that girl is me

the world is swimming just a little and his head gives a small tilt as you shake yours at him, looking much too concerned for his liking. there's a pinch to your brow, and your fingers find his sleeve of leather.

"it's me," you say, voice soft and then booming in his ears. everything is quiet and then loud, quiet again. until your fingers hook beneath his chin to make him meet your searching gaze, and it's all narrowed down to you.

and you are an angel.

"let's go back, dean," you murmur, helping him out of his stool. his boots scuff against the floor, and he takes your hand happily once your grip on his sleeve lessens. "you wanna go home?"

his brows furrow, because he thinks he already is. you are.

you are home; safe and warm and all that he ever needs. and you're here, with him. his glittering green eyes flit over your features, pink lips slightly parted as he lets out a soft breath. his hand lands gently on your arm as he stands.

"you came to get me?"

"'course, de. you feel okay?"

he nods. a second of silence and a bob of his throat. "m'drunk, pretty."

pretty.

"i know you are, tough guy. come on."

heat stews beneath your cheeks and with his hand in yours, you begin to weave through the crowds of people occupying the bar. dean stumbles slightly behind you, towering and flushed and looking a little like a lost puppy as he follows at your heel.

and he called you pretty. there's a part of him that really thinks so. maybe all of him, you hope.

the cool air outside hits you in a refreshing wave. dean squeezes at your hand gently and tugs you a little closer, walking in slower steps than usual as you head for the impala.

"sweetheart," he breathes from beside you. "i like holding your hand."

your heart pangs and you force yourself to keep your focus ahead. "is that so?"

he hums, still watching you. his teeth dig into the plush of his bottom lip and he leans down to press his forehead to your temple. a swarm of something warm and erratic flutters about your stomach, and the feeling almost keels you over.

your feet still and you turn to look at him once he lifts his head.

"y'smell good," he whispers, eyes half-lidded and boring into yours. his hands find your waist slowly, gently. you let them. "i like that you're here."

you ache. tender and melancholy, because you've always wished to hear his words. but not like this. not when you're unsure that he even means them at all.

"don't like being alone," he continues, so close that his nose nearly brushes yours. his breath smells like bourbon, but you don't care at all. "m'gonna- i like... you."

don't like being alone.

i like you.

you reach up to cup his face gently between your palms, and he leans greedily into the touch, cheeks a little rosy now from the cold. his eyes shine a little more than before, under the moon's silver.

"dean-"

"love that. when you say my name," his voice is so quiet, low and vulnerable. "your voice s'nice. safe."

his eyes close, dark lashes kiss his cheekbones as he nuzzles against your hands and presses on, forehead bumping yours.

everything is hot, despite the air. your cheeks and hands and face, it's all warm. and there's something golden blooming inside of you, an ache in your chest and a swell of your heart.

he won't remember in the morning, you think. so you'll say it just once.

"love you," your voice is barely a breath, but dean catches it. his brows pinch, eyelids fluttering open. he's staring at something within you that is usually guarded and secure. "very much. let's leave, okay?"

he's quiet and unmoving. a moment passes, and then several. before he straightens with a hesitant slowness and nods, hands smoothing up your waist before he lets go.

his touch lingers and brands into your skin, and that allows you to pretend it's still there. that this was all real and sober and for you. that he really does think you're pretty and an angel.

that you're his home.

you are.

and he'll most definitely remember in the morning.

SAM WINCHESTER has been your best friend since you two met at a party you were both forced to go to in freshman year at stanford. ever since then, you two were inseparable.

three years later, nothing has changed. you two were practically attached at the hip. you'd moved into a shared apartment in sophomore year, grew a routine, and, as all good friendships do, rumors grew about the two of you.

everyone assumed you two were dating. of course, you two tried your hardest to deflect the rumors, but it just stuck.

he was your best friend! that's all you told people.

that's not what they saw, though.

"you're staring again." micheal, a mutual friend, said as he set his tray down.

your eyes snapped away from sam who was stood across the canteen, talking to friends.

"am not!" you were quick to defend yourself. your eyes, however, moved back to sam.

"uh-huh, you totally are." he rolled his eyes as he started to dig into his food, "you're like a cartoon character, just massive hearts bulging out of your eye sockets."

"shut up." you grumbled, poking into your food as you finally looked away and down to your food.

"no, really. you were smiling too. beaming." micheal continued, waving his fork in the air while he added fuel to the fire, "brighter than a lighthouse, babe."

a flush creeps up your neck because yeah, maybe you were throwing major heart eyes and beaming at sam who wasn't even currently looking at you. you huff as you drop your fork and land your face into your hands.

"you are so far gone." he rolled his eyes.

maybe you were.

maybe, just maybe, you wanted the rumors to be true. but how couldn't you? sam was perfect. he held doors open for you, saved you a seat when you'd be running late to lectures, he'd remember all the little things about you, notice all the things you don't even talk about. how could you not have fallen for sam winchester?

it was ridiculous.

it's worse when sam starts to notice it, though. of course he does. he notices everything about you.

it happens one night when you're both home, some documentary droning on and on in the background about proof of the supernatural. pfft. yeah, right.

you two were sat on the couch, the coffee table a mess of takeout and your textbooks. you'd stopped listening to the documentary a while ago and the textbook on your lap was left ignored while you stared at sam's side profile while his eyes stayed hyper-focused on the tv.

the light of the tv accentuated his features, his nose, his eyes, his strong jawline.

you were sure that nobody's wanted somebody more.

you tried to focus on your textbook, you swear you did, but you just couldn't stop thinking about him. you stared down at it, re-reading the same paragraph over and over, constantly distracted by his presence.

he looks away from the tv every now and then. he frowns when he looks back at you the fifth time to see you still on the same page.

"...you okay?" he asks softly.

your head snaps up from the book.

"what? oh-" you look down at the book, then back up at sam with a sheepish grin, "y-yeah. i'm all good, don't worry. just tired... it was a long day."

sam nods, smiling softly, "you had that quiz in human psychology today, right?"

you nod back.

"i'm sure you did great. you always do." sam spoke, gentle as ever, shooting you that prince charming smile of his. you could only nod again, looking back down at the textbook.

sam eyed the textbook and let out a quiet laugh, "you know, you should probably take a break. it would do you good."

"i'll be fine..." you huff, pushing some hair out of your face. you could only let out a disgruntled sound as sam reached over and closed the book in front of you before reaching for the flask of tea that you'd made an hour ago, thankfully still warm.

he didn't say anything else as he sorted you out. he didn't have to, not as long as it was taking care of you.

you let out another huff as you took the flask from his hands, taking a few sips before he laid back onto the cushions and raised an arm as an invitation. you frown before he explains.

"you're tired. come here."

"i'm fine, sam."

"no you aren't. you look exhausted." he insists.

"no i don't?"

"yes you do. you barely slept last night reviewing for that quiz."

"sam, i'm fine-" you roll your eyes.

"when will you quit being so difficult?"

you let out a sound of offence.

sam chuckles.

"come here. just give it five minutes." sam said, arm still raised.

your heart skipped a beat as you looked at the spot that was meant for you.

this wasn't unusual for you two, honestly. you'd always been comfortable together like this. physical touch wasn't new to you two. long nights talking, movie nights, hugs after harder days. it wasn't weird. so why did it suddenly feel so weird?

sam takes his turn to roll his eyes as he spoke, "come on."

you sigh and you shifted, making yourself comfortable in his arms, relaxing just slightly as you laid your back against his chest.

"see? wasn't so hard." sam's voice rumbled. you could feel his chest vibrate with his voice, "now relax."

"asshole." you grumble, shutting your eyes.

you feel his chest shake with a huff of laughter, "you weren't thinking that when you were staring at me 15 minutes ago."

your eyes snap open as soon as you could imagine that smug smirk on his face.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

you feel sam blow out a laugh through his nostrils. before he hums.

you mock his hum. "what's 'hm' supposed to mean?"

sam chuckles this time, "i don't know."

your eyes narrow as you sit up and look back at him, wearing that shit-eating, boyish, smug grin on that stupidly handsome face.

"you don't know?" you repeat his words.

"i just mean that you stare a lot."

your heart drops. you fake gag.

"get your head out of your ass, winchester. i was just... zoning out. i told you, i was tired." you huff, moving away from his arms now, laying against your own side of the couch.

"yeah? were you tired last week when you stared at me while i was talking to my friends at the canteen?" sam challenges, sitting up, "how tired were you when you kept all eyes on me when i invited you to that basketball game last month?"

your ears were piping hot as sam leaned closer to you, "you must be exhausted."

"shut up!"

sam laughs as you swat and push him back.

"i'm kidding!"

you rolled your eyes and crossed your arms, watching the documentary now, anything to focus on except the hammering in your chest and the warmth that overtook your entire face.

you could feel his eyes burning a hole into the side of your head.

"...you know i don't mind though, right?"

you stiffen up.

"don't mind... what?" you press.

"the staring." he said, "from you, at least."

your head whips to him. sam now sports the same pink ear tips as he looks at you, gauging your reaction.

"...what?" you manage.

sam's adams apple bobs as he shakes his head, lips curling into a nervous grin.

"i like it when you do."

he turns back to the tv. it takes you a moment to look away, blinking at the tv as the tension in the room thickened.

it takes a moment for his words to process.

oh.

Rolling slightly to the side, he picks his head up and investigates the room, trying to figure out where you might be. He hasn’t run into a single soul since he got back to the bunker; not Sam, not you, not even Cas, who pops in and out at will. Just a wall of silence, like the space was welcoming him back and letting him breathe before shoving another loud part of his life in his face. Finally, after a few minutes of listening intently, he can make out your faint humming mixing with the sound of your footsteps as you walk toward the room. The door’s cracked open just wide enough he figures you could probably see him from outside. Satisfied, he returns to the mattress, bringing an arm up to rest his head on and closing his eyes again.

His quiet doesn’t last long. It’s broken slowly, warmly, by a voice that sounds like sweetness and summertime and the slightly bittersweet taste of the nectar from lilacs. It sounds like summer nights on the hoods of cars and hot coffee on cold days and coming home, returning to his rightful place.

“Dean?” you say quietly, shaking his shoulder with one warm hand. “Are you alright?”

“Hm?” Dean grumbles, rolling half-heartedly onto his back and blinking up at you.

You’re strangely pretty from his angle, he thinks. Backlit by the overhead light that fans out over your shoulders and around your body, you’re glowing. Dean’s convinced that if he reached out to touch you, you’d feel like sunshine and light and everything he’d expect love to feel like. You’re looking at him with those eyes that make him feel human again, that make him realize it’s okay for him to slow down and let himself feel something other than promises upheld to some past version of himself.

You’re smiling something precious, and Dean realizes he’s missed what you were telling him. The lines around your face pop when you smile at him, and he’s run his fingers over them many times in quiet moments. His eyes flutter shut when you reach down to brush the hair back from his forehead, your touch gentle and nurturing like something he didn’t realize he was missing until it happened.

“Rough hunt?” you say, your hand keeping up its touch.

Dean nods slightly, then shakes his head, because really it wasn’t all that rough. He’s just exhausted, drained, joints aching in new ways and eyes getting heavier by the second. What it really is was that he missed you, missed your touch and your scent and the way you care for him. Now that he’s got that back, whatever happened on the salt and burn doesn’t matter anymore. Your fingers brush over the beginnings of a bruise on his temple and he flinches slightly. You murmur something soothing, dipping down to kiss it, and Dean goes limp on the bed as all the tension bleeds from his muscles.

“You should take a shower,” you say.

“In a minute,” Dean grumbles.

You huff a light laugh that makes Dean’s heart do all sorts of funny things. “Dean, baby, I gotta put the sheets on the bed.”

That pulls his eyes open. It’s only then that it clicks for a second time that he’s lying on a bare mattress, and while it’s comfortable, he’s probably getting dirt all over it from his shirt and jeans, boots still on his feet.

You help slowly pull him to his feet, keeping him steady as he wavers slightly. Something in his right hip isn’t quite right, a spark of pain shooting through it when it moves, like it needs to be cracked but won’t. Dean stretches his arms over his head so hard it makes him a little dizzy, but he needs it; the stiffness in his back from the drive was getting too much. You toss a towel in his direction that he catches easily, and when he passes by you to head to the bathroom, you stop him by looping your arms around his neck and kissing him so deep he can taste the laundry detergent that clings to your skin.

You drift back to the laundry room with a hand that trails down Dean’s chest and taps his ass as you leave, which makes him blink, utterly disoriented. He’ll think about it in the shower, he decides. All he needs right now is to peel his mud-covered jeans off, clean up the cut on his forearm that’s starting to sting, and hope the water’s hot enough to melt the stress off his skin.

Stepping into the shower, Dean can already feel some of his pains washing away. Sore muscles in the small of his back relax under the heat, the skin turning a little pink with how warm he’s put the water on, but he doesn’t mind. Pain from the water of a hot shower is infinitely better than pain from a ghost or a demon. Control, that’s all it really is. The knowledge that it’s his own doing, that he can turn it off whenever it gets too much.

He grabs your shampoo from the shelf without even thinking, massaging it on his palms and letting the familiar scent of it wash over him. It makes him think of simpler times, when he was stealing your soap in motels because the ones they supplied made his skin itch. They might not have been easier, because nothing’s really easier than the way he lives now, but they were familiar, constant, not a continuously shifting set of days that made him worry for his life. He cares about that now.

It hits him then, as he’s putting your shampoo in his hair, how much he wants to live. Dean used to think that he was bound to die on a hunt, to succumb to some supernatural force that hated his guts and was just accurate enough with a shotgun to do some real damage. He used to think bleeding out on the floor of some warehouse was better than living, that if he let himself die away from prying eyes, nobody would ask questions. It wasn’t like anyone was going to miss him anyway, not back then.

Now, he wants nothing more than to stick around as long as you’ll have him, and then longer. Some days he almost finds himself wishing he becomes a ghost, just so he can stay in the bunker and see you every day of your life. Nothing matters more to Dean than growing old with you, to see the way you change and grow, and to be there every step of the way. He picks and chooses his hunts carefully now, because after almost dying in a barn a few months ago, he’s learned one thing that he’d never thought possible; you would miss him if he died. And he can’t have that.

When he switches to working the regular soap into his skin and washing away the dirt that clings to his body, he realizes something that yanks at him low in his heart. He’s aging. He’s actually, truly, properly, aging. He’s older than his mother ever was and has been for quite some time now. He’s older than dozens of his dad’s hunter friends, older than some of his own who’s deaths he can never forget. Eventually, he’ll be older than his dad was, older than Bobby was, and god, he hopes he never outlives Sam.

Stepping out of the shower, he can faintly hear you moving around in the bedroom, likely putting sheets back on. You’ve left him clean sweatpants by the bathroom door that he slides on when he’s dry. He’s about to turn and head back to where you’re waiting for him, when something in the mirror catches his eye.

His own reflection stares back. His own reflection, that Dean’s avoided for so many years for fear of what he might find, watches him with the same kind of wise eyes that Bobby carried as he got older. Hands on the sink, Dean’s eyes rake over himself, and he can’t stop the emotion that chokes up his throat at what he sees. He looks normal. He looks older. He looks alive.

There’s streaks of grey at Dean’s temples that fan out into the rest of his hair, silver moonlight mixing with the brown like a star fell into his hair. He’s got deeper crinkles around his eyes and mouth, the worry lines on his forehead etching harsher than they used to. Some of his oldest scars have almost entirely faded, the tattoo on his chest getting close to needing a touch-up from years of work in the sun. The man staring back at Dean is him, really, truly, him.

Returning back to the bedroom, hair still lightly dripping with water he didn’t quite dry out, he grins at the sight before him. New sheets on the bed; the soft ones that he secretly loves but never says outright. The overhead light turned off, and the bedside lamp turned on, a candle sitting unlit on the table. You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, novel in your lap, hair falling in your eyes as you skim the pages, wearing one of his old sweaters and your pyjama bottoms.

“You’re lookin’ cozy over there,” Dean says, low and warm.

You pick your head up, setting your book aside and opening your arms to him, scooting further up so your back is against the pillows propped up on the headboard.

“You wanna join?” you tease.

“You’re not gonna make me do some weird face-mask crap, are you?”

You giggle. “I could.”

“No.”

There’s no heat to what he’s saying, and he knows you know that, but you still pretend to pout anyway.

“I really wasn’t going to. But I am going to make you comfortable. Wanna treat you a little,” you say.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And how’re you gonna do that, sweetheart?”

“Dean!” you say, smacking his chest when he sits down beside you. “Just-. Lay down. No- no, on your stomach, silly. Not like that, you’re-. Ow, that’s my foot. There we go.”

It takes a bit of adjusting made harder by the simple fact that Dean doesn’t feel like moving too much, and his joints don’t really feel like cooperating, and the warmth of freshly-dried sheets is just too good on his skin. Finally, he gets situated on his stomach, head on a pillow, arms locked around it. He pretends it’s you he’s holding, even though you’re barely an arm’s length away, sitting back on your heels by his hips.

“Whatcha doin’?” Dean mumbles, words distorted by the pillow’s material.

“You looked like you could use a bit of TLC,” you reply.

“TL-. What? Why? I’m doin’ fine.”

You hum, rolling up your sleeves and reaching for the lighter and candle. The lavender one, Dean realizes when he cracks open his eyes to watch you. He doesn’t like the lavender one; it makes his nose all itchy and his head feel sore, and it smells like the couch of some old lady’s place that she died in and never left.

“Not that one,” he whines, arm smacking loosely at your hands.

“What?”

“Not that candle,” he says, pouting.

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Why not? It smells nice.”

“Smells like old lady house. Don’t want it.”

You snort a laugh, putting the candle down. “Okay, fine. What one do you want?”

Dean raises a brow. “Want mine.”

You bend to dig under the bed for Dean’s candle he’d bought and subsequently poorly hid from you for months until you caught him using it one night. Dean can’t help but trail his eyes over the curve of your ass when you bend down, noting the way his sweater rides up on your back, exposing the dimples. He loves nothing more than putting his fingers on those, feeling the way you arch under him.

“This one?” you ask, popping back up with a tan candle in its holder.

Dean nods, pout fading into a toothy smile. “Yeah, that one.”

You light it, holding it to your nose and taking a deep inhale. “Smells like you.”

He nods against the pillow. “I know. ‘S why I like it. Smells manly.”

That makes you laugh for real, and Dean chuckles low in his throat with you.

“Smells manly?” you parrot.

“Yeah.”

You shake your head, setting the candle and lighter down and returning to Dean’s side. He hisses when your cool hands meet his skin, still warm and lightly damp from the shower. Your fingertips trail over his back, connecting freckles and scars and bumps of unknown origins. All he knows is he’s carried them along his entire life, yet you still touch them with reverence like you’re just learning they exist.

He’s about to ask you to move faster when you nudge the waistband of his sweats down a touch, just enough on one side to expose his hip bone. The one that’s been stiff all day, that feels like it’s screaming complaints every time he tries to move it. Your hands run over it with a little pressure, and you frown when you come across a knot.

“You always this tight?” you ask.

“That’s what-,” Dean starts.

“Don’t you dare,” you warn, pressing a finger to his lips.

He nips at it playfully, kissing it when you pull away. “Sorry, sorry. I dunno, guess it got all jacked up when I drove back.”

“You’re getting too old to drive that long in Baby,” you tease.

Dean pauses, the realization hitting him somewhere warm and uncertain. “Yeah…guess I am.”

Your fingers work out the knot, pressing in all the right places that make Dean sigh deeply. It feels like you’re pushing all the stress and years of pain out of his body just with your touch, massaging the worst of his nightmares from his skin and chasing them to somewhere far away. Dean doesn’t know how much time it’s been, but eventually you switch to working at the other hip, then on his lower back, rubbing the tension out.

“Doing alright?” you murmur.

Dean makes a noise in reply that’s half sleepy grunt and half acknowledgement, and it makes you smile. His eyes are closed, but he can feel the weight of your grin, the same way he can feel the heaviness of your anxiety or your joy.

“Relax, Dean, I can feel you’re all tense.”

“’M not tense.”

“Right, sure. So, you’re not sore at all, and I’m just doing this for kicks?”

Dean hesitates, breath catching. You’ve read him perfectly yet again, feeling like you know his body better than he does.

“That’s what I thought,” you say, hands resuming their work on his back, trailing ever slowly upward. “Close your eyes, Dean. Take a nap if you have to. This is for you.”

Your hands work higher, running soft circles with your thumbs over his ribs, the heels of your hands digging in to all the tight spots, soothing all the pinches and soreness from a lifetime of over-exertion without enough care. Dean can feel his eyes getting heavy by the time you’re halfway up his back, and when you hit the bottoms of his shoulder blades, his eyes are completely closed, surrendering himself entirely to your touch and trusting you not to hurt him.

When you reach the base of neck and start rubbing small circles there, fingers scratching up into his hair, he’s done for. He’s half-conscious, bubbled in love and warmth and safety, breathing slowly evening into something deep and regular. Dean’s vaguely aware of what he thinks are soft snores bubbling up from deep in his chest, but he’s too far gone to really care.

He’s only barely aware of your hands leaving him, replaced by your lips pressing a plethora of soft kisses to the back of his neck and the skin of his shoulders, all the spots touched by your hands earning a press of your lips too. He’s pretty sure he feels you adjust the pillow under his head and slide into bed beside him, pulling the blankets up over his bare back and tucking them around him. All he really knows is that his arm pulls you close to his chest, and he feels your palm land over his heart, no doubt feeling the beating of it and letting the rhythm drift you off like it has so many times before. Dean’s quick to fall properly asleep, letting your body heat and gentle breathing carry him away, surrounding him in the reminder that he’ll be loved even when he’s fully grey and old, that he’s got everything that matters right here in his arms.

dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.

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

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

“yep.”

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

“probably.”

“great. very rural.”

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

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

“no,” you say.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“my face is handsome and innocent.”

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

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

you stare at him.

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

“i’m not calling you honey.”

“baby?”

“absolutely not.”

“snookums?”

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

“hot. committed to the role already.”

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

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

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

you blink. anniversary.

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

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

dean’s eyes flick down to yours.

the mechanic clears his throat.

you win.

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

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

“you’re quiet,” you comment.

he hums, “thinking.”

“dangerous.”

“about us.”

your heart trips.

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

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

“and yet, you married me.”

“fake married.”

“vows are vows.”

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

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

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

“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”

he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.

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

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

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

you elbow him. “dean.”

“what? communication is important.”

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

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

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

“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”

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

you burn the scarecrow together.

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

the town is quiet now.

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

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

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

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

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

one night, you’re lying on your back, halfway through your second dream when you feel a heavy weight settle on your side—grounding rather than crushing, but still there. you ignore it at first, not thinking much of it.

but after a few minutes, that weight turns into a slow, creeping warmth that envelops you until your whole body feels like it´s overheating. you force your eyes open, blinking through the haze, and there he is, the culprit: his hair is all over the place, splayed on your pillow while his arm cages your torso, his head nestled into the crook of your neck. you make an attempt of mumbling out his name, voice low and still laced with sleep.

nothing happens.

you clear your throat once more, and you find your hands threading through his hair absentmindedly, “sammy, you´re cooking me alive, move.” though your words come out without any real force behind them.

still, he doesn’t move, and all you get in return is a small, protesting sound to the side of your neck. you try to ease yourself out of his hold, rolling onto your side, but the second you move, he’s next to you again, chest pressed up against your back while his head finds its usual spot on your neck, his 6’4 frame shadowing over you in an instant.

you sigh and scoot farther from him, but it´s useless—he reels you back in, trapping you under his embrace again. when he finally wakes, rubbing his eyes as he slowly adjusts to the darkness, he just stares at you for a hot minute before mumbling, “you run cold.” and then has the audacity to press his forehead to your shoulder like that explains everything, leaving no space between you while you´re seconds away from evaporating into thin air.

and what´s worse is that he believes in it, he thinks it´s sweet reasoning.

“cold? sam i´m literally sweating through the sheets.” you groaned in exasperation, looking down at him with every intention of giving him an earful, but the second your eyes land on him, your voice falters.

he just gives you that look—puppy eyes, bottom lip jutted out in a pout and all. you quickly avert your gaze from him, refusing to fall for his antics because he knew exactly how to get his way, “don’t give me that look, you’ll make me feel bad.”

he smiles, head tilted to the side, “is it working?”

“unfortunately.”

cybella’s thoughts⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ small small fluff blurb i wrote yesterday when i was dying bc of the freaking heat oh my lord save me from this heat wave please!!!

tagging my sweetest lola <33 @samwspn ty for helping me choose my sammy pics for this!!