now.
Just to be.
The rugged man stepped out of the barn, cowboy hat drawn low, a bundle of hay in his hands. He didn’t mind helping Kacie—he’d made a promise to her grandmother, Aunt Cathy, and Franklin Clay didn’t break promises.
But damn, she wasn’t what he was used to. Not around here. Not in his life.
As he stacked hay in the back of his old pickup, something caught his eye.
Kacie.
On her knees in the herb garden, head tilted toward the sky like she was praying—or something..
He froze.
Shit.
She was beautiful. Not the kind of beauty you find in magazines—something wild, aching, real. It knocked the breath right outta his chest.
Get a grip, Clay.
He scowled, dragging a hand down his face.
“She’s thirty-something,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re pushing fifty. Shit, pull yourself together.”
Irritated, he stormed back into the barn. Caught a glimpse of himself in a rusted hubcap hanging on the wall. Crow’s feet around his eyes. Gray threading through dark hair. The years hadn’t been kind.
Once, he’d been a man who had his pick—of women, danger, whatever he damn well pleased.
That life? Gone.
Clay had worked black ops for the CIA for over two decades. No strings, no home, no one to miss. There’d been a woman once—one who almost cracked through the armor. But she played him. Set him and his team up.
Men died because of her.
His jaw clenched. Fists curled tight.
He’d buried that version of himself. Along with every body and every secret from that life.
That’s why he bought this land. A quiet patch of dirt and sky. Some livestock. A barn that smelled like his childhood. And Cooper—his dog, his shadow, the only living soul he trusted.
This life was supposed to be simple.
He scoffed at himself, irritated, barely noticing he was denting the tin canister in his grip—knuckles white, jaw locked—
Until her voice broke through.
“Morning. How’s Mr. Grumpy doing?”
He spun toward her.
“Dammit, woman,” he growled, eyes flashing. “Stop sneaking up on people.”
Her face—so open, so damn soft—fell.
And he hated himself for it.
She looked away, voice barely above a whisper.
“I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to tell you about my—”
A sigh. A shift.
“Never mind.”
She turned to go.
And he stood there, heart thudding, fists clenched, watching the one good thing left in his life walk away because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.
She kept walking.
Then she stopped.
Spun around, eyes blazing.
“You know what, Clay? You’re an ass. And I don’t mean the donkey kind.”
She didn’t wait for a reaction. Didn’t need one.
She walked out—head high, heart cracked, disappointment written in the slouch of her shoulders.
Always the fixer. Even for people like him. People who didn’t want saving.
But damn it, she tried.
The wind caught her hair as she disappeared into the open sky.
Clay stood there, fists clenched, the silence roaring in his ears.
He kicked the nearest thing—an old toolbox—sent it skidding across the barn floor.
“Damn it!” he bellowed, throat raw.
Rage clawed its way up his spine.
Then it hit him.
The date.
Of course.
Today.
The anniversary.
The teammates he lost.
The blood. The betrayal.
The guilt.
Always the guilt.
Before he even knew what he was doing, he was in his truck.
Tires screamed against dirt.
Dust rose behind him.
Hay bales flew off the back.
And Clay?
Clay drove like he could outrun ghosts.
She stared at the dust trail he left behind, already regretting what she’d said.
So, she did the only thing that ever made her feel close to okay—
She baked.
Pecan pie, just like her memaw used to make.
As a little girl, she’d sit on the counter, big green eyes watching that wrinkled woman stir magic into sugar and butter. She’d steal more pecans than she prepped, and her memaw never minded.
That memory made her smile. Even now. Even with a heart sore as hell.
The pie came out golden, bubbling sweet. She packed it carefully into a basket, tossed on her jacket, and started the walk across the field between their homes.
Humming some old country song she couldn’t remember the words to, she let the wildflowers brush her legs, let the butterflies flutter past, let the world remind her that life still sings.
As she neared the porch, Cooper trotted up, tail wagging slow and low.
“Hey there, handsome,” she murmured, scratching behind his ear.
The door was open. That wasn’t like Clay.
“Clay?” she called softly. “Hello?”
Then she saw him.
Slouched in a chair. Bottle in hand. Glassy-eyed.
“What do you want?” he slurred. “Come to tell me I’m an ass again?”
Her throat tightened.
“A...are you okay?”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“Peachy. Now leave.”
She set the basket on the table without a word.
“Nope,” she said. “I’m staying.”
She took a step toward him.
His eyes flashed.
“Touch this,” he growled, raising the bottle, “and I’ll snap you in two.”
She froze.
Then smiled.
“No, you won’t. ‘Cause Clay’s a good man.”
He laughed again—meaner this time.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me. So don’t feed me that shit.”
“Then show me,” she said gently. “Show me who you are.”
“Leave.”
She didn’t.
She walked to the kettle like she owned the place, flicked it on.
“You need black coffee... and a good long look in the mirror. But let’s start with the coffee.”
Her voice was soft, steady.
And somehow, it was more pleasant than the silence.
She handed him the coffee, voice low but firm.
“Drink this.”
She reached for the bottle.
He snatched it back, towering over her in a flash.
“Leave my damn stuff, you little brat!”
Her breath hitched. Fear flickered in her eyes.
And he saw it.
He saw it.
Instead of backing down, he spat out—
“Oh yeah, I’m such a good guy, huh?”
His voice was dripping with venomous sarcasm.
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t run.
She walked over to the couch and sat.
Tucked her knees close. Curled in like a whisper.
“I’m not leaving,” she said softly.
Then, looking up at him, green eyes full of something that scared the hell out of him—
“Wanna talk about it?”
He stared.
She leaned in.
“Let me help you through the blue.”
He froze.
No one had ever said that before. Not like that.
Not let me in.
Not help you through the blue.
His knees gave out beneath the weight of her kindness.
He collapsed into the armchair, elbows on his thighs, hands in his hair.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She didn’t say anything at first.
Just reached out, that tiny hand of hers resting soft on his shoulder.
“Let me in,” she whispered.
His voice broke.
“I don’t know how.”
She smiled—gentle, patient, like the sun waiting behind rainclouds.
“Start small. One word at a time.”
He looked at her like she was something holy and terrifying.
Then he whispered,
“Why? Why do you care?”
He was cracking. Crumbling. And still trying to fight it.
“I don’t deserve it.”
And her answer—damn, her answer—came without hesitation.
She reached for his hand, her voice like a promise,
“Everyone deserves kindness”
That shook him.
He scoffed, shaking his head like he was brushing off a compliment made of broken glass.
“Kindness? Hell no. Not someone like me.”
But she just smiled, that same soft, stubborn smile she always wore when she was standing her ground.
“Well,” she said, voice teasing but full of truth, “I believe you are kind. Even if you can be a real meanie sometimes.”
He blinked. Then snorted.
“A meanie? Girl, what are you, two?”
She burst out laughing, and for the first time in what felt like a hundred years—
He laughed too.
Just like that, the tension cracked and melted into pie and chuckles and banter that rolled on deep into the early hours.
Until Clay finally passed out—half-eaten slice of pecan pie still sitting on the armrest.
Kacie gently pulled off his boots, laid a blanket over him, then curled up on the couch with Cooper at her feet.
She watched him quietly.
This older man with storm-colored eyes and a past that scared the hell out of her.
Author’s Note:
Hey babes 💋—chapter six is a dark one. I warned y’all this fic wouldn’t be soft. Meredith’s spiraling, and certain shadows from her past just won’t die quiet. We're diving deep—trauma, twisted obsession, all that messed-up goodness.
⚠️ Warnings:
Abuse (emotional/physical), toxic relationships, past SA (non-graphic), drugged, manipulation, emotional trauma, violence, PTSD themes, and a whole damn lotta pain.
If you’re in a soft era, maybe hold off.
Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Drugged (bold, just like the trauma 💅) @badthingshappenbingo
Copyright Note:
This fanfic is mine. My words, my blood, my tears, my chaos. Characters may be borrowed, but the story? Pure me. Don’t repost, steal, or claim— Now go cry with Meredith. You know you want to. 💔
Early morning. Deathly quiet—except for sweet Meredith, sobbing because she’d shot her own brother.
He knew he was still in her veins.
He watched. Silent. The man without a name. She knew it—oh, she knew—but never once spoke it out loud. Not even after he left her for dead.
He really thought she’d die. Drugged. Brutalized. Forced to fight the other girls he threw at her like wolves. But she didn’t break. She escaped.
Maybe that’s why he can’t let her go. Maybe that’s why she haunts him.
Maybe it’s obsession. Pure. Primal.
But hell—he knows the truth.
It’s been more than fifteen years. He searched for her—found her.
She was always the strong one. Never broke like her friend, Hope. Weakling. He keeps her around anyway—out of pity, maybe.
But Meredith? He could never do that to her.
He’s not an animal.
Now?
He’s something worse.
Maybe he's a real predator now.
The ambulance sirens claw at his ears— hell, they always have. Too damn loud. He’s been sensitive to sound since he was a kid, since before anyone gave a shit
He grits his teeth, watching them lift him into the back.
If Meredith only knew the truth about her brother, she’d understand why he made her pull that trigger. She’d thank him.
Her mother—what a damn hypocrite. Pretending to care about Meredith, all while shielding that bastard son.
No one cares for Meredith like he does.
His jaw clenches. Fist tight. Pupils blown. Rage simmering like acid in his veins.
They’re all worse than him.
At least Meredith knows he’s a monster.
The rest of them? They’re saints in masks.
He looks at her.
He’s always seen her—really seen her—for the woman she is.
She’s trembling, sobbing.
Hell, those tear-streaked cheeks… always made her porcelain skin glow.
But those eyes—those green damn eyes—
They pierced straight through him.
If he had a soul, she’d be the only one to touch it.
He slides into the cab, trailing the ambulance like a shadow.
She’s gonna need someone—and it sure as hell won’t be Spencer bloody Reid.
Every time he sees that scrawny, overgrown schoolboy, he wants to snap him like a twig.
What the hell does she even see in him?
Meredith hasn’t really responded to those pathetic puppy eyes, not yet…
But he’s seen it—the way she looks at Spencer.
She used to look at him like that.
Just once.
One quiet moment—back when he wasn’t so hardened, so ruined.
She looked up at him like he could save her.
And he did.
Just… not in a hero kind of way.
Following from a distance—he always had a way of blending in.
Even with his deep disdain for people, they never seemed to notice.
They found him polite. Handsome, in that rugged, dangerous sort of way—those dark eyes, the jagged jawline, the beard thick and coarse, hiding more than just his chin.
But the scars? Those were souvenirs from the house he’d once called home.
That woman—meant to be his mother—nothing more than a drunk.
And his father? Ha.
A lunatic. Deranged in a way that made even demons uneasy.
His childhood wasn’t like these soft brats whining online about their feelings.
There was no gentle discipline. No timeouts.
Just screaming.
Shouting.
Fists flying.
Doors slamming.
And closets.
Damn, the closet.
They locked him in there like trash.
At first, it was terrifying—what four-year-old wouldn’t cry, claw at the walls, beg to be let out?
But the older he got, the quieter he became.
Until one day… he stopped being afraid.
The darkness stopped feeling like punishment.
It felt like home.
And the isolation?
It was peace.
He watched her.
Meredith.
Standing there, shaking—bloodstained hands trembling like fragile leaves in the wind.
Trying to explain. Trying to apologize to her mother through broken sobs.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight enough to crack.
She shouldn't be apologizing. Her mother should.
If only Meredith knew the truth.
That the woman crying crocodile tears had known.
She knew it was her precious son who sold Meredith and Hope like cattle.
What no one expected?
He’d be the one to buy them.
Fate's sick joke, maybe.
He hadn’t known then—just how special Meredith would be.
Not at first.
But later… oh, he tried to tell her.
Back when she was still with him, chained in the dark, too drugged to see the light.
He tried.
Tried to explain it all—how it wasn’t his fault. How he saved her from something worse.
But she didn’t believe him.
She looked at him like he was filth. A monster. A liar.
But he’d never lie to Meredith.
Never.
Not her.
He watched as her mother screamed at her.
“Just get out of my way! I can’t even look at you! How could you shoot your brother? My son!”
His blood boiled.
He could shatter every single bone in that woman’s body for yelling at Meredith like that. His Meredith.
She didn’t fight back.
Didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.
She just stood there.
Then turned.
Dragging her feet, each step like it weighed a hundred pounds. Like she was made of ash.
He followed.
Onto the balcony—
Where the cold met her like an old friend.
She clutched the railing with white-knuckled hands, knuckles stiff, fingers trembling.
“Meredith?”
His voice was gravel—rough, low, like heavy smoke curling in the dark.
She froze.
Turned.
Those green eyes. Wide. Red-rimmed. Wet.
Damn, her eyes…
Her voice was a whisper, raw and breathless.
“Y-you’re… you’re here?”
He smiled—
Not the sweet kind.
The dangerous kind.
A smirk sharp enough to cut.
A warning.
“I’m always here,” he said.
“In the distance.”
She shook her head, backing away an inch.
“Leave.”
But he didn’t. He never did.
Her voice cracked—worn and scared and already broken.
“I… I’ll call the cops. Someone. They’ll lock you up.”
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even blink.
“I’m serious,” she said, her voice higher now, trembling.
“You made me shoot my brother, dammit—I hate you.”
He stepped closer, just one step.
Voice low, steady.
“I know.”
She looked up at him, her whole body shaking.
Tears like glass on her lashes.
“W-why won’t you leave me alone?”
His eyes locked with hers—deep, dark, relentless.
“You know why.”
She shook her head, hard.
“No!”
Her eyes snapped up to him.
He towered over her—six foot four and made of shadows and nightmares.
The size difference was suffocating. But she didn’t step back.
Her voice was brittle, breaking.
“You’re not real…”
His gaze didn’t waver—dark and merciless, burning a hole straight through her.
“I’m the most real thing in your life, Meredith.”
He stepped in closer, voice low, cold fire.
“Not your parents.
Not your job.
Sure as hell not Spencer Reid.
Me.”
Shaking her head, “Stop it, Silas. Just stop it.”
The tears were streaming down now, unchecked. He looked at her—voice low, eyes wide.
“You remembered.”
She flinched. The memories hit her all at once. He saw it flicker across her face like lightning.
“Meredith…” he murmured, almost pleading. “Why do you act like I don’t exist? I fed you. Cared for you. Gave you a place to stay—”
“A cage ain’t a home,” she snapped, cutting him off. “And you only fed me when I obeyed.”
He scoffed, darkly amused. “You barely did that.”
Then, softer. Regretful, almost.
“I ain’t perfect, Meredith. But at least I don’t pretend. Not like them.”
Her voice rose, cracked with fury. “Leave my family out of this.”
He stepped forward, growling under his breath.
“Fine. Believe whatever the hell you want. But remember—I never lied to you. Never will.”
She pounded her fists into his chest—small, shaking, but relentless.
“I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you.”
Over and over.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
Then—just like before—he wrapped her in his arms.
And this time? She didn’t fight it.
She broke.
Crying, trembling, collapsing into him like a child. Like that night.
She whispered, fragile and desperate. “Tell me it’s not true…”
His voice was low. Steady. Cruel in its calm.
“What? That you’re finding comfort in my arms—or that your brother sold you, and your parents knew and did nothing?”
She didn’t answer.
Not at first.
Then, through broken sobs:
“Everything. Just… everything.”
Before he could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall.
A voice—Aaron Hotchner—calling her name.
He knew that name. Knew him.
He remembered watching—helpless, furious—as Aaron and Gideon picked her up that day. The day he was going to take her back. Save her. His Meredith.
In some sick, twisted way… he figured Aaron saved her first.
She froze in his arms. Completely still. Like she was made of glass.
She didn’t want Aaron to see.
He felt it in her body—tight, trembling.
So he shielded her. Just enough to keep her hidden.
Aaron walked right past them. Oblivious.
But the second he disappeared—Meredith shrieked. Pushed him hard.
“Stay away from me! Just… just let me go!”
She ran.
Like a sinner from a church fire.
And Silas?
He just stood there.
Staring down the hallway she’d vanished into, like it was some holy place she’d just escaped from.
Feeling...
Was it power?
Or was it something else?
Because no matter how much control he thought he had…
It was her.
Only her.
The only one who could make him feel… So Damn….Human.
A/N: Awww my loves❤️ just a quick little 'one shot' I love this song but I did not know, I'd cry so much - cuz jinkies 🥹 it's a letter to Dean, so buckle up babes and grab a tissue - ❤️
Words: 898
Warnings: Besides a few tears, maybe a bit of swearing and dealing with grief, mention of death. 😱
Also: this is my work, please don't steal it, just like and comment and reblog...❣️❤️🐞
Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @k-slla @cutedisneygirl @angelbabyyy99 if anyone wants to be tagged in the future lemme know...❤️💕
The ink on this letter is spilling all over the page, just like my heart—again and again.
I’m in the middle of moving, and one of my friends found that old photo of you and me. You should see it by now—a few years will do that. It’s crumpled at the edges, and the color isn’t that good anymore, but oh, the memories it holds. They never leave.
My therapist said writing to you when I feel overwhelmed with missing you is good for my mental health. I don’t know—the verdict’s still out on that. But it helps. Sometimes, it even feels like you’re getting this. Like you’re reading it... watching over me.
Anyway, I couldn’t talk about it when Julie asked who you were to me. The words just tumbled out: “Just someone I used to know.”
And it crushed me.
Because I couldn’t tell them. Couldn’t say it was the man I was supposed to spend forever with.
The love of my life.
The Dean Winchester.
A man who loves pie, old motel rooms, and classic rock bands. Who prefers a greasy burger over a salad any day.
The man who wore his dad’s leather jacket like some kind of keepsake—some reminder of what not to be.
But for me? It was just another thing that made you you.
Damn, babe, I miss you a little more every day.
Oh—by the way, Sammy’s doing good. I still check in on him… them. Baby number two is on the way, and he’s over the moon about it.
But I can tell—he misses you.
When that Led Zeppelin track comes on the radio, or when he grabs two beers instead of one without thinking. I just take the extra one like it was meant for me. Like you’d want that.
Now, wait—before you cuss me out for drinking beer all of a sudden instead of my favorite red wine, let me explain.
I’ve gotten used to the bitter taste.
Like the bitterness buried deep in my damn bones.
Don’t worry—by now, I’ve gotten used to it.
But I’m still your sunshine baby.
Sorry about the teardrop smudging the ink… I still cry a little when I think back to the first time you called me that.
It was early morning.
I looked a little rough—hair all disheveled from the night before.
Our first time together… and damn, babe, it’s etched into my memory like it happened just now.
The sun was streaming through those cheap motel curtains, casting this soft glow over our tangled limbs.
Your calloused fingers brushed the hair from my face.
And then your voice—deep, rugged, like whiskey over gravel—murmured,
"Sweetheart… you’re my light in this dark world. My sunshine baby."
My heart melted. My stomach fluttered.
And even though I always loved your voice—Darnit, that morning?
It swept my feet out from under me.
It’s like I can hear your laughter right now—that famous Dean chuckle, cocky grin and all.
"I knew you’d miss me, sweetheart."
And right now, babe? I’m trying my damn best to smile…
But the tears won’t stop. They never do.
Hell, the other day, Julie set me up on a blind date.
And I went.
(I’m truly sorry. But don’t worry—I felt guilty for days.)
Anyway… I pulled out that dark blue top you liked so much. The one you said made me look like a lady, instead of the oversized shirts I always stole from you.
Damn it—teardrops on the ink again. Sorry.
Let’s go back. The date.
I threw on my jeans and favorite pair of boots, met the guy at a coffee shop.
(Couldn’t do a bar—they all remind me of you.)
The guy was nice. A gentleman.
But after coffee, when he walked me home… he tried to kiss me.
And it was reflex, okay?
I slapped him across the damn face.
He left with a bloody nose.
And me? I haven’t gone on another date since.
I’m fine growing old alone.
…Okay, that’s a lie.
I don’t want to grow old—not if it’s not with you.
Dean, I’m gonna shoot it to you straight.
I’m feeling that anger again. That deep, bitter, soul-splitting anger.
You left.
You died.
Why the hell didn’t you fight harder to stay?
For Sammy.
For me.
Dammit, I’m so mad at you. And I love you so much, it’s unbearable.
I can’t even look at a damn pie without crying.
I kind of hate you.
And don’t you dare look at me with those emerald eyes and say:
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Ah, the question of the century. Right up there with “Did I leave the stove on?” and “How many cups of coffee is too many?” (Spoiler: there’s no such thing).
Listen, babes—your girl hasn’t stopped writing. I’ve just taken a little detour down the poetic backroads. Think late-night heartbreak, messy healing, wild love, and spiritual whispers all scribbled between sips of overly strong coffee and emotional breakdowns in aisle 7 of the grocery store. You know, the usual.
My fanfics aren’t gone. They’re napping. Probably dreaming of plot twists and forbidden kisses. But right now? I’m elbow-deep in my own words—my stories, my truth, wrapped in poetry that hits like a hug and a slap at the same time.
So if you’ve ever swooned over my fictional men, cried over a cliffhanger, or screamed “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!” at your screen...
First of all, love that for us.
Second? Come along. I’m still writing, just wearing a different hat. (It’s floppy, artsy, and has ink stains on it. Obviously.)
Fanfic will return. But for now, I’m building something personal, raw, and painfully pretty.
Beneath The Broken Sky - Chapter One - Somewhere In Georgia 🐞❤️
She was too soft for this world.
He was too broken to feel again.
And yet... somehow, they collided.
Iris Lane survives by clinging to the fragile fragments of her soul—hope, kindness, and a heart that still dares to believe in light.
He doesn’t understand her softness—not here, not in this world. But he can’t look away.
There’s something about the ‘sunflower-girl’ that pulls him in, something more than meets the eye.
Is her innocence real—or is it a mask hiding cracks of her own?
As shadows close in and the sky begins to fall, the question remains:
Can two broken souls hold on to something real, or will the storm tear them apart?
A/N: Hey, loves🐞🥰 so this is it- Chapter One, this story's been living in my head and heart for a while now. Iris Lane, is soft, awkward, sensitive even, she's the pure definition of a woman, and then she meets our Darryl, things are bound to get a little interesting. I hope you'll like it, let me know in the comments, reblog etc to show your support or buy me a coffee or become a member and get some exclusive perks on my Patreon. 💕❣️💚 . It will mean the world to me. 🐞🥰
Word Count: 2091
Warnings: Horror, Violence anything else let me know
Copyright: Even though it's a work of fiction, - it's still mine, so be the cute little bugs that you are and don't steal my work - love you ❣️💕🐞🥰
The sky looked like it had forgotten how to be blue... Ash clung to the air, thick as dust on a forgotten bible. Trees stood like crooked men. Roads pilled with abandoned vehicles, some roads cracked and split , bleeding weeds through the pavement.
Iris Lane, walked down the middle of it, boots too big, soul too soft, a sunflower in a field of corpses. Her backpack bounced gently with every step, half-empty, except for some peanut butter packets - oh she always loves peanut butter, the smooth grainy taste, with the crunchy little bits of peanuts in it, it was pure bliss, it's probably because it reminded her how her mom would make her those sandwiches for school. And of course the one thing she'd always carried with her a cracked photo frame, oh and that damn rusted swiss army knife, she picked up somewhere along the road, she still hasn't figured out how to close it properly. As she walked over the blood stained streets she hummed one of those sad Patsy Cline songs, it was old and sweet - because the silence is what scared her more than the dead ever had.
She hadn't seen another in seven days. Not a soul. Not a grunt. Just her own shadow and the big open empty sky.
Then came the snap of a twig. Iris froze mid-step, her breath caught, her heart didn't.
Someone was watching. The sound came closer. Deliberate. Heavy.
Iris backed towards the trees, hands trembling, as they slid into her pockets. She didn't reach for the knife, she never did - afraid she'd might have to use it.
"Hey" barely louder than a whisper as she called out, "I'm not... I'm not here to hurt anyone, just passing through. Promise."
No answer, just the creak of a branch, the whisper of boots over fallen leaves.
With a quickened breath "If you're gonna kill me, could you maybe not be creepy about it?"
A shadow moved low, fast, slicing through the treeline.
He stepped out from the shadows, crossbow slung over his shoulder, hair wild like he hadn't seen a comb since the world went to hell. Dirty tank top, blood on his jeans, - Hopefully not his own, his eyes met hers with the kind of intensity that made her stomach twist. Cold. Calculating. Almost as if he was trying to figure out if she's even worth speaking to.
"Who the hell are you?" He rasped, voice like gravel soaked in whiskey.
Iris blinked "oh. Uh... Hi"
His brow twitched, just slightly.
Quickly adding "Iris" holding her hands up in the air, like some kind of peace offering . "Iris Lane" then quickly adding "I don't have a gun, group or... Anything really. Just me and some peanut butter"
He didn't smile, didn't move, just kept glaring at her like a hawk sizing up a songbird. He didn't raise his crossbows, that felt like a win.
"I talk a lot when I am nervous" she admitted, biting the inside of her cheek , almost shrugging her scrawny shoulders "sorry".
"Don't talk at all" he muttered, finally stepping towards her, like she was nothing more than a stump on the road.
Iris turned to follow him with her eyes, watching as he melted back toward the woods.
"Wait, seriously?" She called after him. "That's it? No robbing, no stabbing, I said I have peanut butter, no 'leave before I shoot you'? You're just gonna walk off like that?"
He came to a halt , "if I was gonna shoot you, you'd be on the ground already" he huffed.
"Comforting" she utters barely above a whisper, but she saw it, just for a second there was a glimpse of something in his eyes, plus he hadn't actually told her to leave - frankly in a world that's full of monsters, that hesitation was the closest thing to an invitation she's gotten in a long, long time. So like a fool, perhaps even a brave fighter she followed him further into the woods.
At first he didn’t say anything when she followed him. He didn’t even look back, her steps ghosting behind his, like a stray pup too stubborn to get lost. They walked in silence, the sounds of the forest filling almost like they were on a quiet stroll, and there weren’t danger lurking behind every tree, every corner. Birds in the green big trees, twigs underfoot, every now and again you can hear the disturbing moans of the dead, but it was in the distance and Iris was just three steps behind him. Hands fidgeting in her sleeves, chewing her bottom lip raw.
After about twenty minutes or so, of some uphill trail, he finally spoke. “You always follow strangers?”
“Only the scary ones, keeps things interesting” she said brightly, “and besides your only a stranger because I don’t know your name”
His eyes cut over to her with a threatening scowl, but the moment he saw her little smile, something deep inside him stirred, it’s been awhile since he’s seen a genuine smile, the scowl faleterd a bit, even if it was just for a few seconds. “Got a death wish, or just stupid?”
“Not stupid” she said softly, “just tired of being alone, that’s all” then barely above a whisper “I’ll take dangerous and brooding over the silence anytime”
He stopped. Sharp, like the ground ahead dropped into nothing. She nearly ran into his back. “Look” he said, turning around to face her full on, voice low, serious. “I don’t know who you think I am, but this ain’t no damn slumber party. I’m not here to make friends. I don’t do babysittin’. I sure as shit don’t do tagalongs”
Iris shrank a little under his stare, but her eyes didn’t waver. Big, round, green as spring grass after a storm. Behind them- pain. Quiet, constant hurt. The kind that didn’t bleed but bruised in silence,
Softly, so soft it was barely audible, “I didn’t ask for any of that,”
A long moment stretched between them, wind rattled through the trees like ghosts of everything they’ve lost.
“You gonna cry?” he snapped, trying to tear through her kindness with cruelty.
Blinking, biting the inside of her cheek hard, so hard she could almost feel that metallic liquid, “No, just… wondering what kind of man growls at a girl who offered him peanut butter.”
His jaw twitched, just a little, an almost smirk, but it died before it reached the surface. “Don’t slow me down, if you do, I’ll leave you behind” He started walking again.
She smiled behind his back, “I won’t slow you down, I’m quite fast ya know, I mean not the fastest, my legs can only run so fast, something tells me you can run fast. Can you run fast? Uhm…” as if waiting for him to answer, to maybe say his name.
He growls a little, “Darryl… Darryl Dixon” then lower “Stop talking, your giving me a damn headache”
“Darryl” she whispers as if testing out his name, then she nods, not like he can see behind his back, but she did it anyway “Oki doki, I ain’t much of a talker anyway” fine that was an absolute lie. If her uncle-father-something she never quite knew what to call him, could hear her lie so openly, he’d tell her it’s a sin. A big sin - to spread lies, or say something that ain’t the truth, but she knows from experience that, even though he was a minister, you couldn’t trust everything he said, he lied too, to the people he ministered to, about her… about the things he's done.
Shaking her head asif she needed those memories out in an instant, then as a way to stop drowning in silence she starts rambling, about how nutritious peanut butter is. Oh and poor Darryl tried his best to not snap, but as a man who was used to silence he barked out his orders “Just shut up dammit” In an instant Iris lips stopped moving, with wide green eyes she kept following him, trying her best not to breathe harder than she should.
The silence was heavy, the woods swallowed them whole, branches tangled like claws above, dark and scary, leaves crunching soft beneath their boots.Daryl moved like a shadow- quiet, alert. Iris… not so much. Every snapped twig underfoot made her flinch like she’d stepped on a landmine.
Then she heard it.
A groan
Low. Guttural. Wrong
Her breath hitched. Daryl stopped in his tracks.
Another groan, closer now. Then a wet shuffle through the underbrush. The unmistakable drag of dead weight.
Iris’s voice trembled “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
Darryl didn’t answer. He just pulled the crossbow off his back in one slow, steady motion.
From the brush, they came- three of them. Rotten skin sloughing off bone, mouths slack with hunger. One was wearing a wedding dress- veil still tangled in brambles like the world had left her waiting at the altar. Another had no jaw, just a slick mess of blood gashing.
Iris whimpered, stepping back, nearly tripping over a root. “Stay behind me” Darryl snapped. No hesitation, no fear. Just the dark growl like thunder in his chest. With pure muscle memory, the first bolt flew, burying itself in the forehead of the bride. She crumpled like bad paper.
The second walker lunged, groaning, grunting, Darryl moved fast - but not fast enough, Iris yelped, she lunged forward, high on adrenaline she pushed the walker away from her, and turned to run away. As she tried to get away, she tumbled against the third walker, he groaned, she stared at him wide-eyed, she didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t breathe. She was stone, ice, a deer in the headlights of the world that no longer braked, the walker nearly on her, his wet blood-soaked fingers against her arm, then- a knife slid through its skull like butter. It dropped at her feet with a wet thud. Then with trained skill, he took the last one out with yet another arrow.
He turned to her then, face inches from hers, his voice was low and hard “You freeze like that again, and you’re dead.”
Iris blinked. Her lips moved but she couldn’t form words, her heart beating in her chest. Darryl’s eyes narrowed. “You ever killed one before?”
She shook her head, barely a twitch. He looked at her, like really looked at her, his voice low “How did hell did you survive this long.” it wasn’t really a question, more a statement, a thought. He growled at her, “stay close” She nodded and with trembling hands she fidgeted with her sleeves again.
They kept walking into the night. One minute they were suffocating under the branches and the dark sky the next - it opened. A clearing, quiet and overgrown like time forgot it existed. An old hunting cabin slouched in the middle, half-collapsed porch and ivy strangling what was left of the windows.
He didn’t say a single word, he just moved forward, checked the door, gave it a quick nudge with his boot. It creaked open like something out of a horror movie, but hell - it was shelter.
Iris followed like a ghost, she hadn’t said a single word since she froze.Inside the cabin was cold, empty. Dust thick enough you could choke on it. A table, a few broken chairs, a busted lantern. But it had four walls and a roof. It was enough for the night.
Darryl lit a match, set it to the stub of a nearly burned out candle, that was left on the windowsill. The soft light flickered over Iris’s face - that’s when he saw it.
She was shaking. Not like she was cold. Like she’d just crawled out of her own grave. He tossed her his blanket, “Get some sleep” he muttered “We move at dawn”
She took it, wrapped it around her frail body, as if it could actually keep all the evil out, the silence lingered for quite a while, when her soft voice broke through it “W…What if I am not built for this world Darryl?” In that low rumble he said - “None of us were at first”
She didn’t answer him, she wrapped herself tighter in that blanket that smelled like smoke and old leather. As he turned his back and she curled into the corner, she finally let the tears fall - quiet, slow, full of heartache and fear of the past and the future.
"Before you do that, think what I’ll do without you."
—Prompt fill for @jackalsversebingo (square: ANGST)
Hey babes,🐞❤️
This one's soaked in longing, dipped in regret, and served raw. It's for the ones who choke on the words they never got to say. My heart was in my throat writing it—and I hope it hits yours the same. Feel free to scream in the tags, cry in the replies, or hit reblog if it broke you a little.
Word Count: 2,255😅
Warnings: Emotional heartbreak, canon x reader, no resolution, alcohol mention, soft breakdowns.
Copyright: Written with soul by Denesca van Eck / @nescavexkwritwr @ladybugbooklover. Do not repost, rewrite, or steal. You may reblog with credit like the respectful little angels I know you are.
The veil floated like butterflies. Her smile soft- glowing. Ivory lace clung to her curves, hand stitched with dreams , a future, a promise, the start of their lives forever.
Dean stood at the altar, hands shaking, he could hunt monsters without flinching, but this?
This was different.
This was you. Today "I do" meant forever with the only woman he's ever truly wanted.
The room held its breath. Church bells rang somewhere in the distance, but time stood still.
"You ready boy?" The old man asked low and gruff, but he couldn't answer Bobby, hell he couldn't even move. He only looked at you.
His girl.
The love of his life.
The woman he fought for. Bled for.
The one he lost...
The image cracked, the chapel with its wedding bells melted away into the dull, flickering light of a motel room. The only thing that stayed was silence, and the ache.
The motel room smells like cheap whiskey and cold lonely nights. He sat there, his emerald green eyes locked on the flickering TV, muted, forgotten as his calloused thumb brushes over a picture burned into his brain - the one where you smiled like you were his. Like you'd always be his.
He took another sip of whiskey, the lingering thoughts of the wedding - just a cruel fantasy, a beautiful lie.
Letting out a scoff, the aisle never came, the vows never said, the happy tears never spilled, the ring never left his pocket.
"I would've said it", whispering to no one. "If things were different... I would've said I do".
He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. But even in the dark behind his eyelids, he saw you.
The tears.
The heartache.
The goodbye.
Folding the laundry like it matters, - like it means something, but it doesn't, everything lately is just noise, a blur... Ever since he left, you do stuff, but nothing, not a damn thing gets Dean out of your mind.
Seeing him in strangers, hearing him in your own heartbeat, like he's still there, his lips against yours, his fingers curling around your waist.
Folding the same shirt twice, then again and again. - hands moving but your mind, it's somewhere else ...
Back at the chapel that never existed, wearing the dress you never got to wear. Walking down the aisle you never stepped foot on.
Eyes locked on his. Damn those eyes, green like forest after rain, green like the only place you ever felt safe.
Today would have been your wedding, well not officially - more like this would've been the date if he ever asked. If the world just tilted just slightly different. If hearts weren't so stubborn and if love were enough, today would've been the day, you'd look at him and say "I do".
Tears threaten, but you've cried too many times over him. There's nothing left but the salt burned into your ribs.
The phone vibrates on the table. You ignore it, - because unless it's Dean calling to say "I'm sorry sweetheart, I'm coming home" you don't want to hear it.
Pouring yourself a glass of wine, the red liquid spilling into the glass, like it's your heart bleeding. Curling up on the couch, by the window looking out, the sky's doing that soft, grey thing - like it's mourning too. Wondering... Is he thinking of you? Is he sitting in some broken, lonely motel room, with that same haunted look in his eyes, remembering the dress you never wore?
Because you haven't moved on. Not really. Oh but you tried, dates, distractions, smiles that never reached your eyes.
But no one feels like Dean, an exhausted sigh leaving your body, no one ever will.
Your fingers finding their way to the necklace still hanging on your collarbone - the one he gave you that night underneath the stars, right after the hunt in Arizona, "Something to remember me by", he with a half-smile as if you could ever forget him.
Closing your eyes, and there it is again, that damn image. White lace, Church bells and I do's. A life never lived, a future that never began. But the love? It's still there, loud and aching. Maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there, he's whispering your name through the quiet, just like you're whispering his now.
He doesn't remember what started it, some hunt, some stupid mistake, a bottle too many, his mouth running before his brain could catch it. All he remembers is the look on your face. The way your voice cracked when you said it. "Before you do that... Think about what I'll do without you."
That stopped him cold, not because it was too dramatic, not because you were begging, - but because you meant it.
You stood there, trembling, breathing hard, tears hot on your eyes, but they weren't rolling down your cheeks. No you were done fighting, done pleading, but still holding onto hope like it was the only thing keeping you standing, keeping your heart beating, keeping you from crumbling to the floor.
And what did he do? He walked like a damn coward. Not because he didn't love, - no because he loved you too much to keep pulling you into the chaos that followed him everywhere. He really thought he was protecting you, like letting you go was mercy. But it was slaughter - for both of you.
He slams the half drank bottle whiskey down, pacing the motel floor like it'll change something.
It's been months now, time means shit now, it's just "before you left" and "after you were gone".
Picking up the phone again, thumb hovering over your name. You still haven't blocked him, which somehow feels worse. But he can't call, not when he's like this, not when he still doesn't know how to fix what's broke.
His voice catches in his throat as he mutters your words again "Think about what I'll do without you".
He does, every damn day, and the answer? This. A lonely motel room, a bottle, a ghost he still calls "mine".
Wiping at his eyes, angry at the wetness there. He's Dean Winchester. He fought monsters, the worst kind, got hurt, nearly died, lost everything, but you? You're the only thing he chose but couldn't keep.
Your fingers, curled around the stem of that wine glass, remembering the night he left, it started like every other fight. Raised voices. Empty beer bottles, the motel door half open, like he already had one foot out.
But this time? It's like you knew he wasn't coming back. You were done pretending, it was just stress, the job or his damn trauma he never let you carry with him.
He always said he was protecting you, like you were a little damsel that needs saving, - but you weren't, you were his partner, his home. - but still he ran.
You stood there in front of him, heart thundering, the air thick with words neither of you could say, that's when you said it "Before you do that... Think about what I'll do without you." Your voice wasn't loud, it wasn't a scream or a threat, it was desperate, small - like a child whispering in the dark. He froze, you saw it, the war behind his eyes, for a single split second you thought he'd turn around, he'd stay, that love would win.
But all he said was "I'm sorry" and he walked into the darkness like some kind of shadow. When that door shut, at first you didn't cry, you couldn't, there was a strange calm. Like your body couldn't handle the grief, all at once, so it made you numb.
Making your way towards the bathroom, unsure why but it felt like the right place to break down - lonely, cold, hollow - like your heart.
You collapsed against the tub, your fingers curling around the tile, gripping it like it could stop you from falling apart. But oh it didn't.
The tears came and they didn't stop. You didn't cry like in the movies - soft, pretty, poetic.
You sobbed, ugly, shaking gasping sobs that made your ribs scream. Screaming his name into a towel, cursing the universe, begging for him to come back
But he didn't, the worst part? You still loved him, even after everything, the silence, the wreckage, even after he took a piece of you, with him, leaving you with a barely beating heart. And even though he didn't stay, the love did.
Dean hasn't slept. Not really, he passes out sometimes - liquor heavy, face down on some shit motel pillow - but he never truly sleeps, not like he used to... Not since that night. Your voice over and over in his head.
Thinking he was saving you, but instead he abandoned you. And now... Now he drinks more than he hunts. His hands shake when he holds his gun, no, not from fear-but from withdrawal, exhaustion and regret.
He tried sleeping with someone else once. Didn't even get her shirt off before he saw your eyes. He bolted, leaving that bar like the damn place was on fire, because no matter where he goes, no matter who he talks to... It's you, it's always you.
He pulls out that picture of you, the one of you, where you laid on that picnic blanket, hair messy, from the wind that day, a smile on your face, a book in your hand, the sunlight casting a golden hue around, you looked like an angel. To be honest you were - his angel, the only one who could make him feel that life was worth living.
He sighs as he puts down that photo, picking up the bottle, hell he doesn't even bother with a glass anymore, what's the point?
He stares and mutters like a damn lunatic, voice wrecked and low; "I should've stayed, Dammit baby... I should have stayed..." His throat tightness, "I didn't want to hurt you... I wanted to protect you..." He stops mid sentence, every breath hurts, everything feels dark, lost, cold.
Grabbing the Impala's keys, he knows what he should do, so he gets in that car, whiskey on his breath, broken heart and determination in his forest green eyes, he puts the car in drive.
He's been driving for hours, he sobered up by now, the shitty gas station coffee helps a little to fight the withdrawal from the whiskey.
Now, he's outside her door, hands trembling, heart screaming.
It's raining - of course it's raining, even the sky is crying about you. He deserves it, the cold, the wet, the weight of everything soaking into his bones, - maybe if it seeps deep enough, it'll drown the pain he's been choking on since he left. He stares at the door, he drops right there, on that cold, wet concrete steps, to his knees - because standing feels like pretending he's strong, and he ain't, he hasn't been strong for awhile now.
His breath shaky, he chokes out "I messed up everything sweetheart," the rain mixing with the salt water on his freckled cheeks, "I see you everywhere" he whispers "in my head, I see you laughing, crying, wearing that stupid oversized hoodie you stole from me like it's yours now..."
A bitter laugh slips out, it breaks halfway through, shattered. Like him. Knocking softly, one.... Two, "I can't even breathe without you" it was a whisper, a confession, a plea.
He stays there on his knees in the rain, hoping if she opens that door, that she'll take him back. That maybe they can carry on, that he can take that ring out his pocket, that he can ask her to be his wife.
The door doesn't open, the rain stops, the wind dies down, he stands, fist clenched, his cold hand tries the doorknob.
It's unlocked, as if she's waiting for him, his breath catches, he pushes it open, maybe she's in the kitchen making tea, or curled up on the couch in that blanket he never liked, reading that book he never understood.
But the house is silent, he steps inside, no smell, no warmth, nothing. - Just emptiness.
The echo of his boots on the floorboards is loud, overwhelming, there's boxes, packed and labelled.
The living room - bare, walls stripped of all the memories, the photos, everything - like she took the color with her.
His breath hitches, the lump in his throat swells, he moves through the space like a ghost. Bedroom? Empty!
Closet? Just the oversized hoodie of his-hers.
He stumbles back, like the air got punched out of him, then he finds it, the note folded. Neat ... Tucked under the bottle of that perfume he once said smelled like heaven and bad decisions.
Hands shaking as he opens it.
"Dean"
"I couldn't stay. I tried. Dammit, I tried. But this house, this town... Every corner has you in it. And it hurts too much. I waited. For a call. A knock. Anything. But you didn't come. So I had to save myself before I drowned in the ghost of us. I'll always love you, but I have to learn to live without you. Please don't come looking. Not yet."
"-Yours, even when I shouldn't be"
The paper crumples in his hand as he falls back against the wall, sliding to the floor.
He lets out a sound - not human, raw animalistic. Like his souls just split in two.
She's gone - and the worst of all, he let her leave, because he was too late, he should have stayed, should have asked her... Should have said "I do".
Hey, 😊🐞 there how are you? Give me a cute little fic about a short about 5'4ft curvy girl, with Sam, where she's so sensitive, so emotional and she's just being frantic and all over the place, and blabbing on and on and Sam stop's her with a kiss 😅🥹 I just think it'd be so cute... ,🥹🥰 you can choose how far the kiss goes, a little smut will do too... But your choice babez...🐞💕 Also sorry if that doesn't make sense 😰
Frantic Romantic - Sam Winchester
A/N - AHHH I hope this is what you wanted @nes-sies-stuff, I did my best! I don't really write smut, but I alluded to it, so I hope that's okay. It's a little on the shorter side, but I thought it would be a bit boring to hear reader ramble on about crochet for ages.
Word Count - 432
You don’t know how you got to this point, but you’re rambling. As you bounce around on the bed, you’ve been babbling on for the last 10 minutes about crochet, of all things. The worst part? You don’t even know how to crochet anything. Well, that’s not true.
“Well, that’s not true, I know how to do single crochet, and chain stitch, and I know how to do slip stitch. And I guess I technically know how to do double crochet, but I don’t know how to make anything. I don’t know how to apply any of what I’ve learnt, and I’m not exactly willing to spend 30 dollars on a pattern for a beanie, because that’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s probably super easy, I just have to figure it out. And I can do a scarf, but that’s just a really long rectangle, so it’s really easy. But I want to learn to make sweaters, and I want to make you a sweater-”
Sam’s lips capture yours, and you immediately melt into the kiss. Your hands clasp at the front of the flannel he’s wearing, brushing past the scarf you had presented him nearly 10 minutes ago, the one that had begun your little crochet rant.
He pulls back, leaning his forehead against yours. You can see his gentle smile, and it causes you to smile back. “I love it. I love you.”
“I love you too.” You whisper back, pecking another kiss to his lips. For once, Sam is looking up at you, but only because you’re standing on the motel room bed. His arms are wrapped around your waist, and he pulls, causing you to let out a loud squeal of surprise, wrapping your legs around his waist.
“I can’t believe you made me a scarf.” Sam mutters as he presses kisses to your jawline, your neck, your hemline.
“Oh, well, it wasn’t hard. It just took time, that was the main thing. That and trying to remember how to crochet, based on those wack ass instructions that the lady gave me, and attempting to apply it to making a scarf. The hardest part was hiding it from you because I wanted it to be a surprise.” You let out a little moan as he sucks on a particularly sensitive part of your neck.
“Come on, baby, keep telling me all about how you made the scarf.” Sam urges, smiling up at you.
The rest of the night is spent telling Sam how you made the scarf, all while he spoils you rotten as a thanks for your gift.
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A/N: YAY! My fourth one for @badthingshappenbingo 🤭, Is Meredith losing her mind? Find out in the next chapter,🐞❤️
Warnings: 18+ Only! Some language, blood and gore, normal Criminal Minds stuff, going into depth off crime scenes etc, drug use,torture, anything else I missed let me know💕
Cover: Created by me. Also images from Pinterest and Canva.
Words:2141🐞❤️
Chapter Name: Lingering Shadows, 3:00 AM Calls, & Empty Shell's
Meredith wakes up feeling like she’s been scraped off the pavement, her mouth dry, her veins crawling, unsure if it’s the guilt of relapsing or the remnants of the drugs she took. It’s still a blur really, as she focussed her eyes she saw the man, with his crazy curly brown hair, her head against his chest, his arms engulfing her, his head against the wall as he must've fallen asleep. Wait! What? When did this happen, how did Spencer get in, then the fear sets in, he knows… he knows she used again. In one swift motion she escapes the comfort of his arms, as she scurries across the floor, her heart beating in her throat.
His voice was soft, he wasn't sleeping no, merely resting. He looks at her with those sharp perceptive brown eyes, “You're probably thirsty, statistics shows…” he stops himself, she doesn’t need that now. She just sat there, the words stuck in her throat. Her green eyes wide as he came back with a bottle of water.
Their fingers brushing as she takes the bottle, at first she didn’t want to meet his gaze but she does, to her surprise all she sees in those hazel orbs, no judgement, just quiet understanding.
She’s seen that look before, in the mirror.
As the days turned into weeks, she smiled, acted normal, moving past it, like that night was nothing, like she didn’t shatter in his arms. Spencer doesn’t push. Not yet. Maybe he gets it. Maybe he knows she’s hanging by a thread, and if he pulls too hard she’ll snap. Maybe just maybe she’s counting on that. His eyes follow her every move, sometimes lingering a little too long, a part of him wants to make sure she’s okay, but really how could she be. The rational part of his brain is at war with himself, he should tell Hotch, someone. But he can't because he's been there before. So instead of doing what he thinks is right - he’ll watch over her like some sort of protective guardian angel.
She threw herself into work, solving case after case. In the back of her mind that newest victim is there, waiting to get justice but they still don’t have any evidence, none whatsoever, just nothing, almost like the Collector doesn’t exist, but she Meredith Lang knows all too well he does, she has the scars both physical and psychological to prove that monsters are real, not just some made up story that hides under your bed.
Sipping yet another coffee, definitely far beyond the doctors recommended dosage as her eyes trial over the newest case files, yet another serial killer, yet another victim, it never ends does it? Sighing, stretching out her neck side to side, inhaling, then picking up the photo of the newest female victim, - her phone rings, it’s 3:00 am in the morning, she shouldn’t answer but she does, “Hello?”
The voice she knows too well, crawling down the line like cigarette smoke curling underneath a locked door. “Meredith, you haven’t forgotten me have you?”
Her knuckles white as she grips the phone, her breath catches.
“You were so pretty the other night, you always looked so good while you were high.” He tsked “You still need me, don’t you? I see it. I always see it”
A shiver crawls runs down her spine, she should hang up, block him, instead her lips parts and she whispers ”I don’t need you”
Laughter comes from the other end of that line, it's slow, dragging, the type that coats her skin in ice. "Then why are you still listening?"
For a few seconds she closes her eyes, her breathing stilled, maybe he's right? Maybe she spent so long in the darkness that she doesn't know how to function without it... He's been there this whole time, watching... Waiting!
She heard his breathing, waiting for her to say yes! Yes to needing him! But she doesn't. With trembling fingers she ends the call.
Looking around in her apartment, tapping her fingers against the other , first the ring finger against the thumb, then the point finger, middle finger and finally the little pinky finger. A sort of tactic to still her beating heart, her racing mind, letting her know she's here, she's safe. Letting out a dry chuckle, safe? That's just a word in a dictionary to make you feel some sort of comfort. But she hasn't felt that in years!
Days went by, she perfected the 'I am more than okay' mask in the day, smiling... Joking... Laughing with the team, Morgan, Rossi, Spencer, and sweet Garcia but she still hasn't spoken to Hotch yet! No she's not opening that can of worms - so instead of doing that she acts like nothing is bothering her. And some days she almost believes that she's happy, that she's okay, that she found friends... Maybe even a second family, except for Spencer Reid, there's a different feeling going around, maybe understanding, perhaps something more, his soft eyes, his gentle smile. The way he'll silently check on her, handing her camomile tea after she had too much coffee, or how he'll make sure she goes home after a case, to get some rest.
It's when the night is at its darkest, that her mask falters, it started with the feeling of being watched. Not the kind of distant paranoia that slowly trickles down your spine in an empty room - no, it's personal, like a phantom hand ghosting over the nape of her neck, the feeling of hot breath at her ear, even when she knows she's alone.
It's him, she doesn't need to turn around to know, in a way she's learned to live with him, like a sickness that never really leaves your body.
3:00 AM The phone rings, it doesn't sound normal, no it's distorted like the sound is dragging itself through barbed wire just to reach her ears.
Staring at the phone, private number, her stomach knots, biting her bottom lip, she shouldn't answer. Her hands move anyway.
There's no greeting, just breathing. Ragged, wet, hungry, evil.
His voice over the receiver "you miss me" it was a statement, not a question. He knows!
Swallowing hard, her throat like sandpaper "I don't"
"Liar" his voice shifts into something familiar. Almost soft! "Poor thing, you must be so exhausted, tell me you still wake up shaking? Meredith? Do you still check the locks on your door three times and then a fourth just to make sure, just in case! It doesn't help does it?"
Clenching her jaw.
"I know why you haven't told anyone about me"
Her pulse spikes, how does he know she hasn't told anyone that she's keeping it to herself?
"Because Meredith I am the only thing keeping you together - because you need me, you always have."
Swallowing hard again, the worst part? Somewhere deep inside, she wonders if he is right. - the line goes dead.
Unsure of how long she sat with the phone against her ear, but she eventually got into bed, trying to sleep - she didn't. The room feels wrong every time she closes her eyes, the shadows stretch too far, the air too thick. Then there at the corner of her eye, something moves.
No! Telling herself it's just a trick of light, until she hears it. A slow deliberate, tap - tap - tap. From inside the closet.
She stops breathing, it's not possible right? She checked. She locked it! The night stills, then - Knock. Knock. Right behind her.
She whirls, gasping, but the room is empty. The closest is closed, the doors and windows locked.
Her phone buzzes - one new message. "I'm closer than you think" Her chest locks. She feels him now, like a weight pressing on her ribs, like he's inside her lungs - like he never really left.
Closing her eyes, trying to forget, trying to act like she's not losing her mind. Slowly, drifting off.
Meredith hears him breathing, soft, steady and too close... Keeping her eyes shut, reciting over and over, "it's not real, just my mind playing tricks on me" suddenly theres a dip in the mattress, a man's weight in the bed beside, her, the whisper against her ear "you know better, Meredith"
Her lungs seize. Don't move, don't turn, don't give him power - racing through her mind. She fists the sheets, tries to slow her pulse.
A finger - a real, solid finger - trails done her spine, his voice smooth "you feel me, don't you?"
Her body froze, biting down on her lip so hard she can taste the bloods.
Then- warm lips press against the back of her neck.
"NO" she screamed. Her breath stutters as she whips around... Nothing, the bed is empty, the room still. But she can still smell him, that faint metallic scent - like blood and rain.
Letting out a breath, "it must've been a nightmare,!" The pad of her thumb, wipes the blood from her lower lip.
The phone vibrates, grabbing it with shaking fingers.
One new message "I like this game" in an instant she drops the phone, gets out of bed, she needs to get out of her apartment, she'll go to the one place he can't find her, can't dare touch her.. the BAU.
It's been a whole week since he last called. Her mom decided to come visit, just for a day or so.
During the day she's fine, but when night strikes and she tries to sleep is where reality is fracturing.
She stopped trusting her eyes... Her ears, her own damn mind.
One moment her mom is talking to her, sort of grounding her. The next? She's standing at the kitchen, staring at the knife in her hand. She doesn't remember picking it up.
Her mother is calling her name, but it's distant, as if she's on the farest end off the apartment.
She blinks and suddenly the knife is gone, her hands empty. But her palms? They're wet! Looking down.
Blood?
No-no that's not-
She blinks yet again, her hands clean, no more blood insight.
Her mother calls out "Mer, sweetheart, you okay?" Her brows furrowed in worry!
Meredith swallows. Nods to quickly, smiles. "Yeah, just..."
Her phone buzzes, staring up at the clock, 3:00 AM. "Go back to bed mom, need to take this"
Letting out a heavy breath, she knows it's him, she shouldn't but she does. Not uttering a single word, neither does he.
Just his breathing, calm and collected, like his not busy tormenting her soul, and then - "Look outside"
Her stomach drops as she moves on her own, hesitantly stepping in front of the window, pulling back the curtain ever so slightly, the phone against her ear, the street below is empty, not a soul insight.
But there at the very edge of the streetlight's glow, barely visible in the shadows, he's standing there.
Tall, watching, a man that shouldn't exists, a ghost wearing skin.
He smiles and waves, her phones buzzed again , one new message. "You left the door unlocked" his gone into the darkness, not seeing him anymore.
The sound of a creaking wooden floor echoes behind her .
Turning around, wide green eyes, "Mom! What the hell you scared the crap out of me.”
Her mom stood there looking at her daughter, she's seen her like this before... An empty shell of the girl she used to be, her voice soft, almost pleading "Sweetie talk to me, what's going on, you haven't been like this since..." Trailing off as she doesn't want to recall those horrific days.
A nervous chuckle escaped her lips "no mom, it's... Uhm .. been busy at work, not getting enough sleep, you know"
Shaking her head, "it's more than that, I know when your lying I've raised you, honey please just talk to me"
Releasing a shaky breath "Mom..."
Her phone vibrates, "right behind you" her throat closes. She can't breathe, can't think - can't move.
Her body turns before her mind catches up, slow, hesitant, already knowing she shouldn't look, but she does anyway and there lingering in the shadows stand a dark figure, the soft glow of the sunrise revealing the smile, it seems forced somehow.
She doesn't think, - she reacts.
Her gun is in her hand before she realises she grabbed it, the weight familiar, automatic. A single shot rips through the air, splitting the silence wide open.
The figure stumbles back.
"Meredith...?"
Her brother's voice. Choked, Pained. Disbelieving.
The gun, clatters to the floor as she stares at him, her brother, clutching his stomach, blood blooming between his fingers.
"No, no, no, no-"
He drops to his knees, she drops with him.
You could hear the horrifying screams coming from the older woman.