{coolbeans}

Dean starts nodding eagerly. “It’s a bikini, that’s also a…” he looks at her expectantly, his eyebrows raised and teeth shining in the widest boyish grin you’ve seen.

As she picks up what must be the bottom part of the bikini, she sighs heavily and closes her eyes in defeat: “Hamburger.”

“Yes! Isn’t it awesome?” Dean can’t hold himself back anymore and reaches forward to grab the thin, green fabric still left in the wrapping paper: a garter belt. It’s a salad patterned garter belt.

“And you… you want me to wear this?” Her eyes move from the bra and bottom in her hands to the garter belt in his, taking in the ridiculous garment he had somehow found somewhere online. The fabric feels soft and stretchy, and she cannot fathom how this could be what he wanted.

Dean nods eagerly, still grinning like. “Yes! It’s my birthday and you said I could buy you underwear and that you’d wear it.” He approaches her slowly, still smiling but now with something else – something darker in his eyes. “Please?”

She never stood a chance.

5 minutes later, she exits the bathroom feeling very self-conscious. Dean is waiting on a lone chair in the small motel room, but as soon as she opens the door he is on his feet and moving towards her.

“This is fucking ridiculous, Dean.” “No, I think you mean fucking awesome,” he corrects her, taking her hand and lifting it above her head to encourage her to spin. She obliges, of course. When Dean Winchester wants to look at one’s bikini covered body, one listens. As she returns to face him, his emerald eyes have grown dark with desire.

“You look delicious,” his voice dripping with unspoken intentions as he wets his lips while making sure he sees every bit of her dressed up in his wildest dream. His love for burgers is only outmatched by his love for her, and combining the two has his mind reeling.

She has no smart comeback, not when he’s looking at her like he’s about to dive headfirst into the greatest buffet ever. For a moment, the air thickens as they look at each other, then as one they find the other’s lips. Barely stopping for breath, Dean guides her to the bed while they both work on removing his belt and jeans. Eager hands make short work of it, and soon she is flat on her back on the bed while Dean is surveying his birthday present. An idea comes to him and she can see the glint in his eyes as if someone turned a sudden light on.

“What?” she laughs.

Dean chuckles: “Say it with me: Burgkini!” They both start giggling before he launches into his birthday meal, taking no hostages and leaving no crumbs behind.

-The end-

---------------------------------------------------------------------

I present to you: The Burger Bikini, picture from Reddit.

Dean frowns and jumps off the impala with a sigh and jogs over to his friend.

“Come on, man, lemme see.”

He takes the phone away from Cas and groans.

“You’re not supposed to cover the lens with your hand, Cas.”

“That is not my hand, it is my index finger.”

“Yeah, alright. We’ll try again, but this time make sure that you can see me on the screen before you take the picture.”

Cas nods and Dean trots over to the car again. He hops up on the hood and smiles towards the confused angel.

“Can you see me on the screen?”

“Yes.”

“Is your finger in the way like before?”

“No.”

“Alright! Take a lot of pictures, and we’ll find the right one later.”

“I have taken several already, Dean.”

“Good! Lemme just cycle through a few poses.”

“Why do you need a bicycle?”

“A bicy-? No, man… I meant I’ll sit a few different ways, and you can keep taking photos.”

“How many?”

“Just… keep taking them and I’ll delete the ones I don’t want.”

“Okay, I understand.”

Dean proceeds to shift his foot from the ground to the bumper, from sitting leaning forward to leaning backwards on the black hood, then finally just standing next to his beloved car while grinning to the camera. After a few minutes of Cas concentrating and Dean posing, the latter walks over to see the results.

“I took many pictures, Dean.”

“Awesome.”

As Dean scrolls through his camera reel, his smile falters.

“Dude. You weren’t supposed to zoom in on my face like that. And is… is that my butt?”

“You were on the screen the entire time.”

“Yeah, but I wanted you to also fit Baby in it!”

“Why?”

“Because I- … Why d’you think I wanted to sit on top of her while you took the photos?”

“I have never understood your preferences, Dean, and I have stopped questioning your reasoning. You wanted to be on the screen. You are on the screen.”

Dean rubs his hand down his face and sighs dramatically. He then proceeds to hold the phone towards the Impala, zooms out and gestures for Cas to grab the phone.

“You hold the phone right here. No zooming, no fingers or hands over the lens. Just take the damn photo when I tell you to. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“When I get over there, you’re going to take a picture of me sitting on Baby’s hood.”

“Yes.”

“I will tell you when I’m ready, ok?”

“Ok.”

“You don’t have to take pictures while I’m walking over there.”

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Ok.”

“Good.”

Dean leans against the car, placing one foot on her bumper and leans forward, making sure to place his arms so he can flex them just right and looks at Cas – who is still holding the phone exactly the way he was told.

“Alright, Cas. I’m ready. Take the photo.”

“Ok.”

“Did you take it?”

“Yes.”

“Was it good?”

“You have a look.”

“A look?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, a look?”

“The one you have before you run to the bathroom after eating too many burritos.”

“You saying I look like I’m about to shit myself?”

“Now you are looking angry.”

“What the hell, dude?”

“You look exasperated.”

“No, man. Come on. Just take the picture!”

“I have taken several.”

“You know what… Just forget it. We’re done.”

Dean returns to grab the phone from Castiel and looks through the twenty new pictures he took.

“Alright, now we’re talking! These were pretty good, thanks buddy!”

Dean stops at one where he looks directly at the camera with a perfect pose the ladies will love.

[Picture credit: Kissthemgoodbye ]

“This one’s good.”

“That is the burrito face.”

“Shut up.”

Go check out my other stories!

@bettystonewell - To You I Belong - A/B/O

@queen-of-deans-booty - Right After All - Deadly Proposal Lots of amazing things to read on their master list.

@yet-another-deanw-girl - The Prophecy

@godmadeaterribleerror - Willing to Break - The Babylon Series

@thememoryofadream - Feet of Clay Series - Passion Play Series

@watermelongirl01 - Sweet Rescue Series

@gh0stvi0lets - She Was Sunshine, I Was Midnight Rain

@nocturnalandflawed - Masterpost (& So On)

@jollyhunter - Master List - Daily Dean Winchester

@ambiguous-avery - Chasing Shadows - A MUST READ!

@my-stories-vault - Dean Winchester Series Purgatory & The Supernatural Wars are amazing!!

@maddie0101 - Rodeo Nights

@kazsrm67 - Dean Winchester Series I have SOOOO many more to read on here. lol

@angels-silhouette - Ten Years Gone

@bewitchedfaeyrie - The French Mistake (I think is the title)

@jessjad - Rightfully Deceived

@girls-alias - Master List Dean Fics I recommend Dean's Dream - Djinn, which is excellent.

@stusbunker - Never Doubt The Best Man - Known

@k-slla - Master List Several excellent fics to read.

@waywardxwords - Master List Several excellent fics to read.

@deanbrainrotwritings - Master List Dean Fics

@julesthequirky - The Choice

@notinthislife50 - Dean Masterlist

@deanwritings - Master List - The Guest House I recommend Night Falls - Excellent. Lots to read though.

@impala-dreamer - Good Vibrations They have a lot of other great fics too.

@layce2015 - Supernatural Rewrite

@deanwanddamons - Mechanic & Mistletoe

@pink-sparkly-witch - Can't Fight This Feeling A/B/O

@nescaveckwriter - Paintbrushes & Romance I couldn't find the master list link for this story. It's beautiful and so worth the read.

@whimsyfinny - Master List Recommend both series they have written. Amazing.

@alexsoenomel - Dean Master List Pretty sure I read everything on here, lol.

@maximumkillshot - When You Call A/B/O I also read a lot of what they wrote. lol

@spnhunter4life - So Long

@meowmeow-motherfucker - The Fox & The Squirrel

@winchesterfanatic1967 - Master List - Recommend Picking Up the Pieces I've read a lot of these. Amazing.

@fanfictionalraven - Master List Recommend - Piece By Piece & Dream Warriors - excellent

@winchesterwild78 - Unexpected Hunter

@dwonfilm - Come Hell or High Water

@jawritter - When the Lights Go Out Other amazing fics on their master list, including A/B/O

@brightlilith - In Another Universe

@acreativelydifferentlove - Carry On A/B/O

@thelibrarylesstrektraveled - To The Victor A/B/O

@sofreddie - New World Order A/B/O

@lila-lou - Taking Her In

@kittenofdoomage - Neiras - oneshot but excellent

Another List of Amazing Authors - Here

@supernatural-jackles - Where It All Began

@writtenbyadriana - Master List - read Bound In Blood - Excellent

@amentiaewrites - Ordinary Master List - Amazing - So is the sequel

@atwistoffate - Dean x Reader Master List - Read: About Time

@sofreddie - Not What You Wanted Master List

@abbacadabara - Countdown

@talltalesandbedtimestories - Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

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After the first couple of days, the storm became boring. The perpetually grey sky was more of a disappointing annoyance than relief from the beating July sun, it was hot and sticky without any of the enjoyment that came with sunny days. Your friends invited you out to blow off some steam after unpacking all day, they said it would be fun to try somewhere new and Angela had heard good things about the bar around the corner from your house. Inside the bustling bar, the air conditioning whirred a welcoming breeze over your table, wicking the sweat from your face and neck which had accumulated on the walk over. The bar's hubbub aside, you could still hear the manager's conversation a few tables over.

"Yeah, he was a good guy, I have no idea why he'd do something like that..." Her face was scrunched up, trying to understand what caused his behaviour a few weeks ago, "I mean, it's not like he needed the money, he was earning a good wage, he had a full ride and perfect grades so he didn't need to pay for school..." She trailed off, the two suited men glanced at each other.

The taller one cleared his throat, "Thank you Marissa, here's my card in case you remember anything else that was out of the ordinary". 

The shorter one thanked Marissa and turned around, adjusting his cheap tie, you hastily turned back to your cosmopolitan, pretending that you weren't listening to a conversation which definitely did not involve you. You hadn't turned quick enough, his green eyes met yours and with a flush of your cheeks, you reinserted yourself back into your friends' gossip. 

"I'm not saying that I'm going to ever take him back, but what if he wants to settle down?" 

You snorted, Fleur was talking about her pig of an ex boyfriend. Again. "Fleur. It'll be a cold day in hell when Gus decides to settle down. Don't reduce yourself to that." She shook her head with a smile and took a long sip of her drink. She knew better, and she knew that you knew better. Fleur and Gus had finally broken up for good around the time the storm started, he had been distant for a few weeks beforehand, but he seemed to get worse in the unbearable heat, and Fleur finally realised that she deserved better and sent him packing a few days ago. She had been helping you move in to distract herself from the chaos which seeped out from her love life. 

Angela rubbed Fleur's arm, knowing that she was still hurting – douchebag or not, she had still fallen pretty hard for the guy. "I'm calling it," Angela hiccuped, "Girls night. Tonight, right now." The three of you laughed and finished your varying drinks in agreement. The rest of the night was a blur of tequila, cocktails and pounding music, with messy pictures cluttering your camera roll. 

You woke up around nine the next morning, head pounding still in last night's makeup, you shuddered and stumbled your way to the cool bathroom, you wiped off the mascara which was now smudged underneath your eyes. As you patted your puffy face dry, something moved just out of the corner of your eye, but before you could get a proper look, it had vanished and the room suddenly felt all too warm. You shook it off as hangover chills and brushed your teeth. 

BZZZZ BZZZZZZ BZZZZZ

Your phone rang, making you jump. You walked back to your bedroom and picked up, it was Angela and Fleur, asking you to come to Fleur's apartment. Angela had stayed there after your impromptu girls night, opting to share a bed with Fleur as she was too drunk to get home by herself. She pleaded you to grab breakfast on your way over. Begrudgingly, you slipped on your tired jeans and the nearest t-shirt after giving it a whiff, and stepped out into the muggy July day, making your way to the diner near Fleur's.

The bell above the door rang as you walked in to the smell of over-roasted coffee and sizzling bacon, stifling a hungover gag, you walked up to the counter and ordered yourself a breakfast muffin with extra bacon and a large coffee, pancakes for Angela, and a veggie scramble for Fleur. The aging lady who served you smiled and told you to sit and wait for a few minutes, you tapped your fingers on the countertop, your silver rings hit the surface softly while you poured sugar into your coffee. You turned to take in the Sunday morning scene, too soon for church goers, but not entirely empty, your eyes caught on the black car which roared into the parking spot outside the diner, your dad would have loved it's shiny black body and chrome accents, wanting to get a better look, you stood up as the doors creaked shut. The two men walked in, opting for jeans and flannel over t-shirts rather than the poorly fitting suits they had donned in the bar the night before, the tall one walked over to the counter, briefly glancing at your t-shirt. The other one walked in and flashed you a cheeky grin, seeing that his partner had gone in the opposite direction to you didn't deter him from walking up to you, staring at your now feeling too tight t-shirt.

"Nice, Blue Oyster fan?" He asked, leaning on the counter, getting a better look at what you knew wasn't just your shirt anymore. You nodded, but before you could reply, the waitress had returned.

"Here's your order honey, have a nice day now." Before you could acknowledge her, she had already disappeared, leaving you alone with the man.

"Uh yeah, they were my dad's favourite," You replied, standing up to leave. He moved back slightly, giving you just enough space to squeeze past. "It was nice to meet you..."

"Dean", he held out his hand to shake yours, you shook his hand as he passed you your freshly refilled coffee cup. You gave him your name as you made your way to the door, opening it with a struggle. You walked along the pavement to meet your friends and you couldn't quite get Dean's piercing green eyes out of your mind, you hoped you'd bump into him again. 

Walking into Angela's house, you were met by her fresh out of the shower, her neat red hair sat damp on her shoulders. Fleur was lying on the sofa, she looked exhausted, water bottle in hand and messy brown ringlets stuck shoved up into a bird's nest on top of her head, she waved lazily as you made your way over, passing her breakfast didn't seem to make much difference. As the three of you sat and ate your breakfast, rejuvenating you all for a day of sitting and doing nothing. 

After the first awful movie, and halfway through the second, you heard the roar of a car outside which wasn't unusual for the area but when it stopped outside, your ears pricked up, "Did you guys hear that?" You looked to your friends for an answer.

Angela nodded, "Did you order something for dinner?"

"No did you?" They shook their heads. You could hear a familiar voice coming from outside of the neighbour's house.

"Well no, Sammy, I don't think it was this Mikey kid, it's definitely a case now shut up" Dean knocked on the door and waited for a response. "Mrs Kessler? Detectives Plant and Rose, may we come in?" Then you heard the door shut.

"Angie? Who lives next door?" 

Angela fiddled with the remote, "You know that Mikey kid we went to school with? His mom lives there, poor woman. Her husband dies and then her son does an Italian job around all of the jewellery stores, they think he killed someone too."

"Oh. Have they caught him yet?" You leaned in further and Angela shook her head.

"No, scary right?" You stared at her, mouth agape. You had no idea that Mikey would be the type to do that, he was always the nicest in the class, quiet, but he was nice. 

You fiddled with your hands at the thought of someone so nice turning into such a bad person when you were shaken by the sound of knocking on the door. You got up and opened it, being the closest to it and there he was. 

"Hi," There was that boyish grin and green eyes again, dressed in the same cheap suit from the night before. He was a tall drink of water that you couldn't help but take in, it had been some time since you had had that type of company.

His partner stepped in, "I'm sorry about him, uh we're here regarding your neighbour, Mikey Kessler, we're scouting the neighbourhood trying to find out more about him." He flashed you a detective badge whilst Dean searched his pocket for his.

"I don't live here sorry but I went to school with him, he was a pretty nice guy I guess." You poked your head back around the corner and beckoned Angela over, she invited the two in and made room for them on the sofa, Fleur got up and walked to the bathroom.

"Sorry for the mess, we went out last night." Angela apologised as the men shuffled in their seats. "What did you say your names were, sorry?"

"I'm Sam Rose," The taller one replied, "And this is Dean Plant. We're here looking into what happened in town, trying to get a feel for what he was like before the attacks."

Angela nodded and simply repeated what she had told you earlier, none of you had seen him since grade school, and Angela had only just moved back into her family's home after her parents passed. You sat watching the conversation unfold, spinning the ring on your thumb with nothing more to add to the conversation. 

When the pair had asked all of their questions you followed them to the door, Dean held out a card and handed it to you, lingering for a second too long. "If you remember anything else just give me a call." He gave you a smile and they left. 

________________________________________________________________

You were late. Again. Half your brain was on the grocery list and the other half on the neighbor’s house two doors down from yours, the one with the lights that flickered at three a.m. and the dog that wouldn’t cross the gate anymore. You told yourself it was wiring maybe old pipes. Even if you knew better.

Tomorrow was Halloween. The hallway smelled like tempera paint and orange slices. Little ghosts cut from coffee filters dangled from the ceiling on clear thread.

You rubbed at the tired spot between your eyebrows and reached for the clipboard, already forming the apology you’d give for being late, again. A man leaned over the desk, saying something low to Ms. Rivera that made her laugh in a way she didn’t for anyone else at pickup.

“…could leave my number”, he was saying, tapping the pen against the margin instead of writing. “You know, in case any of the kids mentioned noises across the street. Strange hours. Flickering lights”.

Ms. Rivera tucked a curl behind her ear. “Right. The neighbors”. Her voice brightened, like you’d just walked into a commercial for toothpaste. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but—sure, why not”.

You signed your name where it always went, thinking about canned pumpkin and whether you had enough sugar, about salt and doorways and windows that didn’t latch right. You were in your list, your little ordinary raft, when the man at the desk gave a soft laugh, and something in your chest stuttered.

It took a second. Of course it did. You’d trained yourself not to hear that sound. Still you glanced up. On reflex.

Dean’s gaze stayed on Ms. Rivera, the smile turned down just enough to look sincere. Your heart stopped anyway. That laugh, stupid, impossible, stitched into you like a scar you had learned to dress around. You told yourself it was coincidence. You told yourself a hundred men in a hundred bars had laughed like that. You told yourself anything that wasn’t his name.

“Mommy!”.

Delilah—Lilah—came at you like a small hurricane in light-up sneakers (the sweetest, clumsiest whirlwind there ever was), paper-plate craft flapping in one fist, a smudge of orange paint on her cheek. You bent without thinking, arms opening in the exact shape of her. The world righted itself around the weight of her. Play dates, park snack bags, cartoon theme songs at 6 a.m., all of it, your anchor.

“Look what I made!”, she declared, thrusting a construction-paper bat into your face. The googly eyes were crooked and perfect.

“It’s amazing”, you said, and your voice steadied on the easy truth. “Museum quality”.

Ms. Rivera cooed appropriately. “Oh, that is museum quality, Lilah. I love her little fangs”.

“Her name is Midnight”, Lilah announced, still brandishing the bat like a parade flag.

A shift in the air told you he’d finally turned. You didn’t look right away. You fixed the corner of the bat, smoothed your daughter’s hair, checked the time on the wall clock as if any of that mattered. Then you lifted your head.

He looked exactly like your memory and not at all like it. Older around the eyes, the jacket broken in deeper, the mouth still fighting not to soften. The sight of him didn’t knock you back so much as tilt the floor, just enough that you had to plant your feet.

Dean’s gaze finally met yours. It held. He looked at you like he was trying to line up two transparencies, who you’d been and who you were now, and the longer he stared, the more the room thinned to the quiet between two heartbeats. It went on long enough that you felt Lilah’s weight lean into your leg, her patience in short supply. “Do you like her?”, she piped up, tilting the paper plate so the bat’s crooked smile faced him. “My bat. Her name is Midnight”.

The sound broke the spell. Dean’s eyes cut to her, then back to you, then to her again, like a pendulum that couldn’t decide where true was. The movement was small, precise, the way he’d always measured rooms for exits. Only now the exit seemed to be you, and the door he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch was a four-year-old with glue on her knuckles.

“She’s… awesome”, he managed, voice softened down to something careful. “Midnight’s a tough name to live up to”.

Lilah’s whole face lit. “She can fly. But not inside. Mommy says nothing´s around to fly inside”.

“Mommy’s smart”, he said, and on that word his gaze snapped back to you, pinned there a breath too long before it slid to Lilah again. The green of her eyes caught the struggling light and threw it back at him. That was when he faltered. Not much. A stutter in breath, a shift in his jaw, a tighten-and-release of his fingers at his sides, but you felt it like a temperature drop. His eyes stayed on your daughter, then flicked to you, then back as if testing the same answer three times.

“How old are you, kiddo?”, he asked, too quickly to be casual, the question pushed out on instinct, suspicion, hope - whatever ugly, holy mix lived in the space behind his ribs.

“Four", Lilah announced, very proud, holding up too many fingers and then fixing it with serious concentration. “Four”.

The number seemed to echo. You heard it bounce off the cinderblock walls, off the paper ghosts and the cup of dull pencils; you felt it land in him like a stone dropped in deep water. He looked at you, sharp, then back to her, and you could see the math drawing itself across the back of his eyes. Counting backward. Counting forward. Counting all the places where he hadn’t been.

“C’mon, baby, we need to go”, you said, scooping Lilah onto your hip. It was to her, but it was for him. An end to a conversation he hadn’t started yet and you weren’t going to have in a hallway full of paper ghosts.

Ms. Rivera’s smile faltered as her gaze bounced from Dean’s eyes to Lilah’s and back again. You watched the recognition click into place behind her professional cheer. She pressed a folder toward you like a shield. “I’ll—um—finish the attendance”, she murmured, already retreating. “See you both tomorrow”. And then she disappeared, shoes squeaking a polite escape.

“Wait”. Dean’s hand lifted, palm out, stopping short of your sleeve like he’d hit an invisible fence. “Can we—”.

“Not here”, you said, low. Lilah’s arm looped around your neck, her bat bumping your shoulder with each breath. “Not now”.

His jaw worked. Four years collapsed into the space between heartbeat and regret. “I didn’t—”. He shut his mouth, swallowed the excuse. “You’re right”. A beat. “But… can you give me a minute?”.

You angled past him toward the door. “You had a year”, you said, even, for the sake of the kid whose ear was pressed to your collarbone. “Then you had four”.

He took it, the hit and the history. “You’re angry”.

“You think?”. The edges of your voice were sanded for little ears, but the shape of the word was still sharp. “We’re done”.

Lilah patted your cheek, oblivious diplomat. “Mommy, can Midnight have sprinkles, too?”.

“Midnight can bathe in sprinkles”, you said, and kissed her temple because it helped.

Dean shifted, blocking the door just enough that you had to look at him. He didn’t touch you, or crowd. He just stood there with his questions bleeding through the seams.

He was always so much taller than you. The hallway lights caught on the slope of his shoulders, and you hated that your body remembered what it felt like to stand under his shadow.

“Dean”. You made your voice calm and flat. “Get out of my way”.

His jaw clenched, green eyes flicking down at you like he was trying to peel back every layer you’d built since he left. “Just… a minute. That’s all I’m asking”.

“You already long enough”, you snapped, low enough that Lilah wouldn’t hear it as more than a hum in your chest.

He flinched but didn’t move. “I just—look, we could grab a coffee. Sit down. Talk like adults”. His voice dropped, softer, trying for gentler. “Catch up”.

You laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Catch up? Like we lost touch after high school? You ghosted me, Dean. Vanished. And now you want coffee?”.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing like the words cost him. “I had reasons”.

“Yeah? So did I”. You shifted Lilah higher on your hip. “Mine wore diapers”.

His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the girl nestled against you. Then they snapped back to your face, as if he wasn’t allowed to stare too long, as if staring too long would break something he didn’t know how to fix. Still, you the loop his gaze kept making: Lilah’s lashes, your mouth, Lilah’s hands, your eyes. Back and forth, like a man trying to solve a puzzle without touching the pieces.

“She’s beautiful”, he said, quiet, reverent. “She’s… she’s got your smile”.

The lie hung there, soft and heavy. You didn’t correct him. You didn’t need to. His gaze gave him away, lingering on the green in her eyes, the stubborn lift of her chin, the way her curls bounced when she fidgeted. He didn’t say the words, but the question was in every breath he took.

“She likes loud cars”, you said flatly, because if he wanted clues, you’d toss them like knives.

He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Figures”. He exhaled, almost shaky. “So she’s—”.

“Don’t finish that sentence”.

His hands flexed at his sides, the fight in him trying to crawl out, but he held it down. “I just… I need to know if—”. He caught himself, scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “If you’re okay. If you both are”.

You met his eyes, steady. “We are. Without you”.

The words landed, and he didn’t even try to dodge them. He nodded once, slow, like he deserved every bit of it. Still, he didn’t move. “Coffee”, he said again, quieter, like maybe if he whispered it you’d hear something else in it. “Just half an hour. No excuses or vanishing. Just… me and you. Please”.

You stood there in the too-bright hallway with paper pumpkins rustling and Lilah humming against your shoulder, and you hated that a part of you wanted to believe him.

“Get out of my way, Dean”, you said again, softer this time, but no less certain.

His throat worked. For a moment, you thought he might argue. Then, finally, he shifted sideways, giving you space. But his eyes followed you, asking all the things he couldn’t say out loud, burning with a truth he was too much of a coward, or too much of a Winchester, to name.

And you walked past, Lilah in your arms, every step steady even though your chest was on fire.

Later, in the bathroom that smelled like bubble soap and wet towels, with steam fogging the mirror, you rolled your sleeves up, kneeling on the bathmat with one hand steady on Lilah’s back as she splashed and hummed, glue peeling off her little fingers in gummy strings.

“Don’t eat it”, you warned, pulling the sticky wad away before she could test her luck.

“I wasn’t!”, she giggled, then immediately changed the subject, because that’s what four-year-olds did. “Mommy, did you see the black car? The loud one?”.

Your chest tightened. You reached for the shampoo bottle, forcing your voice into its calm, bedtime cadence. “Yeah, I saw it”.

“It was shiny”, she said dreamily, tilting her head back so you could lather her curls. “And so big. Not like ours. Ours is… ours is squeaky”.

“Our car gets us where we need to go”, you said, rinsing her hair with the plastic cup, watching the suds slide down her shoulders.

“But the black one was like—vroom!”. She made the noise with her whole body, water sloshing over the side of the tub. “Can we get one like that?”.

You swallowed hard, focusing on rinsing the last of the shampoo from her curls as she splashed and squealed about engines and vrooms.

“Can we get one?”, she asked again, stubborn in the way only Dean Winchester’s child could be.

You wrapped the towel around her small, slippery body and lifted her out, settling her onto the bathmat. She giggled as you rubbed her hair dry, soap bubbles popping under your palms.

And all you could think about was the Impala. That night.

Rain pelting down hard enough to blur the motel sign across the lot. Cold air spilling in every time the passenger door opened and slammed shut. Sam’s tall shadow moving inside, muttering something about giving you two five minutes, which had stretched into thirty.

You remembered the creak of leather under you, the way Dean had dragged you into his lap, his hands gripping your thighs like he couldn’t believe you were real and alive after what you’d just faced. You remembered how the windows fogged faster than you could wipe them clear, how his mouth moved against your jaw, your neck, your chest like he was starving.

And the way the world had gone quiet in that front seat, with the hunt behind you, the storm outside and his body warm and solid beneath yours. That night had left more than memory. It had left your little girl.

You cleared your throat, willing the memory back into its box, sealing it tight before it could leak out where she might see it on your face.

“Someday, maybe”, you murmured, kissing the top of her damp curls. It was easier than saying never, easier than explaining that the car she was dreaming about had already given her all it was ever going to give.

She giggled when you spread the towel wide, then squealed as you wrapped her up tight, tucking every corner in until she was nothing but a squirming little burrito with green eyes peeking out from the folds.

“Mommy! I’m stuck!”.

“That’s the point”, you teased, securing the last corner. “No escape for the burrito”.

She wriggled delighted. “Burrito with sprinkles!”.

You laughed, the sound breaking something loose in your chest, and lifted her against your hip, towel trailing like a cape. She pressed her wet cheek against your neck, and for a moment, just a moment, the memories dulled, the Impala faded, the storm quieted.

This was what you had now: sprinkles, towels, bedtime stories. Not the growl of an engine in the night. Not the man who drove it.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 2

-

You had only been out of the shower for a minute when you heard Ally’s cries echo off the hallway walls. Mark was trying. God, you knew he was trying.

You wrapped your towel tighter around your sore, still-healing body and moved carefully down the hall. Everything in you ached. Not just from the birth, but from the way life had been piling on lately.

The door to the nursery was cracked open. You saw him hunched over in the glider, Ally cradled in one arm, bottle in the other. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. That vein near his temple, the one you dreaded, already pulsing hard. “C’mon, baby girl”, he muttered under his breath, his voice unded like sandpaper, “just take it—fuck—take the damn bottle”. Ally wailed louder.

You could tell the pain had crept in. The tumor again. It always hit at the worst times. He’d been hiding it better before the birth, always brushing off your worry with a gritted smile and a muttered “I’m fine”. But not tonight. Tonight, he looked like he was about to break.

You moved toward them slow and quiet. He didn’t notice at first, his hand was trembling as he tried to adjust the bottle’s angle, his other arm going rigid, muscles twitching from holding her too tight.

“Mark”, you said softly.

He flinched like he’d been shot.

“I’ve got her”, you added, reaching out. Not just for Ally, but for him, too. For the part of him that never asked for help even when he was drowning.

“I got it!”, he snapped, louder than he meant to, maybe louder than he even realized.

The sharpness in his voice sliced through the room. Ally jerked in his arms, her tiny fists flailing, her face scrunching tighter as her cries rose into a desperate wail.

Your heart clenched. Not just at the sound, but at the look that crashed over Mark’s face in the next breath. Regret. Instant and raw and so damn brutal. “Shit”, he muttered, pulling her closer like he could somehow undo it. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to scare her—”.

You stepped forward again, slower this time, gentler. “Mark. Give her to me”.

He looked up, and for a second, he didn’t look like your husband. He looked like a man unraveling. Haunted, sleep-starved, battling something deeper than just pain. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale, and that vein in his temple was beating like a war drum. He just stared at you, like maybe if he sat perfectly still, the whole thing would stop. The crying, the guilt and the pounding in his head.

But Ally kept screaming. And he cracked. “Fuck”, he hissed, slamming the bottle down onto the side table so hard the plastic bounced. His free hand gripped the arm of the chair like he needed something to anchor him, something to keep him from shattering into pieces.

You didn’t flinch. Even though everything in you wanted to wrap your arms around him, you kept your voice steady. For Ally. For him. For yourself. “Mark. Let me take her”.

“She won’t stop”, he choked out. “I—I tried. I’ve been sitting here for twenty fucking minutes, and she just keeps—”. He didn’t finish.

You moved in slowly, not to startle either of them. Her, fragile and red-faced; him, barely holding it together. You crouched in front of the glider, ignoring the ache in your legs, your ribs, the tight pull of healing scars across your abdomen. “She’s okay”, you whispered, voice soft as breath. “You’re okay”.

Mark didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on Ally like she was a stranger he’d already failed.

You reached out carefully, easing her from his arms. She was stiff at first, fists balled, breath catching in sharp hiccups from how long she’d been crying. But then her little body relaxed the second she settled against you, chest to chest, skin to skin. She knew your heartbeat. She knew your smell. She knew you were safety. And just like that, she stopped. The only sound in the room was her ragged little breathing, settling slowly into something steady. You picked up the bottle he’d thrown down, checked it, then offered it to her gently. She latched without protest.

Mark stared, hands limp in his lap now. That haunted, hollow look in his eyes deepened.

You stood slowly, knees creaking under the weight of your healing body and your now-dozing daughter. Every muscle felt like it had aged ten years in the last two weeks, but you didn’t complain. You couldn’t. Not when he was sitting there looking like the floor might crack open and swallow him whole.

Ally stayed tucked against you, warm and small and soft. Still drinking, barely now, just enough to keep her close. “I’ll be right back”, you said quietly, already moving toward the hallway. “Keep breathing”.

Mark didn’t answer, but you saw the slight nod. Barely there.

You made your way to the bathroom, flipping on the dim light with your elbow. The mirror reflected your own exhaustion right back at you. Sunken eyes, damp hair from the rushed shower, towel still bunched under your arm where you hadn’t bothered to fix it. You looked like someone who’d just walked off a battlefield. And maybe… you had.

You grabbed the pill bottle that sat behind the mirror, tucked in with a mess of other prescriptions, without needing to read the label. You knew the weight of it by heart now. Topiramate. One of the few things that didn’t make him feel worse. Not better, not really. Just… a little less worse. You opened it with one hand, Ally still nestled tight against you, and counted the tablets automatically. Eight left. He’d taken one this morning, you had watched him. But it hadn’t touched the pain. Not this time.

It had been like this for almost three weeks now. The pain was getting worse. And faster. You knew the signs, his agitation, the tremors in his hands, the way he rubbed at his temple like he could dig the thing out of his skull. He’d chalked it up to stress. Sleepless nights. The crying. The worry. You weren’t sure if that was the truth or just the version he needed to believe to keep going.

You walked back into the nursery, bottle tucked under your chin, pill clutched loosely in your fingers. Mark hadn’t moved. His elbows were still on his knees, head hanging. He looked up when you re-entered, and the moment his eyes met yours, you saw the pain.

“She’s asleep”, you whispered. “Almost”.

He nodded once, slowly, like he was afraid to move too fast.

You handed him the pill. He hesitated. “Babe”, you said gently. “Don’t argue”.

“I already took one today”.

“I know. This one’s not about prevention. It’s about not collapsing in front of your daughter again”.

His lips twitched, not into a smile, but something like it. Bitter and aching. He took the pill, dry swallowing it in one practiced tilt of the head.

You moved back toward him, gently rocking Ally now. Her lips had fallen off the bottle, and she was curled into your chest like she’d never leave.

Mark was staring at her again. “She’s so fucking small”, he muttered, voice hoarse, like it physically hurt to speak. “And I’m already fucking her up”.

You stayed quiet. You knew he wasn’t looking for comfort, not yet. He was bleeding, and sometimes you had to let the wound speak before you could start to clean it.

“I can’t even feed my own daughter”, he hissed, barely holding the tremor out of his voice. “She screamed the whole time. She screamed because of me”.

“She screamed because she’s a newborn”, you said gently, bouncing Ally ever so slightly as her breathing deepened, her cheek warm against your chest. “She screamed because the world is big and loud and her stomach’s the size of a grape”.

He shook his head, eyes narrowing, not at you, at himself. “No. She screamed because I was holding her wrong. I couldn’t get the angle. I couldn’t get the bottle right. I couldn’t stay calm”.

You saw his spiral happening in real time. The slide into that dark, jagged place where he carved every failure into himself like penance.

“I’ve interrogated cartel leaders with more control than I had five minutes ago”, he said, spitting the words like poison. “And now I’m just sitting here shaking like some goddamn—”.

“Stop”. He blinked. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through. Ally stirred a little and you adjusted her automatically, patting her back with slow, practiced motions. “She doesn’t need perfect”, you said again. “She doesn’t need a soldier or a cop or someone who never messes up. She needs you. The you who stays even when it’s hard. The you who tried, even through the pain. Who showed up even when your head was splitting open”.

He looked at you, and the glassiness in his eyes gave way to something worse, self-loathing. “You looked scared when you walked in”, he said quietly. “Not of the crying. Of me”.

You swallowed hard. “I was scared for you”.

“Same thing”.

“No”, you said firmly this time. “It’s not”. You shifted, carefully sitting down beside him again, holding Ally between you. You guided his hand to her tiny back. He resisted for a second, but you didn’t let go. Slowly, hesitantly, he let his palm rest there. Her body rose and fell with each breath, soft and warm and alive. “You didn’t fail her”, you said. “You’re here. Even when you’re hurting, even when you think you’re screwing everything up—you’re here”.

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing like it hurt, and you watched his jaw clench again before he finally shook his head, frustrated.

You didn’t push him. You just whispered, soft and steady, “Go lay down. I got this”.

He scoffed, bitter, wrecked, and low. “Yeah? Got this?”. His voice cracked. “You’re two weeks out from nearly dying giving birth and you’re still the one getting up at night. You’re the one feeding her. Rocking her. Holding me together”. He finally looked at you, and it was like looking at a man losing a fight with himself. “Not only am I failing her, I’m failing you, too”.

You started to shake your head, but he kept going, chest rising and falling too fast.

“I see you limping around the house when you think I’m not watching. Wincing when you sit down, pulling your shirt over the bandage too carefully like it doesn’t feel like hell. And still—still—you’re the one doing the most, because I can’t fucking function. I can’t be in this house without the walls spinning and my skull feeling like it’s gonna crack open. And you…”. He laughed once, hollow. “You’re the one telling me to go rest”.

You didn’t speak at first. Just let the air between you cool, let his words settle. Because you knew how much it had cost him to say them out loud.

Mark’s pain had always come in waves. That was how the doctors explained it. Pressure in his brain would build, settle, build again. Some days were fine. Some were even good, he’d make coffee, kiss you and make dumb jokes in that low voice that always softened your bones. But not lately. For the last three weeks, it had barely let up. And it was wearing him down. Not just physically. All of him.

You reached out and took his hand again, lacing your fingers through his. He didn’t resist. “Mark”, you said softly, voice steady but full of everything you didn’t want to cry about, “you’re not failing me”.

He opened his mouth, probably to argue.

“No”, you cut in gently. “Listen to me. You think you’re failing because the pain’s in control right now. But you’re here. You haven’t left. You take every wave, every flare-up, every breakdown and you stay. That’s not failure. That’s the bravest damn thing I’ve ever seen”.

He looked away, blinking fast, jaw twitching. “Then why do I feel like I’m drowning?”.

“Because you are”, you whispered. “And I am too, sometimes. But that’s why we take turns pulling each other up. Not because one of us is stronger. But because we don’t let the other sink”.

Ally stirred again in your arms, just a small twitch, a sleepy sigh, but it broke the tension like a pin to a balloon. Mark looked at her, red-cheeked and milk-drunk, and for just a moment, the sharpness in his face softened. “She looks like you when she’s asleep”, he muttered.

You smiled, tired but real. “She’s got your mouth. That little grumpy pout? All you”.

He let out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. “God help her, then”.

You squeezed his hand. “Go lay down. Just for a little while. I’ll wake you if I need you”.

He looked at you, eyes tracing over the slope of your shoulders, the sag in your posture, the stubborn tenderness still etched across your face even with everything you were carrying. “You always say that”, he whispered.

“And I mean it. Every time”.

He hesitated, then nodded. Slow, reluctant, but a nod nonetheless. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of Ally’s head. Then to your shoulder. His lips lingered there a second longer than usual. “Thank you”, he murmured.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Life was finally good to him– too good– he thinks to himself while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Jesus Christ when did all of that get there? His roughened hands grip at the soft fat that now covered what was once abs. He has a dad stomach, I mean he is a dad but still! Him?

Dean Winchester. World famous hunter. Michael 's vessel. Savior of the World. Him?

For God’s sake how come he never noticed? Had you noticed? Well of course you did– you lived with him, saw him everyday– there’s no way you didn’t. Why hadn’t you said anything? This version was nothing like the Ken doll Dean you met back in the day, he’s always been so used to relying on his looks, now he didn’t even have that?

Unbeknownst to you, your husband was having a full blown crisis while you’re calmly putting the baby to sleep– which was much easier now that your toddlers were nowhere in sight. It isn’t until you step into the bedroom that you catch a glimpse of a very frowny Dean in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Baby?” Your soft voice snaps him out of his self-deprecating train of thought.

“Sweetheart, why didn’t y’ tell me I was getting all–” he gestures vaguely to his stomach, clearly displeased “ –round.”

“All round?” You echo with a gentle (slightly disbelieving) chuckle, stepping closer to him in the small bathroom to place a featherlight kiss on his shoulder, careful hands trailing down his back muscles.

“Yeah,” Dean nods like it was the most obvious, wildest thing in the World “I look like a middle aged man.”

“Honey, you are a middle aged man…”

The look that meets you in the mirror is nothing short of unamused. “Y’know what I mean.”

“I know, I know…” you press another soft kiss between his shoulder blades, arms snaking around his waist to grab at the ‘oh so offending’ pouch of stomach. “Guess I never really stopped to think about it, why’re ya so focused on it?”

Seeing your husband’s shrug is what finally sends alerts ringing in your mind, could this man possibly think he wasn’t attractive anymore?

“Really?” You coax him, all the patience and love you could despite wanting to slap him for ever thinking some bullshit like that.

“It’s just weird, y’know?” Dean’s gravelly voice sounded doubtful for once. “Always been this jacked, badass hunter n’ now I’m just… this” once more he gestures to his body.

“Honestly?” You catch his attention by sliding around to stand between him and the mirror. “I prefer this version of Dean” God, you should’ve taken a picture of the face he makes. “Don’t get me wrong, baby-faced Dean was amazing… but dad bod Dean is the man I made a life with.”

Despite your husband’s stubbornness to maintain a grumpy, stubborn facade– you see the crinkles by his eyes that signaled his fond smile.

“This, as you call it–” you continue, gesturing to his soft belly, “ –was what held me when the nerves of leaving The Life got to my head, when we welcomed all of our beautiful kids to this messed up World, when I go to bed every night…” Each word is punctuated by a soft rub of your thumb over his stubbled cheek. “So yeah, I didn’t mention anything cause I never cared about it, Dean. I care about seeing my smoking hot husband smile everyday in this quiet life we built together.”

He chuckles softly, a deep rumble bubbling from his ribs as his hands cradle the sides of your head. “Y’know… baby-faced Dean would call this a chick flick moment.” There it is, that stupid humor and that boyish grin you missed– even if you roll your eyes at him right now.

“But smoking hot husband Dean ‘preciates it sweetheart.” He leans down to press a tender, all too familiar kiss to your lips, smiling against it.

“Anytime.” You chuckle softly, pressing another soft, fleeting peck to his lips.