"your midas touch on the chevy door..."

The light moves, when he walks. 

You noticed it the first time you met. You’d walked up to the building, shifting on your feet and peer at the buttons, and he’d elbowed right past you with a grunted apology. 

“Sorry, gonna be late- Shit-“

He’d walked right into the glass. 

You like to think of yourself as at least an okay person. The kind that helps someone, when they run into a door like a bird. But you’d still almost laughed, at the dazed expression on his face as he stumbled back. You’d laughed, and you’d caught his arm to steady him. It had made you falter a little bit as well, because he’d been a lot heavier than you expected—even for someone so taller—and you’d sunk your nails into his arm. His bicep had flexed under your hand. 

He’d grabbed your wrist with a grunt, both of you finding footing at the same time, and looked you right in the eyes. 

He’d had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen in your damn life. His lashes might be longer than yours, the dark green almost hypnotizing, and his face- 

You hadn’t known men were allowed to look like that. You’d been so sure that the face looking at you was from a dream. Full lips and strong features, a slightly crooked nose and, sharp clean-shaven jaw. 

You’d blinked at him slowly. Held on a little tighter, in case this was a dream. Morning mist had bitten at your fingers, but his body had been warm. The haze of it all made it feel like a dream, and you’d leaned a little forward, but- 

There had been ice under your feet. You’d slipped with a tiny yelp. 

He’d grabbed you quickly. Wide eyed with an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. Your ankle had hurt—not a dream—and his breath had turned to fog over your face. Only a foot or so apart, something magnetic pulling you closer, something louder in your brain—call it a survival instinct—making you place a hand on his chest to stop yourself from melting into this complete stranger. 

His mouth had curved into a small grin. The light had moved. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.” You’d swallowed. “Are you-“

“I’m good.” He’d shrugged lazily. Still looking at you. “You?”

“I’m fine.” You’d whispered. “It’s- Happened before.”

That had been a lie. You’d never felt anything like this, that made your heart go to your ears and your whole body sing. Light by an electric fire, sparking when his thumb brushed a small line over your waist.

He might’ve seen right through you. His smile had grown. 

“You slip on ice while standing a lot?” He’d teased. 

“You run into glass doors a lot?”

He’d stared at you for a second. You’d bitten your tongue. You didn’t need to be that angry, that defensive, you didn’t even know him and he probably thought you were some kind of standoffish bitch- 

He’d laughed. Loud and clear, the first note of a song you’d been waiting to hear all your life. Your heart had skipped in your chest, and fallen into a beat you’d never felt before. It had felt right. He, with his arm around you and a wide smile on his face, had felt right. 

Then he’d pulled back, grabbing your arms to make sure you were steady on the ground, before coughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Still smiling. Still so close. 

“Guess I don’t. Was just in a rush to get inside, I think I got someone waitin’ on me- Not like that.” He’d added quickly, ears going red. “I live upstairs, and my friend moved in with her girlfriend, and my brother was crashing with his girlfriend but they found a place and now I- Never mind.” He’d shaken his head, making a face that at the time you hadn’t fully understood. 

Even now, you don’t understand. He’s only ever made the face when he’s talking to you. You know, because you watch everything he does.

Just to see if he knows he has your heart. That it’s wrapped around his hands, to pull and play with however he pleases. That he grabbed it when he caught you slipping, and he’d left a depression on your body where he’d touched you so easily. Fit so perfectly. You watch him all the time, because there’s nothing better than just watching someone you love. 

You hadn’t known you loved him then. You’d only known that he’d seemed nervous, and it had been sweet. That his face had been confused and adorable, even if you were able to place why. 

He’d extended his hand, an almost sheepish smile on his face. “Dean Winchester. That’s- My name.” 

You would’ve giggled, if you hadn’t been so busy panicking. You’d heard that name before. It was saved in your phone, along with the ad. 

And when you’d said your own name, you’d seen it hit him too. You’d slip your hand into his, fingers shaking—the cold or nerves, you’re still not sure—and he’d still felt right. So right. His fingers and wrapped, safe and firm around yours, and in another life you wonder if he would’ve pulled you forward into his arms. 

But you don’t live in that life. You live where he needed a roommate, and you needed a place to live, and that was more important than anything else. That wasn’t something you had the luxury to jeopardize, even for Dean. 

And you know now. You’d jeopardize a lot of things for Dean.

“I think you’re supposed to be waitin’ upstairs for me.” He’d rasped, and you’d laughed weakly. 

“I couldn’t get in the building.”

“Oh- Uh- Right.” He’d glanced at the doors. Still holding your hand. 

You hadn’t wanted him to let go. 

“At least you’re not late.” You’d said with a smile, and he’d look back to you. 

His eyes had shined, and in the mist, he’d still looked like an angel. A little more solid and real, but somehow less tangible. A little further away, but right in your hands at the same time. The light had moved. He’d chuckled, and it had moved something deep in your chest. Something final, shifting where it was supposed to be, as you flushed under Dean’s gaze. 

“Yeah.” He’d said. “I guess I’m not.”

You have this whole life, in your head. 

It’s a habit you built when you were a kid. It’s not a good one. Enough ghosted therapist have told you that for you to know. But knowing has never been your issue. 

You know a lot of things. You know yourself. You know that living where no one else can see makes you lonely, and you know that you can’t complain about the silence when you never speak. You know that every time someone asks you if there’s something going on there and you say no, it’s a lie you feel in the pit of your stomach. You know every time you hear soft laughter from his room and smell the perfume in the morning, it makes you so sick you might just vomit your guts all over the floor to see if he’ll clean them up. 

But you also know Dean. And you can’t tell anymore. If that makes it better or worse. 

You know him so well he might as well just be another part of you. You know what kind of shampoo and toothpaste he uses, because you buy it for him at the corner store. You know he likes hot sauce but can’t handle it as well as he claims, because you’ve watched him eat a hundred burritos with a proud smirk, only for his face to go red and his voice to get rough as he pretends he doesn’t want milk. 

You know he wears boxer briefs, because you do his laundry. You know he can’t sing for shit, because you hear him in the shower. You know he’s an amazing cook, because he makes you breakfast, and lunch, and dinner. 

You’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that. He always rolls his eyes, and ignores you, and you’re more grateful for it than you’ll ever be able to say. 

You never want him to stop doing it. It feeds your small little world—the one you entertain at night before you sleep, the one that keeps you going when you walk into the apartment, and he’s on the couch with some random girl with a smile that’s brighter than yours and words that are softer—because they don’t get to have that part of him. 

Not one girl that Dean lets into his bed—the one place in the whole damn apartment you’re not allowed to be, the one place you’d trade anything to be given just a glimpse—gets to stay until morning. They leave with a stomping feet and a slam of the door, and you hug your sheets as you hear Dean shuffle around outside your door. 

He’ll sigh loud enough to be heard through the walls. The shower will run, and you’ll bury your face in a pillow, hiding the shame of your arousal from the ceiling. 

You have no right, to picture him naked under the water. To imagine his broad chest and strong legs, the ripple of his muscles as he stretches to wash his hair with the shit you bought him. How he might bow his head to stare at you, if you massaged the soap into his soft, spiky hair. How close he’d be, how he might lick his lips, how his big hands would land on your hips. 

How you’d sink to the floor, and run a hand up his thigh. How you’d tilt your head, pressing your cheek near his groin, how he might mutter your name and cradle your head as his chest began to rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm. 

No right. You hump the sheets like some pathetic animal, and you muffle moans of his name into your sheets long after he’s back in bed, but you have no right. 

You don’t know how you look him in the eyes, in the morning, but it might be something about how it’s just you. His nightly company is gone. There’s a vulnerability, in how he shuffled around in hot dog pants and presents you with breakfast.

“Pancakes.” He mutters, ears red. “You, uh- Bought all those bananas. I cooked ‘em into it. Lemme know if it’s shit.”

You hum, pulling the plate closer. “It won’t be shit, Dean-“

“Could be. One day I might lose my touch.”

“No, you won’t.” You roll your eyes, and he smirks.

“Stop back talking and eat the damn pancakes.”

“That wasn’t back talking-“

“I’m sharing my fears, and you’re being invalidating-“

“Oh, shut up, I taught you what that word means.”

“That was your mistake.” He grins, leaning over the counter. Eyes locked on yours, hair still messy from sleep. 

The light moves. 

“You gotta know I don’t like lessons, sweetheart.”

You flush, and look down to the pancakes. You never know what to do, when he uses that voice on you. The deep one that makes your face heat, that feels like he’s testing a line you’ve told yourself you’re not allowed to cross. It’s the voice he uses on his company, and you know it’s just teasing, but it feed your dreams. It feeds the world you know isn’t real, that he’s never allowed to see.

“You made these with banana?” You say after a long silence, your face burning. “I love banana.”

Dean coughs, and when you look up, he’s making that strange face. 

“Yeah, uh- I know. I gotta go- Bathroom. Need to piss. And- Shit.”

You blink at him, and he almost takes off down the hall.

“I didn’t need to know that!” You call after him, and he shouts back. 

“Yeah, but I wanted you to!”

You laugh despite yourself, and look back to the pancakes. It’s just food. He’s just cooking for you, which he does all the time, but it’s still something that’s only yours. The smallest part of Dean that you get to keep. 

Food. The only part of him that’s only yours. It’s priceless to you. It’s the most important thing in the world. 

Because you live in your head. And in your head, you dream about a life where he loves you back. Where every time he comes home he walks over to you and picks you up. Kisses you on the counter, then pushes you down and eats you out like you’re the only dinner he’d ever possibly need. Where when you do his laundry, he comes up behind you and kisses your neck. Mutters something about you wearing his shirt, or wishing you’d just leave everything dirty so he could have you naked all the time. 

In your head, you never have to turn on the shower to cover your tears when he brings another woman home. You never have to stare at yourself in the mirror, and pick apart your every feature and expression to try and rationalize why it’s not you. Why you don’t get to have him, why he’s out there touching someone else, what they can give him that you can’t. You give him everything. You’d give him more, if he let you. 

But he doesn’t. And jealousy burns. It scars. It worms its way into your heart and festers, until you’re glaring at his door and curling your fists, fighting the urge to slam on the walls when you hear a high, pitchy whine of Dean through the wall. Some nights, the jealously turns in your stomach and you find yourself over the toilet bowl, literally sick with it. 

The worst part is that he’s not doing it to be cruel. To mock or taunt you. He’s just not thinking of you at all. 

After about a year of living with him, something in you had snapped. He might not think of you, but all you do is think of him, and if you’re going to be suck in the lonely and violent cycle, you might as well even your own playing field. 

Dean doesn’t know it, but you’ve turned it into a sick kind of game. It’s not a healthy one, or one you’re ever going to win, but winning isn’t the point. 

Numbing is the point. Escaping. Being anything but a toy that doesn’t get played with, stuck on the other side of the wall and picking at your skin until it bleeds. 

You start going to bars. Not the one down the street—that’s where Dean goes—but one a few streets up. It’s next to a club made of suffocating heat and too many bodies that aren’t safe—aren’t Dean—but it does just fine. Some nights you go to the bar. Some you go to the club. 

But you always come home with some nameless body attached to your hip. Kissing over your throat and mumbling your name. Touching your skin in a million different ways but never leaving a single dent. You let them sleep in your bed to one up Dean, but kick them out before he’s up. You wash their hands off in the morning, because your skin burns every single place they touched. 

Dean notices. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he notices. His flow of women seems to pick up, but you can’t prove it. 

You stop fucking yours at the apartment. You find beds all over the city, and stumble home in the morning with mess hair and your shoes in your hand. Then you push your way through the door one morning, and find that Dean’s girl from last night- 

She’s still there. Sitting at the counter drinking coffee, wearing his shirt.

“Oh, hi.” She blinks at you slowly. “Um- Dean?!”

“Yeah?” He pokes his head out from the bathroom, damp hair stuck to his brow. 

His eyes find yours. They’re strangely blank. You give him a weak smile, and his nostrils flare, his mouth twitching down. 

“You’re back.” He grunts. “You take the bus?”

You toss your shoes onto the mat. “I walked.”

“You walked-“

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

Dean works his jaw, still staring at you. The girl clears her throat. 

“Sorry, who are you?”

You open your mouth, but Dean beats you to the punch.

“She’s my roommate.” He mutters. His eyes tear away from yours, onto the girl. He looks her up and down, something sour in his expression that she seems to miss. 

“Hm.” She gives you a look of distain that makes you feel small. “I didn’t know you lived with a girl.”

“Wasn’t something you need to know.” He runs a hand over his face, looking down to his watch. “Shit- You eaten yet?”

You and the girl both say no at the same time. She looks like she wants to murder you. You want to run back outside, but your legs are rooted in place, so you just pray the floor will open up and swallow you whole. 

“I haven’t eaten yet, Deanie.” She looks back to Dean, lashes fluttering. “And you really worked up my appetite.”

There it is again. The sickness. You already drank too much, and you can barely remember last night, and you’re going to scream at the floor while all your love spills out with your bile-

“There’s a cafe down the block.” Dean shrugs. “Stop there on your way out. They got good muffins.” 

The girl blinks in confusion, opening her mouth, and Dean slams the bathroom door closed. Leaving you stuck with this woman in his shirt, in your home, shattering the small sanctity you’d built up, the last thread that maybe Dean thought about you enough to keep his nights shielded from your eyes. 

There’s really no reason why he would. He has no idea, that your love for him runs so deep you suddenly can’t stand to be wearing the socks the guy from last night lent you. They feel wrong on your feet. Like bricks, pulling you down, down, down. 

You walk past the furious girl, not meeting her eyes. When you hear Dean out in the hall, saying something to her in a hushed voice, you slip out of your room and into the shower without a glance in their directions. You don’t vomit. You do scrub your skin so hard it burns. 

And you can’t keep up the charade of just fucking around. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, when you just spend every night picturing Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s body. When every voice is blocked out in favor of imagining Dean’s. You’re not built for whatever corner you’ve backed yourself into. It’s going to eat you alive from the inside. 

When you get out of the shower, the girl is gone. Dean’s still in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. You sit at the counter, and try not to feel too aware of the space she’d been in. Try not to wonder if he’s feeling her absence, the same way you look around the clubs and bars, glance up and down every strange hallway and street, and hope that maybe he’ll appear out of thin air and catch you when you’re not even falling at all. 

Not falling in a way he can see, at least. But you are. Further and further, the wind gone from your lungs, your heart beat still drumming that same song. Dean, Dean, Dean. Not yours, not yours, not yours. 

“You want pepper?” He cuts through your thoughts, and you look up at him with a frown.

“What?”

“I made eggs.” He’s not looking at you. His ears are red. “I, uh- I kinda already salted them, but- You always take them with salt. I can start over. If you don’t like it.”

You blink at him. Shake your head slowly. He cooked for you. 

The space where the other girl used to be suddenly doesn’t feel like anything at all. 

“Salt is good.” You whisper, and he looks over his shoulder.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him. His mouth twitches up, and something foolish and unbreakable soars in your chest. “I’m sure.”

He stopped sleeping around. 

And maybe he’s just hiding it better than before, but you choose to believe that he isn’t. That he’s home every night because he wants to spend time with you, rather than a girl he’s going to kick out in the morning. 

You were friends before. You’d become friends the day he helped you move in and he made a stupid joke that you laughed at. He’d grinned so widely it made your gut flutter, and then asked what kind of movies you liked. You’d told him, and made a tradition out of watching at least one movie, every Friday night. 

It was a holy night, Friday night. Even when you’d been forcing yourself into painful shapes to fit in others arms, and he’d been pulling women through the door without a glance in your direction, you’d both still honored movie night. You’d curl up under a blanket together, and switch back and forth between who chose what. Dean would hold the popcorn in his lap, and you’d allow yourself close enough to get drunk on  his leather and spice smell, to absorb the feeling of his shoulder bumping yours and let it all carry you through the week. 

Sometimes you’d yell at the screen together. Sometimes you’d both get quiet, genuinely entranced by the film. But you always ended up with your thighs pressed together under that blanket. Always talk after, for about an hour, before something would shift and you’d both just stare. The dark wasn’t dark enough to hide how handsome he was. The warmth of the blanket became nothing compared to the heat of your face. The heat in your stomach. The haze of the TV made you feel like you were back in that misty dream, and Dean- 

He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed. 

And he never does that. You know he never will. But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave. 

“What’s your favorite animal?”

You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”

“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”

“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”

You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze. 

“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”

You stare at him for a second. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”

“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”

“On a favorite color?”

“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”

Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”

You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“

“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”

“I owe you-“

“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”

You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know. 

“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.

“I hate cats.”

“What?” You sit up. “Why?”

He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”

“So?”

“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”

You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”

He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”

“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”

He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm. 

“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”

“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.

“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“

“Make a better one.”

He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.

“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”

“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”

You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. He has no idea. 

That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.

“Reading and eating?”

He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”

“A… Book?”

That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”

“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”

Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”

Again. He’s not joking. So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation. 

You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.

“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”

You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying. 

A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. Right next to him on the couch.

And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch. 

Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares. 

You didn’t know he had nightmares. Apparently his mom’s family was kind of crazy, and his dad himself wasn’t much better. He enlisted in the marines to make his Dad proud. Got honorably discharged, after an accident that put him in a coma for a few weeks. 

“You never told me that.” You murmur, staring at your shot glass. He sighs. 

“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”

You swallow, looking up at him. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid. 

Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized. 

If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.

How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep. 

But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”

He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction. 

The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life. 

“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back. 

You mean it. Almost. There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know. 

But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t. 

So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world. 

It hits you at the worst time. The realization. Dean’s not just the hot roommate you’re in love with anymore. 

He’s your best friend.

It’s terrifying. It somehow makes everything better and worse all at the same time. He’ll be in your life for a long, long time. You can’t imagine a world without him anymore, and you think whatever gap he left when he took your heart, he’s filled up so well your body might just stop working if you ever lose him. 

It solidifies what you already knew. You can never tell him, because it might make him walk away.

But one day he’s going to find someone else. They’re going to get married. Maybe have babies. They’re going to build a part of his life that you’re allowed to witness, but never be a part of. It’s going to kill you, but you quickly decide that you’ll let it if you must. You’d rather have him then loose him. 

And at least this way, you can try to move on. And you really try to move on. 

You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face. “Alright.”

You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that. 

“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”

Dean doesn’t smile. “Sure. Have fun.”

You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained. 

“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”

It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing. 

He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore. 

You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went. 

But only this night. Because the pattern repeats. You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment. 

Far enough that he meets Dean. And that’s where it all falls apart. 

Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices. 

And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl. 

“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.

“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”

You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up. 

Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well. 

“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”

“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name. 

“Yeah?”

Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough. 

“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”

“Why? We’re just-“

“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“

Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“

“He’s my friend-“

“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”

You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police. 

He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”

You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out. Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again. 

But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone. 

He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb. 

He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.

“You okay?”

You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here. 

And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with. 

All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light. 

“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light. 

You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”

“Anytime.” 

There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile. 

Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away. After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there. 

You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know. You’re not going to be able to move on. 

“I need a favor.”

You look up from your cereal with a frown, the spoon already in your mouth. “Huh?”

A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.

“Son of a- Jesus, woman.” Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m not trying to.” You grumble, wiping your shirt. “And no being mean, you said you needed a favor.”

“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“

“Dean.”

He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like you’re not actively planning his murder.

“You still got something.” He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. “You know I’m helping you, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“

His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as he’s drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face that’s a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile. 

“Shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. “Goddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-“

“It’ll be fine.” You push to your feet with a shrug. “Come on, I can wash it.”

You start down the hall, and don’t realize that Dean isn’t following until you’re at the bathroom door. You look back, and he’s just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.

You frown. “Dean, come on. The longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”

You wave him forward, and it’s like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression. You’re not sure what’s going on with him. It’s just a bathroom. 

“Sit.” You point to the floor next to the tub. “Put your head back, and take off your shirt. I’ll wash it later.”

Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldn’t be that hard. 

It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.

Dean’s shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, you’d be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp. 

He’s staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side. Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. You’re supposed to be cleaning him up. 

You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. It’s so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like you’re invading on yourself. Like you’re doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair. You’d been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft. When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex. 

You can’t keep looking at his body. It’s dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say. 

“What’s the favor?” You mumble, and Dean grunts.

“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”

You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. “Dean. What’s the favor.”

“I said never mind-“

“Dean Winchester.”

He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. “You can’t get pissed. If you don’t wanna do it, just- Say no. And we’ll forget it. Okay?”

You bite your lower lip, but nod. “Oh- Okay.”

“So.” He coughs. “Y’know how Sammy’s gettin’ married?”

“Mhm.” You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. He’d called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. You’d been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. “You want me to water the flowers?”

He chuckles softly. “Not exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.”

“You bought them.”

“‘Cause you were sad about not gettin’ a cat, and- Never mind.” He takes a deep breath. “My thing is- it’s next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothin’ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought I’d ask, even if you didn’t wanna-“

“Dean.” You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs. 

“Right. Sorry. Just- Here’s the deal.” 

He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. He’s dragged his eyes open again, and they’re fixed so nervously  on yours. He’s grabbed your knee with one hand. Like he’s worried you’re going to kick him, or run away. 

“My whole family’s gonna be there.” He mutters, searching over your face with every word. “They’ll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doin’ that.” He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. “And I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe… The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.”

You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place. 

Your mouth falls open. “Are you asking me to-“

“Yeah. But- Only if you want to.” He gives you a small, boyish grin. “But I’d owe you. Big time. Like- I’d pay the whole rent for two months big time.”

You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“

“I’m serious, I really need this-“

“I know but, that’s so much money, and-“ You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do… that.”

He squeezes your knee again. “We’d figure it out. Together.” Another charming smile. “How about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.”

You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. He’s giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You don’t know how you’re going to say no, but- 

All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all you’ve craved, for so so long, is Dean. And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with. Pretending to be Dean’s girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.

“Why me?” You ask softly, looking back to his hair. It’s filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. “I mean, there’s Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, she’s nice-“

“My mom already knows you.” Dean cuts you off with low words. “Easier sell, than some random chick she’s never heard of.” 

A lump forms in your throat. “Your mom knows me?”

“Yeah. I talk about you.”

You flush. It’s an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful. 

“Aw, you love me-“

“Shut up.” He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins up at you, and he doesn’t sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. “But- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.”

You really shouldn’t agree. You shouldn’t. It’s going to back fire. The love that’s been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive. 

But he said please.

“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins. 

You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing. It made Dean smile.

“I hate this.” He mutters. He hasn’t sat down since you got through security. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“

“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”

“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“

“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”

Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating. 

It should. You’ve been practicing.

“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.

“Okay.”

He scowls. “I’m not.”

“I said okay.” You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat. 

“I hate this.”

“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.

Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort. 

But still not real. In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts. 

“We’re gonna die.”

“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night. 

You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane. 

It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door. 

You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly. 

“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.

“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”

“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“

He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.

“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand. 

Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.

“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane. 

You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay. 

If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all. 

He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious. 

He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.

“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack. 

You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart. 

Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.

Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged. 

“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but-  Please.”

“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter. 

And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods. 

“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”

“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises. You don’t mind.

“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”

For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.

“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“

A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.

You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.

“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”

And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes. 

“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. “He’s the best.”

It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.

“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin. “We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”

You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking. 

And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch. 

To seeing his family. To seeing his dad. 

Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it. 

But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.

You’re important to him too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to stand so close and ask you for such intimate favors. 

Probably not close enough to trump his dad. 

So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either. 

“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”

“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all. 

“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“

“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“

“Five minutes. Promise.”

And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone. 

Bed. Single bed. Fuck. 

Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”

You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either. 

He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family. 

He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.

“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward. 

You think he drugged you that. That that single kiss did something to your mind and body, because suddenly you’re stumbling after him and everything is all a fever dream. 

Dean’s hugging his Mom. Exchanging a tight nod and awkward shoulder clap with his dad—who, at the very least, grabs Dean’s arm and nods back—before turning to the impossibly taller man next to the empty seats, and shouting Sammy so loud some of the glasses seem to shake. Sam stands—you’ve never seen him in person, he’s somehow even taller than you thought—and drags Dean into tight hug, muttering something that makes Dean laugh. You smile, because it’s impossible not to when he seems this happy. 

Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river. 

Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.

But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place. 

They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and- 

“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”

You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.” 

Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground. 

“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar.”

“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary. 

She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum. 

And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too. 

“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”

“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“

“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”

“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog. 

This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face. 

And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-

“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”

“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space- 

Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.

“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”

“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”

“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”

Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”

“Sam-“

“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”

Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.

You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean. 

But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift. 

Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-

Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you. 

But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.

“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”

“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“

“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”

The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped. 

Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.

In your cover story, you don’t live together. But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti. 

“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”

You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“

“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.

He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.

“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”

Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far. 

“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”

You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out. 

Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down. 

“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“

“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”

“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“

You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.

“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect. 

He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”

“Ah. The lowest bar.”

He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.

For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge. 

“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”

“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.

“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”

You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless. 

That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. It’s not the story Dean says. 

“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”

You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago. 

You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.

There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation. 

But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it. 

What if it hadn’t faded. Why does he remember. 

Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it- 

“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again. 

You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.

“Dad, c’mon-“

“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”

“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“

“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow. 

“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”

“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”

“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight. 

This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.

But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. “You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“

“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding. 

“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“

“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”

Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.

“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“

“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.

“Dad, don’t use us for this.”

John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“

“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”

The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter- 

“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”

Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles. 

“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”

John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this. 

Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“

“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table. 

You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams. 

Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat. 

It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-

“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow. 

He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. Not real. So unfairly not real.

You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show. 

He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again. 

You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. It’s been a really long day.

You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.

You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back. 

You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back. 

But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real. i

“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“

“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”

He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“

“I know.”

“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“

“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”

“Dean-“

“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”

You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me. 

“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”

That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”

“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”

“And you didn’t do anything about it?”

“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”

“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.” 

You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“

“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”

He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”

You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“

“And I said I’m gonna.” 

“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”

He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.

“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”

“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“

“Yeah, you do.”

Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“

“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away. 

You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips. 

“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”

His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench. 

He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire.  Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face. 

Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.

He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.

Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that- 

There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks. 

Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.

“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.” 

“Dean-“

“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back. 

Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh. Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask. 

And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real. 

Whatever it was, it was far, far too real. 

The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s a ten minute to get through the brush fields and small wood to anything else. 

You’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to go see it. That you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’d gotten away with it the first day, just lounging around the room and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out.

“You good?” He’d ask every hour or so, even just poking his head in without grabbing anything else. 

“Mhm.” You’d mumble, tucked under the covers. 

He’d frown. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“

“No, thank you.” You’d pull the blankets tighter, and he’d sigh. Stare at you for another moment. 

Then Sam would call his name, and he’d shuffle away. Neither of you had spoken about last night. At rehearsal dinner, he’d started off touching you a little less than before, and you’d plastered a wide smile on your face, trying not to let it affect your show. Hands still held, but without fingers woven together. Elbows touching while you sat and ate, Dean offering you some of his whine and you adjusting his tie, but no casual stroking of his hair or secret laughter. 

He’d given a sweet toast that made you smile at him stupidly. No matter how strange things were, you still adored him. 

You’d glanced down the table and found John staring at you. Eyes narrowed, posture stiff. Dean must have talked to him. You’d looked back to your plate and bitten your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just looked like an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech. 

He’d looked at you when he finished it. You’d smiled back, and something had flashed in his eyes. His hand had come up to touch your chin. Just like in bed. 

You’d swallowed, and grabbed his wrist. The crowd has read it as romantic. You’d meant it as a silent, panicked plea for him not to play with you like this. But you don’t know how he read it. Dean had just sat down when he was done, wrapped his arm around your body, and kissed the side of your head. 

It had been the first hole, punched in the dam. Now, in the morning, you can still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin. 

You’d wiped some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then sucked it clean. He’d kept his arm around the back of your chair. You’d both drank, relaxing slowly. A few people came up to you. Spoke mostly to Dean, no matter how he tried to include you in the conversation. He’d started to get tense about halfway through the night. 

You’d taken a risk. Placed your hand, right on his thigh, and rubbed gently. He’d jerked slightly, and you’d started to move away.

He’d stopped you. You’d looked at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he’d offered you the first real smile of the night. You’d smiled back, and that had been real too. 

Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster. 

Instead, you wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket. It smelled like him. 

You’d shoved it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up. 

The plan had been to waste the day the same way as before. Dean runs around doing wedding things. You sit here and fester in your own guilt, indulging in your secret world where all of this was real. You tried to tell Dean that was your plan, when he got up. 

He’d made the executive decision that it wasn’t. That town wasn’t that far, and if he had to go out with Jess and Sam, you did too.

“But they know, we don’t have to sell it-“

“Yeah, but I want you to come. Just to hang out.”

“I want to stay in bed-“

“C’mon.” He’d said your name, giving you a winning smile. “We’re still friends, right? Friends hang out, and support other friends when they gotta go shopping with their brothers.”

You’d narrowed your eyes. “Friends do each other favors, like fake dating for a wedding.”

Dean had sighed. Winced, like you’d actually hit him, then retreated with a muttered agreement. And you had been right. You’d almost gotten away with staying in bed, and Dean wasn’t going to push you. 

But he’d looked so sad. And he wanted you there. All you ever want is to be wanted by Dean.

You’d gotten changed, shoved on your shoes, and stomped out into the room with a scowl. Dean had said your name in surprise, and you’d grabbed the keys out of his hand.

“I wanna drive.”

His face had split into a wide, open grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s a ten-minute drive into town, and you really have to learn how to resist Dean’s puppy eyes. You feel out of place again, trailing after them and smoothing your clothes whenever they stop to talk about something. You’re staring at the pavement, out of place in their lives, counting the cracks and trying to find an excuse to stay home-

Dean links his arm through yours. Doesn’t even look down, just holds you at his side and drags you into the conversation.

You smile to yourself. Let yourself lean into his side, and decide it’s for the small amount of guests you’ve seen milling around the town as well. Not because, just for now, you’re allowed to have him and you don’t want to waste a single second by letting go. 

“Do you like flowers?” Jess asks, leaning down to look at some pots on the street.

You shrug. “I mean, I guess.”

“You guess?” She rises back up. “Well, what does your boyfriend get you.”

Next to you, Dean tenses. You glance up, and he’s still deeply engrossed in a conversation about horses or something with Sam. You shake it off, and turn back to Jess.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You shrug, fixing your gaze on a bee buzzing near the pots. 

“Really?” Sam says suddenly, and you blink. “I thought Dean told me you were seeing this guy named- Uh- Steve? Right?”

He looks to Dean for confirmation. Dean looks at him like he’s plotting a murder. 

“It was Shawn.” You offer, placing a light hand on Dean’s bicep. “And we broke up a while ago.”

“Oh.” Jess exchanges a look with Sam. “Well, what did he get you?”

“Um- He didn’t, really. He wasn’t- It didn’t mean that much.” 

Jess frowns. “That much.”

“Yeah. You know. Flower much. But-“ You glance back over to Dean, who’s started glaring at the sidewalk. “I have some flowers that Dean grabbed for our place. Those are nice, I just- Dean, what are they called-“

“Hyacinths.” He grunts, hand flexing on the table, and squeeze his arm.

“Okay. I like those.”

His eyes flick up to yours, nostrils flaring, and he wipes his mouth with a tight, controlled movement. You offer him a smile—he’s so tense you’re worried he’s going to have an aneurism, even if you don’t understand why—and his lips twitch. 

Jess clears her throat. “How long were you and Shawn together?”

“Like, three months?”

“Oh. Hm.” She shoots a look at Sam. “I just thought- Never mind. Why’d you break up?”

You stare at her, your brain suddenly fogged and moving too fast all at once. A demand to know why she’d think you and Shawn were together for a while—it had barely been a month—almost spills out like vomit, but it’s blocked by the lump rising up in your throat. The thick, tense reminder that Shawn called it off the same reason they all do. The same reason you never get to flowers. 

It’s Dean. It’s always Dean. Still rigid and silent next to you, but also still holding you right against his side. Your fingers have started mindlessly tracing his bicep, the sunlight moving around him and narrowing the whole world down again, and Jess asked you a question, but- You can’t answer it in front of Dean.

You could just lie. The halo forming around Dean is hypnotizing. You can’t stop staring at him, and can’t remember how to lie. 

He’s looking back at you now, brow furrowed, and you’ve been silent for way too long. But his eyes are shining, and you don’t know why he’s this close, but you really don’t want him to move away, and this is another thing that’s too real. Dean’s looking at you like he’s trying to work out the answer, but it’s written all over your pathetic face for him to see, and the heat from his body is going to melt you into something sweet for him to either devour or kick into the gutter- 

Sam coughs. Neither of you look away.

“So, uh- While we’re talking about exes, and everyone’s in a good mood.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Lana’s coming. To the wedding.”

Dean’s eyes shoot away from yours, wide and burning, his jaw ticking the way it does when he’s really angry. His grip on you tightens, and it somehow douses you in ice-water as the moment is broken, all while rekindling a different, tighter heat. He’s holding onto you, so, so tight. Reaching around to grab your further arm as he glares at Sam, and you’re really not sure what’s happening, but it takes a titanic effort not to give into the hazy fever of his proximity, and drop your brow on his chest.

“Sam.” Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth. “What the hell-“

“It was Dad!” Sam protests, and you glance back to see him retreating fast. Literally hiding behind Jess with his hands raised in surrender. 

“Dad? You’re willing to push him, Sammy, we both know you got no problem with that, but Lana is where you cave like- Like a fuckin’ pussy-“

“He’s still friends with her dad, Dean.” Sam whines, and Dean’s lips curl like he tasted something sour.

“And you’re carin’ about that over me?”

Sam winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Jess sighs.

“Sam did try to push, but your dad was really aggressive about it.” She offers. “You know how he is, and we did what we could. She’s in the back of the room. You won’t even see her.”

Dean glares between them, still holding you tight, then gives the tiniest shake of his head. 

“Whatever. C’mon.” He squeezes your arm tightly, still glaring at Sam. “They got Italian ice cream down the block.”

You blink at him, stumbling slightly as he starts to pull you down the street. “You- You mean gelato?”

“Yeah.” He steadies you, not breaking pace. “That.”

Sam calls after you, and Dean flips him off over your head, never releasing your grip. You shoot Sam an apologetic look, but don’t fight Dean as he half-carries you away. 

You end up sitting in the small parlor, Dean beating up his gelato with a spoon while you open and close your mouth, trying to think of an acceptable way to ask what the fuck that was about. His knee is pressed firmly against yours, his attention flicking up every few seconds before dropping back down with a deeper scowl. Something starts to wither in your chest the longer the silence goes on. You look down to your own gelato with your lips pressed tight, trying to swallow down that painful lump and breathe through your nose until your head clears. 

The world is blurring a little bit. There’s dusty light swirling around the parlor, and it makes Dean look like an angry polaroid photo, and you feel a little sick as pointless tears prick at your eyes-

“Lana’s my ex.” He grunts suddenly. “Wasn’t even that serious, but still ended like shit. Used to be that every time I dropped home, we’d hook up.”

The lump grows. “Oh.” 

Dean’s silent for another moment, and you can feel something worse than the silence burning under your skin. It’s seeping in, toxic and hot, rushing through your blood to your head, an ugly feeling twisting in your chest, and-

“Stopped doin’ that last year.” His voice is a little stronger. He looks up at you with that strange expression you can’t read. “When I headed back in August. Remember, I called you to tell you about running into my math teacher at the bar?”

“Yeah.” You smile despite yourself. “You were wasted, you spent fifteen minutes telling me about your crush on her. And your teacher kink-“

“Hey, hey-“ He kicks you lightly under the table, the light creeping back into his eyes. “That was a secret, sweetheart, don’t shout it for everyone to hear-“

“You never told me it was a secret.”

“It’s a fuckin’ kink, smart ass. I don’t run around shouting about all of yours-“

“You don’t know mine.” You shrug, and that was the wrong this to say. 

Dean’s eyes glimmer, something dark crossing over his face that you’d been trapped under that first night on the bed. There, it might’ve been a trick of the night. A little too much drink and stress from dinner, real but in the same was of smoke and mirrors. 

Here, it’s inescapably real. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.

“You think that.” He drawls, leaning over the table. “Don’t you.”

“Um-“ Your voice is getting weirdly high. “Yes?” That was weak.“Yes. I do.” 

“Hm.”

You frown. “Hm?”

Dean shrugs. Smirks at you, as he takes a large bite of his gelato. “Hm.”

“You- You don’t-“

“Don’t I?” He teases, and your mouth falls open. 

“No. You- I’ve never told you any-“

“Words aren’t everything, baby.” Dean pokes your gelato cup with his spoon. “Eat up, we gotta get back to Sammy and Jess before they start manhunting us.”

You blink at him, he smiles back—wide and charming and doing nothing to help the haze in your head—and you start to eat your gelato slowly. Dean waits for you to have one bite, then two, and smirks. Presses his knee further against yours, dropping his voice to something low and dangerous and hot.

“Good girl.” 

The spoon slips out of your hand. Your eyes widen in embarrassment, panicked shame wrapping around your heart, but Dean’s smirk just widens. He keeps eating his gelato, an almost innocent expression on his face, and you might’ve imagined it. Maybe your fantasies and the strange, blurred lines of this week are getting to your head. Maybe it’s the heat, and you’ve started to hallucinate. 

But you’re sure that it was real. 

And there’s no faking Dean’s arm wrapping around your low back when you leave the shop. His hand splayed on your hip, his posture relaxed and grin wide again. When you find Sam and Jess again and Dean doesn’t try to throttle anyone, they give you looks like you drugged him. You just grimace and smile weakly, because you don’t know what happened either. He was mad and sullen, then you were jealous, and now you’re… Here. 

Drinking in a bar, Dean’s smile wide on his face, his body around yours as he fails to teach you how to play pool for the millionth time. His lips brushing over your ear as he speaks, sending a shiver up your spine that he seems far too smug about. He squeezes your hip too close to your ass, when you draw the cue back. It makes you grind back into him like some wanton whore, and he makes a deep sound from his chest, and you feel like you’re going insane. 

You’re a little tipsy—everyone started drinking the moment you got to the bar—but this is real. All of it is real. Whatever had been bothering Dean about Lana is gone, and he seemed to have taken your own worry with it. 

She was the kind of thing that should’ve freaked you out. That would’ve freaked you out, if he told you back home. It would’ve sent you out to the club a year ago, would’ve locked you in your room to cry last week. 

But Dean’s gaze isn’t wandering from you for more than a moment, and all you can think about is his smug expression from earlier. How it hasn’t wavered all afternoon, how he’s teasing you the same as always, but slowly crossing boundaries that have always been open to him. 

He kissed the side of your head, when you sunk a ball at the table. Let you go back to the bar with the single victory, but squeezed your hand before you walked away. He’s still looking for you through the crowd, every few moments. He smiles when he sees you, and you don’t know what’s happening. 

“He talks about you.”

You blink over at Sam, who’d been silently sitting next to you for a while. “What?”

“Dean.” He shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He talks about you.”

“We… Live together.”

“Yeah. You do.” Sam watches you strangely in the shadows of the bar. “He didn’t talk about Charlie, though. I mean, he’d tell me stories about stuff they did. But he didn’t talk about her.”

You frown. “That’s the same thing-“

“No. Not for Dean.”

“No, like, semantically, it’s the same thing-“

“No.” Sam says firmly. “It’s not.”

“Sam-“

“It’s- Look. When he and Lana were dating, I never heard about her. He’d say he was going out, say he had a date, tell me that she didn’t like things or wanted Dean to do something. Can I tell you the first thing he said to me about you?”

You nod weakly, and Sam sighs. Smiles slightly, like he’s fond of the memory.

“He said she likes my waffles. I did them with the strawberries. Think I’m gonna try banana next.”

“I- That’s-“ You frown at him. “Why do you remember that?”

Sam takes another long drink of his beer, making a face like he’s thinking far too hard about what should be a simple question.

“Ask Dean what the first thing I said about Jess was.” He says finally, something shining in his eyes. “He remembers that.”

Dean’s supposed to stay with Sam tonight. Something about keeping him on lockdown, the night before the wedding. 

The room feels bigger without him. Even if he would’ve only slept on the floor, the bed is colder. You pace for an hour, still lost in the events of the day, still turning Sam’s words over in your head. 

You hadn’t asked Dean. There hadn’t been a good time. You’d gotten back to the hotel, and he’d gone with Sam. Kissed your forehead, then gone with Sam. And that might’ve been for the show of it. There had been a few cousins and family friends in the lobby. It had barely been a graze of his lips over your hairline. 

But his hand had also squeezed your hip. And he’d smiled at you so softly after, and Sam’s claim was still ringing in your head. He talks about you. 

Dean talks about everything. Sam said that like it meant something, but Dean literally never stops talking. It doesn’t mean anything. 

None of this is supposed to mean anything. Not to him. It means everything to you, but you’re in love with him. You’ve spent hours turning him over in your head, fantasying about the way he’d feel and taste, about a world where you just get to hold his hand, and life where you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder and he smiles at you like you’re sharing a secret. Where he doesn’t even think about other girls, because he’s too busy with you, the same way you’ve never been able to really think about another man. 

A life like this week. But it’s not real. It still feels real. And that’s nothing, but it’s everything, and you’re so confused. 

You have the room to yourself. Your legs get tired from pacing, so you take a hot shower. You pull on one of Dean’s shirts and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to make sense of anything in your own head. Most of your usual daydreams are blurring with reality, and it’s almost all to jumbled to lead anywhere but more confusion.

Almost. One thing is burning through the rest. 

The heat. Dean’s voice drawling good girl like he knows. His hand on your hip, your lower back, your stomach. His crotch pressing against your ass, his weight around your shoulders, pinning you to his body. His lips brushing over your skin, teasing and so hot. 

Your core aches, and you realize your body has started to move of its own accord. You’re grinding into the sheets, one hand under your shirt to palm at your breasts. You pinch your nipple and a soft moan leaves your mouth, your fingers slipping between your thighs. Your underwear is soaked. Your body shudders, when you press your clit, and a soft moan escapes your lips. 

“De- Dean…”

The sheets still smell like him. You roll over, pressing your face into the mattress, and start to hump into your hand like an animal in heat. It’s so easy to pretend that it’s his big, rough fingers slipping into your pussy. How they’d fill you up, scissor you open as he pressed behind you like at the pool table. The pad of his calloused thumb swiping your clit back and forth, his deep voice right in your ear as he’d kiss up your spine. 

“Good girl, baby, so fuckin’ pretty, takin’ my fingers so good, gonna be nice and ready for my cock-“

You moan again. Louder this time, barely muffled in the pillow. Your ass rises higher into the air as you try to get a better angle, the sheets sliding off your body, and you’re so close- 

There’s a soft knock on the door, and you freeze. Flip onto your back, sitting up in a second, brushing your hair from your eyes as you take short, breaths. 

“Ye- Yeah?” Your voice wavers, your thighs still rubbing under the sheets. 

Dean calls your name from the other side of the door. His voice is so strangely soft. Almost nervous, and it clears your head fairly fast. You push to your feet, mind narrowing down to only Dean, and making sure that he’s okay. 

You open the door, and find him slouching in the hallway. His head is bowed, expression open and vulnerable, eyes drooping. The low light of the hotel makes the shadows on his face seem longer, the red on his face clearer. 

“Dean?” You whisper, your hands itching to reach out and touch him. Just trace his face, make sure everything is in the place it’s supposed to be. “Are you okay?”

He’s silent for a moment. His gaze slowly drags up your body, the red of his face deepening, and you forgot to put on pants. You swallow, wrapping an arm around your stomach, but still smile softly when his eyes meet yours. His throat bobs, tongue flicking out over his lips. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, uh-“ He shakes his head. “Yeah. Just-“ His throat bobs, and he takes a step back. “Never mind. I’m gonna- Sorry-“

“Wait, Dean-“ You grab his hand, and he freezes. 

Stares at you like a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling too fast. 

You drop his hand. “Do you wanna… Come inside.”

He’s silent for another moment, then gives the tiniest nod. You step to the side, and he stares at you. Looks into the room, face twitching strangely, then back to you.

“If you- You’re busy-“

“I’m not.” You say quickly. “And- It’s your room too. You don’t have to knock.”

It’s a good thing he did knock. But right now, your own at wearing his shirt and nothing else save for soaked panties doesn’t outdo your worry for how fucking tired he look. And those words make him smile tightly, makes something relax in his shoulders, so you’d call it more than worth it. 

He shuffles over to the bed, but just stands at the edge of the mattress. You grab his hand, and gently guide him to sit down. He doesn’t resist you. Almost molds over you, the moment you have him down. Leaning against you, his head carefully angled away from your body, and you’re so worried. 

You slowly pull him closer. He lets you. Watches you in the dark with that same, vulnerable expression. His body curls over your lap, his legs tangled in your own. His arms wrap around your stomach when you guide them there. His head rests on your chest, between your breasts. He lets out a ragged breath. You brush your fingers through his hair, and his body shakes. 

“Nightmare?” You whisper, and he nods. 

He doesn’t seem to be willing to move from your body, not even enough to speak. You sigh, and rub his spine.

“Okay.”

You lean down, and kiss the top of his head. Dean makes a low, sad sound like a wounded animal, and holds you tighter.

Time passes slowly, or quickly, but it doesn’t really matter because nothing matters more than Dean in your arms. It could have been five minutes or three hours, and it all feels the same. You keep touching him gently, and his body slowly relaxes. His breathing evens out. You’d think he was sleeping, if he didn’t shift every few moments with a heavy sigh. 

When he rasps your name, you only hum. You don’t want to risk breaking the moment, or spooking him away.

“You ever dream?”

You pause. “Dream? Like- Instead of-“

“No, not like-“ He sighs, hand splaying on your back. His face presses further into your body, words vibrating pleasantly over your skin. “Like- The future. Ever think about the future.”

“Oh.” More than he can imagine. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I, um- Yeah.”

Dean’s silent for a moment. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.“ You laugh nervously, tipping your head back against the headboard. “A lot of things, I guess. What does anyone think about, with that? What do you think about?”

“Family.” He answers so fast, it makes you look right back down. 

He’s staring at you in the dark. Eyes lined with red, drooping but fixed on your surprised expression. 

“Family?” You echo, and he nods. You swallow. “Like what?”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “You know. What it’ll look like for me. Who it’ll be. That kinda shit.”

“And-“ You bite your lip, but it’s not enough to hold back the words. “What does it look like?”

“Hm.” He sighs, thumb drawing small circles on your back. “You really wanna know?”

You nod, a little too frantic, and a smile ghosts over his face.

“I like my job. Pays better than it should-“

“You work hard-“

“I make money for a hobby.” He corrects, and you frown.

“It’s not a crime to like your job. I like my job.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but you should make more than I do, but- if you like it.” He sighs. “Guess it’s good I make so much. Keeps us afloat. Makes it all easier.”

You blink. “I- I guess-“

“And I got better insurance. Better in the long run. Plus, it’s gonna save a lot on certain costs, like when the kids need their own cars.”

“The- The kids?” You whisper, and Dean nods. Yawns, and turns his face back into your stomach. 

“I’d like five.” He mutters. “But I’ll go down to three. Four, if I can pull it off.”

Your mouth falls open. “Four kids-“

“They’re gonna look like their mom.” He mumbles, and you carefully try to move his face. Try to get a good look at him, to work out if he’s fucking with you. 

But when he turns, he’s just staring at you strangely under long, pretty lashes, his eyes slightly glazed. Tired, still clearly a little drunk, face more open than you’ve ever seen it. 

And that expression. It’s almost reverent.

“We’ll need a bigger house.” He mumbles, and you swallow.

“We don’t own a house, De.”

“Yeah. Shit.” He yawns, mouth pulling into a smile. “I’ll work on that.”

“Work on… A house?”

“Mhm. I’ll make sure we got a backyard. And- Big room. Big bed. Lotta space.”

“Do you want space?” You whisper, and he hums.

“Nah, but in case you get sick of me.”

“I- don’t. Ever.”

He’s silent for a moment, eyes shining on yours. “Yeah?” He finally rasps, and you nod.

“Never. I- I don’t think I could.”

He smiles again. Wide and affectionate and real. “Awesome.”

“Dean…” Your heart is beating in your throat. “Can- Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.” He mutters, and it’s so sincere it almost splits you in half.

“What was the first thing Sam told you about Jess?”

He chuckles, then yawns, turning his face back into your stomach without an answer. “Weird question.”

“I- I know, just- Can you answer it. Please?”

Dean nods, but still doesn’t speak. His hands are wandering over your body, slowing down to a drag, his breathing growing deeper. 

“Dean-“

“She called me sweet.” Dean murmurs. “Said she liked the book I was readin’, then called me sweet.”

“Oh- Okay.” You blink, tearing burning behind your eyes. “And- Why do you remember that?”

“‘Cause.”

“Cause why-“

“Sammy’s my baby brother. I know ‘im.”

“I know, but-“

“Never heard him in love before.” Dean mumbles, and your breath catches. “Was nice. Gonna remember it.”

You can’t think. Can’t speak. Can barely breathe. 

In love. Dean’s first snore rips through the air, and he’s out in your arms. You take a shaky breath, and press your head back, lips pursed tight.  

In love. The words ring in your ears, until you fall asleep. In love. 

The day moves too fast. You’re starting to get trapped in your own head. 

Dean’s up before you are. Wiping his eyes and groaning as he comes out of the bathroom, running a hand through damp hair and giving you a sheepish grin as you blink at him. 

“Gotta go get Sammy ready.” He says. “You can go back to bed, you got time.”

You nod slowly, scanning over his face to try and test if he remembers anything at all. If it meant anything at all. 

He’s out the door before you find the words to ask. You’re left sitting alone, the sheets tangled around your body, wide awake as the days start to play back in your head. A broken record you’re trapped in. A world you’re not even sure is real, because it’s far too close to everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you’d been so certain you’d never get to have. 

Dean spoke about the future like it was for you. He touched you like he was for you. Smiled at you and kissed you and it can’t have all been for the show—there wasn’t even an audience to perform for—but it being for you feels far too good to be true. 

He said keep up afloat. He said he wanted kids, said the kids like they’d be yours too, said he’d get to work on a house, and in love, and this was such a bad idea. You should’ve told him no, when he asked. Shouldn’t have given into your instinct to please him, should’ve held your ground for the sake of your sanity, let him come here alone so you could wallow in bed about a future you’d never to have- 

A future he might want. With you. There had been no one for him to say that for, but you. In love. 

And if you’d let him come alone, he’d be alone with the ex that he has sex with. Stopped having sex with. Seemed to stop thinking about all together, when he started teasing you. 

You take a shower, hoping the water will wash away the spinning in your head. It doesn’t. You just end up smelling Dean’s shampoo and thinking about him in this same shower a few hours ago. How the water might’ve ran down his bare chest. How he might’ve smelled your shampoo, how his broad frame would take up so much of the space, how he’d crowd you if you shared the water. 

How he’d hold your hips like yesterday. Hold you against his chest. Brush his mouth over your neck, and whisper low praise as you writhed on his hand. Good girl. 

He said that. Actually said that. It wasn’t just another fantasy your mind conjured up, those were words that left Dean’s mouth. 

You stare at yourself in the mirror for half an hour, before the reminder alarm goes off on your phone, and you actually have to get ready. 

He picks you up in his suit. His eyes gleam as they take you in, and you flush under the attention. You don’t even remember getting ready, but suddenly you’re here and Dean’s smirking at you like you’re a something lewd.

“You look awesome.” He says with a wide grin, and you swallow. 

“You- You too.” You whisper, because he really does. He always does, but right now it’s like the world is finally just tunneling down to Dean, and he’s the last fixed point that keeps the world from slipping out from under your feet. 

He fills out the suit in a way that makes your mouth water. His tie is a little crooked, and he grins down at you when your fingers shakily adjust it.

You blink up at him. “Hi.”

“Hi.” His tone is a little mocking, but not mean. Just bright and clear and comfortable. The rest of the world is just shadows, compared. “Ready?”

You nod weakly, and Dean folds his fingers through yours. Swoops down and kisses your cheek, before herding you out of the room. To the wedding. 

And you might be blacking out. All you’re certain of are moments where Dean’s hand is in yours. He kisses the back of it, then lets go to stand with Sam at the alter. You’re sure the wedding is lovely, but you can’t remember a single detail but Dean’s eyes, burning into yours as Sam and Jess say vows. Your heart thunders in your ears and drowns them out. All the sunlight seems to bend into Dean, until the world is truly only you and him, staring at each other through the whole ceremony. 

It’s too easy to think about what it would be like if he was right across from you. If the small smile on his lips was because it was your wedding. The one you’ve dreamed about in your head, so many times. The one that drags you away from the moment, until people are cheering and Dean looks away, and suddenly you’re at the wedding party. 

Dean’s holding your hand again. You don’t look anywhere but him, as he leads you around through the crowd. He’s introducing you to people. You can’t hear yourself when you speak, can’t really focus on anything but his presence at your side. 

You dance together. Dean holds you like you are his, but you’re not. You are in the eyes of the crowd, but it’s just a lie, but it doesn’t feel like a lie, and it’s somehow more confusing and clarifying than anything else. 

He tells you that you’re beautiful like a secret he wants to keep to himself. You smile. The cool lights of the party are moving around him, making him look like one of your countless dreams, and you just drop your face into his neck. He sighs, and keeps guiding you through the dance. You’ve had this dream. 

It’s not a dream. Dean smiles at you, his nose bumping yours but without a single kiss, and it’s so real. How he holds you. Looks at you. Makes a soft joke that you giggle at, even if you feel like you’re getting high and crashing down all at once. 

In love. That strange look. He looks at you like he’s in love, and the world is crumbling around you.

Mary corners you after the speeches and dinner. You smile at her sweetly. Hold Dean’s hand so tight it hurts, and he pulls you close. Rubs your back, as he talks to his mother about work. 

“Did you get any ideas?” She asks you. “For your turn? I mean, I love the winter wedding in a sunny place, but Dean- I’ve always pictured him getting married in the fall.” She laughs to herself. “Probably because that’s what John and I did. And he gets my mother’s ring, which goes with fall the most. But it’s up to you, honey, right? Are you thinking of the fall?”

You’re not. You’ve always pictured the spring. But you can’t speak. Not even on auto pilot. Not about wedding, to Dean, like it’s real and not something you’ve sworn to keep confined to your head and the walls of your bedroom, and- 

“Jesus, Mom.” Dean cuts in for you, and you blink at him with a desperate expression. “Let me propose first, you’re gonna spook her.”

Mary laughs, and says something about you not seeming like they type to spook easy. You stare at Dean. 

He looks back, worry furrowing in his brow at your slack expression. 

“You good?” He murmurs as John wanders over, saying something to Mary your brain doesn’t care to process.

You nod weakly, and his frown deepens. 

“You wanna go for a walk?

You shake your head, and he looks really worried now.

“Sweetheart-“

“Hey, Dean?” Sam appears from nowhere, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and giving you a small grin. 

You don’t smile back. You just stare at Dean, who seems to be trying to stare back, but keeps getting distracted by Sam. He’s dragged away to talk about something allegedly important, and tries to take you with him, but Mary grabs your shoulder and says something about bonding.  

You black out again, the moment Dean’s arm leaves your body. You might tell her about your idea of the future with Dean. The one you’ve sworn not to tell anyone, but pours out of you with every question, because your skin feels like it’s about to fly off your body. Your every nerve is wired and buzzing and raw. You’re running on a thin, fraying line of electric, and if you’re touched, you spark. 

Maybe you tell Mary you love Dean. You don’t know. 

Then, suddenly, you’re alone in the middle of the room and everything is dark. You’re swaying on your feet. Lost at sea, the only lighthouse the same siren that lured you here, and now you’re confused and sweating and alone- 

Someone says your name, in a voice you don’t recognize. It’s cold, and mocking, and when you turn it’s like you’re in a waking nightmare. 

You’ve never met this woman before, but she’s all too familiar. You’ve seen her, a million times before. Inverted in the mirror, glowing with a confidence you’ve never been able to find. Smiling not softly, but like a beautiful monster that knows it’s got its claws in something. Put together like she rolled out of bed like this, her every feature swallowing and casting the shadows. 

She’s every girl you heard Dean fuck through the walls, every girl you pretended not to care about, everything you’ve craved to be while never being able to figure out how. 

She doesn’t need to introduce herself. You already know who she is.

“Lana.” You say, your voice faraway. She smiles. 

“He’s told you about me.” She holds out her hand, and you can see yours moving to shake it. Your skin burns at her soft touch.

“Sam did.”

“Hm. Sam.” There’s something cold in her voice. “He’s always so annoying, isn’t he. Has he told you’re not good enough yet? This family, I swear-“

“No.” You breathe out. “Sam’s been nice.”

Something venomous flashes across Lana’s beautiful face. “Hm.”

You smile at her, but it makes your face hurt. You shouldn’t have worn heels. It would’ve been easier to run.

Lana’s still holding your hand tight in hers. When she lets go of it, she wipes her hand on her elegant dress. Like she knows the foul, selfish things that go out in your head, and they’re leaking all over her perfect skin. 

“So you’re the new toy?” She looks you up and down, lip curling. “Dean’s lowered his standards. Or maybe he just… hit his head. Would explain why he turned me down last time.” She sniffs. “For you.”

You blink at her. His name cleared your head a little. Those last words make everything sharp.

“He what?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. This sweet little bunny routine doesn’t work on me. He might think he’s loyal right now, but he always thinks that. Then he gets sick of it, and comes back to me. It’s just taking a little longer this time.”

“He-“ You take a deep breath. Loyal. For you. In love. “Lana-“

She smirks. “Aw. You say it like Dean does.”

Your eyes narrow. This is something that would’ve folded you in a second, just a few days ago. Before all the touches and whispers and slowly stripped away veil. The light that might still be warping the world, but at least isn’t blinding you anymore. 

It’s helping you see. He turned her down last time. Months ago. For you. 

“What exactly.” You take a large step forward. “Did Dean say to you about me?”

Her nose twitches. She raises her chin. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back to me-“

“If it doesn’t matter.” You counter smoothly. “You should have no problem telling me.” She recoils, and you raise your voice. “Did he turn you down for me, last time?”

Lana scoffs. “Like you don’t know. But you were worse than I was, just stringing him along. At least I love him-“

“I didn’t even know who you were.”

She blinks like you slapped her, and you take a step forward. Things are falling into place too fast, a perfect storm that’s going to sweep you away in a moment. But right now, the sky is clear. Your head is quiet. 

And you have no doubt about which parts are real, as you hold Lana’s gaze.

“He’d never told you about me, until this weekend.” You say softly. “And I do love him. I love him, and I like him, and- He won’t get sick of me. But he seems a little sick of you.”

Lana’s eyes narrow. Her tongue flicks over her lips, and you hold her gaze. But her lips twitch up. Cruel and hateful. Her voice cold. 

“It’s so sweet that you think that.” She coos. “But girl to girl, I should tell you I was trying to warn you. About how he thinks he’s loyal.” She takes a step forward, voice dropping to a hushed taunt. “But he was in my room last night.”

You blink at her, the words ringing in your ears, and it’s like she pulled on a single thread. It unravels fast, the whole world going with it. Months and months of doubt, of fear, of the reality you’d taught yourself to pick apart and dissect, suddenly merged with your fantasy, unspooled into your greatest fear. 

You take a step back, eyes wide, and Lana’s smirk grows. Dean isn’t there to ground you, as the world slips from under your feet. And you-

You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. You can’t be here anymore. 

The pillows still smell like Dean. It clears your head, after a few hours of crying into them. 

You hadn’t had enough strength to just run. You’d stumbled out of the wedding and back to your room, mostly just trying to get away from the flashing light, noise, and sound of Lana’s voice. Your intention had been to leave. To pack your bags, text Dean that you needed to go home, and leave. Instead you’d found your clothing mixed with Dean’s and your knees had started to feel weak. You’d collapsed on the bed with shallow breaths and tears streaming down your face. 

It had smelled like Dean. So you’d ripped the dress off your body, buried yourself under the covers, and sobbed. 

It helped. It usually does. Dean couldn’t have gone to Lana last night, because he was with you. He wouldn’t have go to her first after a nightmare, especially because he’s told you that you’re one of the only people that knows he had them. It’s you, Sam, and his mom. 

And you trust him. You really do. He wouldn’t do that. Not after being so disgusted just by Lana’s name. She’d just wanted to hurt you. Something you understand. You’d like to hurt the other girl’s you’ve seen with Dean too. 

But now you’re the girl. The one he danced with, and brought to his brother’s wedding. Who he crawled to in the dead of night, and ran out the moment she got scared. 

You mostly just feel stupid, now. You’d felt stupid for trusting him, then not trusting him, then stupid for hiding and stupid for being so confused over something so dramatic, stupid for caring, stupid for crying, stupid for being unable to do anything but cling to him all night, and stupid for hugging his pillow to your chest like some lovesick teenager. 

And stupid for falling back into old patterns. Because you have this habit, when you’re upset. It’s another part of that secret world in your head. 

You think of Dean. Imagine him comforting you the same way he’s done before, but in bed instead of the living room. His arms around you, voice deep and soothing in your ear, hands tracing your body in a gentle remind that he’s here. He’d brush his lips over yours, before kissing the space between your eyes. Mutter that everything was going to be okay, then kiss your cheek. 

Hold himself gently over you, blocking you from the pain of the world, and smile gently. Say something stupid to make you laugh, and get those crinkles by his eyes when you try to hide your face. 

And you’re going to be ashamed of this later, but not now. Now, you let your thoughts run wild, alone in bed. Let them carry you where they always do, when you think of Dean. 

His lips on yours. The heat of him pressing down, the low grunts that would leave his chest, how his muscles would flex and hips would roll when you dragged your nails over his chest. Working yourself up fast, whining his name as he knee pressed between your thighs. 

The heat is starting to build. You whine his name into the dark, and he’d chuckle to himself. 

“So needy already.” He’d whisper in your ear. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for, baby. I’ll make you forget all about those pretty tears.”

You bite your lip, and let your hand wander between your legs. Your hand fists the sheet, a soft breath escaping your lips as your fingers start to tease your folds.

“Such a dirty girl. Thinking of me touching her, still fuckin’ crying about. You can be a real brat sometimes,” he’d kiss your cheek, a smirk in his voice. “Get real dumb, for how smart you are. You think I’d ever want anything else? When I got this perfect fuckin’ pussy-“ He’d pinch your clit, and you’d squeak. “Soaked and ready for me whenever I want it?”

“Yes.” You whimper. “Ready, Dean- So ready-“

“Hm.” The Dean in your head drags his thumb down, pressing it over your slick entrance. “Look at you, crying for me everywhere. Jesus, you’re really this desperate for it, huh? Need my cock so bad I could bend you over at a damn bar and you’d beg me to take you.”

You nod at the air, trying to cover your mouth with your free hand as you start to fuck yourself with your fingers. It’s so so easy to imagine they’re Dean’s.

He’d press them into you fast and rough, unforgiving and brutal, all while teasing his thumb around your clit. Keep your mouths attached until your eyes were rolling back, lightheaded from the pleasure and lack of oxygen. He’d whisper filthy things, call you his slut and his perfect girl in the same breath, watch as you came undone below him from barely anything at all. His hand flying back and forth over your pussy as he dragged your orgasm out, your mouth falling over in a cry of his name- 

Dean says your name. Not the Dean in your head. The real Dean. 

You shoot upright, your face burning, and he’s standing in the shadows near the door. His face is red, your head still spinning from your orgasm—the thrill and embarrassment of being caught only making your stupid, traitorous body more aroused and needy—but you have enough of a mind to know you should’ve ran. Should run right now. Should jump out the fucking window, because he caught you.

It was all supposed to be a secret. Something you died with, a love that burned inside of you until it made flowers bloom over your grave. He was never supposed to know, but this another thing that’s real. Too real. Dean really caught you calling his name as you came. You’re really still shaking with desire like a feral animal. 

Dean gapes at you, his eyes raking over your body. It’s mostly hidden under the sheets, save for your tits. 

His eyes linger there, on your hardened nipples and swollen breasts. He takes a ragged breath, his tongue flicking over his lips. You pull the sheets higher, and his eyes snap to yours. 

“Dean-“

“I thought you- I was worried. Just lookin’ for you, and you- You were shoutin’ for me. Through the door.”

“I- Oh.” 

His throat bobs, voice dropping lower. “Thought you needed me.”

You blink at him, and maybe it’s the aftermath of the orgasm, but your every nerve feels like it’s lit up. Like he’s touching you, without a single hand. You open your mouth. Close it. Dean’s eyes flash.

“Do you?” He prompts softly. “Need me?”

You stare at him. Your back is completely bare, and the cold air pricks at your sweaty skin. Just uncomfortable enough for this not to be another fantasy. It’s not in your head. 

Dean takes a slow step forward, his hands fisted at his side, and it’s not in your head. He’s here. 

There’s a bulge in his dress pants, straining through the fabric. That’s not in your head either. 

“Do you need me, sweetheart.” He almost growls. “‘Cause I need you.”

Your mouth falls open. Your legs spread under the sheets, like his voice alone pulled them apart. You nod, and Dean’s eyes flash. 

“You-“

“Yes.” You breathe, rising up a little on your knees. Trying to get closer, but not daring to move and ruin this. “Please.”

He swallows. Takes one step forward, than another, then- 

Dean yanks his jacket off, and almost runs to the bed. Grabs your face between his hands and dragging you up into a long, rough kiss. 

A kiss. Not lips casually or teasingly on your skin. A real, deep kiss.

Sloppy and open-mouthed, as he angles himself over you. His hands fisting in your hair, body towering over yours, consuming your every sense. He tastes like champagne and cherries from dessert, feels warm and strong over you, smells like the spicy, warm cologne he saves for these special occasions. His tongue presses over yours, and you rise up to try and meet him a little closer. He groans, and the sound vibrates through your body.  

You grab his wrists, and his knee lands on the mattress, letting the kiss deepen. One hand drops to your bare waist, and you arch into the touch. 

Dean lays you slowly down on the silken pillows and sheets. Your legs spread wide in invitation, your pussy on full, wanting display, and you gasp when his clothed crotch presses over the aching nerves. He grinds himself against you, mouth working against yours until you’re gasping for air between kisses. 

“De- Dean-“ You grab his shirt, trying to drag him closer. “Yes- Fuck-“ You hump against him, lips spreading in a wide, stupid smile. “Dean-“

“Jesus,” he groans your name, rising up over your body. You whine at the loss, but one massive hand finds your breast, and it’s like a drug. 

Dean’s attention is fervent. Unyielding and hot, as one hand plays with your breasts, and the other keeps you pinned down with his palm flat on your stomach. You writhe into the torturous touch, but there’s nowhere else you’d ever want to be. Not when his fingers pinch and roll you nipple, dragging a high sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make. 

His eyes flash, and he repeats the movement. Over and over until you’re squirming and fucking up into his crotch, clawing at his chest for just a little more pressure. You’re already sensitive from the first orgasm, already raw from the emotions of the night. You need more. 

“More, Dean- Please- Oh-“

He stops playing with your breasts, and drags his hand down your side. The touch is light and teasing, making a soft giggle escape your lips. You look up at him with open adoration, some part of you still convinced this is another fantasy. That you can look at him like this, and there won’t be any consequences. 

Dean swallows, another low noise rumbling through his chest. He moves his hand to trace your face, and you lean into him with a happy hum. His thumb brushes over your cheek, over a tear still stained on the soft skin. 

He frowns slightly, eyes scanning over your parted, swollen lips and glossy eyes. You know how you must look. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror after crying often enough. 

You smile at him hopelessly, hoping you’re a hot enough mess that he’s not changing his mind. He swallows, and lowers down over you with a heavy sigh.

Kissing you slow and gentle, the hand on your stomach dragging down. 

Cupping right over your bare, dripping sex. 

Dean groans, rubbing back and forth. He’s not changing his mind at all.  

“I’ve got you, baby.” He murmurs against your lips, arms wrapping around your thighs. “Gonna make you feel good, pretty girl. So fuckin’ good.”

You moan, trying to lean up and chase his lips as he pulls away again. But once against the brief moment of cold is more than worth it. 

Dean folds you up. Pushes your knees up to your chest, fully exposing your pussy to the air. You reach for him, and he catches your arm. Presses it over your head with a wink, before dropping his gaze down to your glittering, puffy cunt. Already leaking for him, squeezing around nothing in anticipation. He blows on it, and you shudder below him. 

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Even damn prettier than I thought, sweetheart. All wet and ready for me.”

“For you,” you breathe out, head spinning with desire. “Just you, Dean, please-“

You moan loudly, as he snakes his hand around to rub your clit. His eyes are fixed on your slack expression, as he rubs tight circles. His jaw tight, as you flush and turn to boneless, pathetic putty. 

Dean smirks, drawing back for a split second, then slaps your pussy. Not harsh. Just enough to see if you like it. 

You go completely limp below him, a slurring sound of need leaving your lips. 

“More,” you manage to whimper, and Dean nods. Slaps your pussy again, then again, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “Dean- Fuck- Dean, please-“

“This what you were thinking about me doing?” He grunts, pressing his hand firm against your sore, throbbing core. “When you were touchin’ yourself, callin’ my name?”

You nod pathetically, and he moans.

“You do that a lot, baby?” He lands another hit, and the pleasure darts through your every nerve. 

“Yes, yes- All the time-“

“Knew it.” He mutters to himself, slapping you again, watching the way your whole body reacts to the single touch. “I fuckin’- Thought I was going crazy, seeing what I wanted, but- Shit, look at you-“

He lands one last, rough slap, and you moan. “Dean-“

He presses forward, somehow folding you into a little ball you didn’t know your body was capable of becoming. It seems to reshape itself, though, to whatever Dean needs it to be. He kisses you, deep and softer than before, almost loving. Like you’re not a wanton, messy wreck in his arms. 

“Can I show you what I think about?” He murmurs against your lips, far softer than before. “Please?”

You nod, too busy trying to get drunk on his kisses to use your words and respond. Dean smiles, kisses your nose, then draws up. He grabs your wrists again, but pulls them down onto your stomach. Lets your sink your nails into his knuckles and palms, squeezing gently back as he kisses your inner thigh. 

Sucks a little mark on it, before kissing it again. Kisses over your clit, open-mouthed and wet. His tongue swirling. Driving you out of your mind, before switching to the other thigh. Sucking another little mark, then licking that one too. 

Licking a thick, long stripe up your pussy. Then another. Pressing his tongue into your weeping pussy, before traveling back up to flick your clit. 

His eyes never leaving yours. He gets faster and faster with every motion. His tongue presses on the sensitive skin between your pussy and ass, then swipes right up. Taunts your clit with the lightest touch, before dragging back down. Over and over until your breathing is shallow and desperate. 

“De- Dean- Fuck- Dean-“

He moans against your pussy, and you try to buck off the bed, but his body presses forward, pinning you easily back down. He chuckles at the desperate look on your face, his mouth never leaving your clit, and you might be about to explode. 

Then his plush lips wrap around your clit, and his tongue starts to work fast. Tiny, controlled little flicks that build you into a frenzy, his eyes still locked on to your, a soft pressure lighting you up as he sucks- 

You cum without warning, every nerve in your body lighting up as your pussy remains trapped against Dean’s face. You try to wiggle away, the feeling overwhelming, but he drags you back with a moan. He’s hard, against your back. Hard and big, rutting slightly like this is getting his off, and that just sends you over the edge all over again. 

You’re trembling, by the time Dean finally lets up. He gathers you up in his arms, humming gently, and hauls you up into his lap. Kisses your neck, then you cheek, then your lips. His shirt is gone. You’re not sure when that happened. But his pants are still on. 

You paw at him. Whimper and grind, giving him a pouting, hopeful expression. He’s so hard, and you want him everywhere. Pounding into your cunt, no matter how sensitive it already is. In your mouth, in your hand, between your breasts, release hot over your skin, whatever he wants. 

Dean just sighs, gently guiding your wrists away. “You were crying, baby-“

“Don’t care.” You whisper. “Dean, please, please, please-“ You rise up, pressing your brow against his. “I need it, please.”

Dean swallows. His tongue darts over his lips, and he rubs with mouth with a worried brow. You think he’s going to tell you no, for a terrible and long moment.

“Alright.” He murmurs, hand moving to his belt. “But- Can you promise me we’re gonna talk in the morning. Please?”

“Mhm.” You nod, your eyes fixed on his crotch.

He’s big. Thick and big, and your mouth is watering. 

Dean chuckles. “You’re drooling, baby- Jesus-“

You’re climbing fully over him, something feral taking over your brain. You need him. Need him bad. You must be moaning it, because Dean holds you close, and doesn’t waste time. 

Strong hands find your hips. Pick you up, then guide you back down onto his cock. You moan happily, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. He groans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Fuck... You feel good, baby, so fuckin’ good-“

You smile to yourself, rolling your hips, and Dean moans. 

“Shit- Hell yeah-“ He leans back against the headboard, hands lazily wandering your body as you grind back and forth on his cock. “There you go, pretty girl, take what you want- Jesus-“

You squeeze around him, and Dean head falls back with another sinful moan. 

“Don’t- Fuck-“

You squeeze again, and his hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise. 

“Playing fuckin’ game, baby- Fuck- Keep doin’ that and I won’t-“

You giggle, and squeeze again. Dean’s eyes flash, his hands freezing.

“You think this is fuckin’ funny?”

“Maybe.” You whisper, lowering your lips to inches from his. “Hi.”

His eyes drop to your lips. You squeeze again, and he moans. “Shit, I’m warnin’ you, baby- Fuck-“

There’s something dangerous in his voice that you need to hear more of. You test the waters. 

Dean snaps. He rolls you over, flipping your positions, and starts to piston his hips. The bed squeaks from the force of it, your mouth falling open as he drags you so perfectly apart, and he smirks. 

“Yeah, there you go. Not so fuckin’- Christ-“

Dean drops down, his brow pressed against yours, eyes fixed on where his cock is slipping in and out of your pussy. It’s a lewd, enchanting sight. The way he’s transfixed by it almost makes you cum again. 

“Look at us.” There’s a soft awe in his voice, for how he’s destroying you. “Take me so well, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for this cock-“

“Dean…” You whine, and he looks back to you with a smirk. 

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s my girl.” He kisses you deeply, thrusts pushing every thought but his name from your head. “That’s my good girl, take it, fuckin’ take it-“

You moan, and he doubles his efforts. Groans, his dirty talk slipping into moans and grunts of your name, his mouth barely leaving yours for more than a second. 

When you cum, it’s all consuming. Your vision goes white, toes curling and body arching off the bed. Dean shouts your name, yanking out and beating himself into his hand, cum spaying over your thighs and pussy. You’re gushing with your own release, mixing with his, and when he drags his fingers over your pussy, a tiny orgasm shakes you like an earthquake. 

Dean helps you clean up. Guides you through the motions, even if your brain is still hazy from the overstimulation. Takes care of you like you’re his. 

He said you were. And none of that was a dream.

Dean doesn’t sleep on the floor tonight. He curls up with you after changing the sheets, tangling your legs together, breath hot on your neck. 

“In the morning.” He whispers as sleep pulls you both under. “We gotta talk in the morning.”

You hum, too drunken on his everything to really hear. And you fall asleep peacefully, and dream of things that are, for once, within reach. 

My girl. Dean called you my girl, last night. He wanted to talk in the morning. But he’s gone when you get up.

You touch the mattress, and it’s still warm. You get dressed with your thighs still aching, and poke your head into the hallway. He’s not there either. 

Your hand slips. You take a stumbling step forward, accidentally pulling the door closed, and it closes behind you. Leaving you locked out. 

Something in you wants to cry, but something else doesn’t feel like you deserve it. You fell into the fantasy. You let yourself get swept away. 

Maybe he’s just getting something. You cling to hope, instead of fear. For once in your life, you try to look at what’s in front of you, instead of your head. 

You walk downstairs, because if he’s not there, at least you can get another keycard. The lobby is busy. The line at the desk is long, so you sigh, and step fully outside. Into fresh air. 

And suddenly, you’re back at the beginning again. 

Dean calls your name from behind you, and he’s shoving his through the crowd. So fast, he doesn’t seem to notice the glass door closing behind you. Your mouth falls open as he slams into it, and he stumble back with a groan. 

You swallow a laugh, rushing forward to help him. He grabs you in an instance, his hand over his brow, groaning at the impact. 

“Fucking, Dean-“ You guide his hand away from his face with a sigh, running your fingers over his brow. “What was that?”

“Thought you were getting away.” He mumbles, eyes locked on your face. “You ran last night, just- Worried you were doin’ it again. Wanted to catch you.”

“I was looking for you.” You mutter, and he winces as you find the bump. “Shit, sorry-“

“’S okay.” He catches your hand, pulling it slowly down. Rasps your name, squeezing lightly. 

You swallow, and look into his eyes. He’s wearing that strange expression. The one you finally learned how to read. 

Love.

“I was getting you breakfast.” He mutters. :And I kinda talked to my Mom last night. She saw you with Lana. Said you looked upset. I was- Comin’ to talk to you about that. Last night.”

You flush, glancing around the milling crowd. “Can we- Do this later-“

“No.”

His voice is firm, and you look back to find his face set. Determined. 

You might’ve protested, if he wasn’t right. 

The way the light bends around him, there’s really no one else in the world.

“I don’t know what she said to you.” Dean mutters, thumb tracing over your knuckles. “But- I broke up with Lana ‘cause I didn’t like her. I wanted to be with someone I liked.”

“Dean-“

“You told my Mom you love me.” He says quickly, and your eyes widen. “And you asked if she’s ever gotten sick of my Dad. And- She says that you told her you never get sick of me.” He swallows. “I don’t know how to do laundry, sweetheart. You gotta sometimes be sick of me.”

You shake your head, voice soft. “But- I’m not.”

Dean takes a ragged breath, and you force the question out. 

“Are you? Sick of me?”

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. “Never. I- Hold on-“

He lets go fumbling in his pocket for a second before pulling out his phone. He swipes back and forth with a tight frown, then lets out a heavy breath. Turns the screen for you to see.

He’s showing you a photo of a ring. It’s elegant. Classy and expensive looking. 

You frown. “What-“

“It’s my grandmothers.” He rasps. “Mom gave it to me when I moved out. Kept it in storage, ‘till I- I met you. ’S why Sammy had to know we weren’t fakin’. He asked for it for Jess, day after he met her. I had to remind him that I told him I grabbed it for you. After you-“

“Liked your waffles.” You breath, eyes pricking with tears. “Dean…”

“I was in love with you then.” He says, voice low. “Sammy thought I was crazy. Maybe I was.” He takes a deep breath, searching over your face. “Am I, sweetheart? Crazy.”

You smile. Look at him, and smile.

“No. You’re not.”

He chuckles, shoulders relaxing. “Awesome.”

“Yeah. I love you too.”

“Even better.” 

“It is?” You tease, because you can’t help it. 

Dean smiles. “Yeah. It is."

The days leading up to any leave or holiday were always the most chaotic. In journalism, there was no such thing as getting ahead. No matter how many drafts you filed, how many interviews you wrapped up or how many loose ends you tied off, the work simply piled up somewhere else, waiting for your attention.

You made your way through the bullpen with Jimmy trailing closely behind. For the past few days, a persistent unease had settled beneath your skin. Everyone seemed to need something from you before you left, another question, task or last-minute request, and on top of that, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. 

Eyes appeared to follow you wherever you went.

Right now, though, the only thing demanding your attention was Jimmy's steadily rising panic.

"I…I can't do that." He shook his head again, likely for the hundredth time that morning.

"Jimmy, it's just my email." You stopped at the coffee station, reaching for your mug and filling it. "All I'm asking is that you log in once a day, check if anything's worth investigating and follow up if necessary." You stirred your coffee before lifting your eyes to him. "You won't have much to do…Lois will be helping too."

"What do I do if he contacts you?" Jimmy asked quietly, watching your hands move with nervous intensity.

"What if who contacts me?" you asked, only sparing him a brief glance.

"You know." He shrugged. "Superman."

A laugh escaped you as you picked up your mug and started back toward your desk, taking a sip as you walked. "You think Big Blue has an email address?"

"I…" Jimmy frowned as he tried to explain himself. "Well, I believe he's a modern man."

You snorted into your coffee.

"Who knows," he continued. "Maybe he'll want to meet up. To…talk."

You stopped beside your desk and turned to face him fully, narrowing your eyes. "About what?"

"I don't know." Jimmy lifted both hands. "Whatever it is you two usually talk about."

"Sure, Jimmy. Maybe he'll need help setting up an email account." You nodded thoughtfully. "Let's just hope nothing too big happens while I'm gone so I can enjoy some uninterrupted rest." 

As you spoke, your gaze drifted across the bullpen and landed on Clark.

Your eyes narrowed immediately at his staring but the moment your eyes met, he jerked into motion. His attention snapped downward as he began fumbling with the papers on his desk, shuffling folders that clearly didn't need sorting and reaching for things that weren't there.

You had only held his gaze for all of two seconds before he folded completely under it, which was suspicious. Your attention lingered on him even as Jimmy continued talking.

"Alright, but just in case, tell him I'm perfectly fine with meeting in dark alleys during pouring rain and all that." Jimmy nodded once, looking entirely too eager for the possibility.

"He's more of a rooftop kind of guy, but I'll pass the message along." The reply came automatically, your focus already elsewhere. “Thanks Jimmy.”

Your gaze dropped to your own desk as Jimmy finally wandered off. Taking your seat, you looked over the organized chaos spread across the surface and got to work clearing away the last of it, though most of the clutter simply disappeared into drawers and folders. You wanted to return to a clean workspace, not a disaster waiting for you after a week away.

Your final drafts had already been submitted and every article due before your leave had been filed and approved. There were still two hours until lunch and for the first time in days, there was nothing immediately demanding your attention.

You intended for the following week to be dedicated entirely to rest. Well, rest and unpacking the mountain of moving boxes currently occupying Clark's apartment, which was now yours too.

The thought alone made you look up.

Clark now sat perfectly still at his desk, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the bullpen. His head was tilted slightly, his attention caught by something none of the rest of you could hear. If there was one thing you'd learned about him, it was that there usually was something, a distant cry for help, an emergency unfolding miles away or a hundred voices filtering through the world at once.

You watched him for a moment until he rose from his chair, the movement quick and purposeful. He reached for his messenger bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder as he stepped around his desk, his eyes finding yours immediately.

The look was familiar, it was the same one he always gave you right before disappearing. You pushed yourself to your feet and followed after him, weaving through the bullpen until the two of you reached one of the quieter hallways.

"How bad is it?" you asked worriedly.

The question and tone had nothing to do with your upcoming week off. You were never worried about canceled plans, you were worried about Metropolis. If Superman was needed in the middle of a workday, something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.

Clark suddenly turned and you barely had time to react.

The momentum of your hurried pace carried you directly into his chest and as always, the impact barely moved him. Before you could stumble back, his arms were already wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours.

It caught you completely off guard. You knew kissing with your eyes open wasn't particularly romantic but you couldn't help the way they widened in surprise. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him as you failed to kiss him back.

Only when he pulled away did you finally speak. "That bad?" you asked, eyes searching his face frantically.

Clark blinked as his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You have to go to your other thing, right?" You gestured vaguely. "I know you heard something."

The confusion on his face matched your own. Still, his arms remained around you.

"I did." He forced himself to pause and collect his thoughts because keeping things from you had never gotten easier. "It isn't bad, sweetheart. I just need to go check it out."

At the same moment, footsteps echoed from farther down the hallway, so he reluctantly released you. Neither of you was particularly interested in becoming a more serious conversation for Human Resources yet. 

You cleared your throat as Clark adjusted the strap of his bag and the silence stretched until the employee rounded the corner and disappeared again.

"Will you be long?" 

"I'm not sure." He shook his head softly.

You nodded. "Be safe…I'll cover for you." 

Your hand came up to pat his chest before you stepped back. Already turning toward the bullpen, you glanced down at your watch, mentally calculating how many hours "checking something out" usually translated into but a few steps later, another thought occurred to you. 

"Oh… anything special I should make for di–" You turned to face him just as a rush of wind swept through the hallway. Your words died instantly and the corridor stood empty, Clark now gone. You sighed. "Takeout it is." 

Muttering to yourself, you turned and headed back toward the bullpen.

Lately, Clark had been acting strange, not in the usual "I'm the last son of a dead planet" kind of way. This was different, he was distracted, restless and keeping himself busier than usual. At first, you'd assumed it had something to do with the upcoming week off. Maybe he felt guilty about stepping away from work for that long and the idea of slowing down made him uneasy, but you'd made it clear more than once that the vacation wasn't meant to be a break from who he really was.

You would never ask that of him. Clark Kent could take a week off but Superman never truly could, which only made his recent behavior feel all the more unusual.

You supposed your concern must have been written all over your face.

"Where is he?" Lois stopped in front of Clark's desk, a thick folder tucked beneath her arm.

The question snapped your attention away from his absence. Straightening your shoulders, you forced your expression into something more neutral before walking over.

"His parents needed him at the farm." You motioned vaguely toward the elevators.

Lois looked unconvinced. "He was supposed to send Perry a final draft for tomorrow's print edition."

"Is that it?" You pointed toward the folder she held. She barely lifted it before you plucked it from her grasp and pivoted back toward your desk. "I'll do it."

You dropped into your chair and opened the file immediately.

"It isn't exactly impartial." Lois crossed her arms.

"It never will be, Lois." You flipped through the first few pages of his notes. "We're about to move in together and I doubt he'd react particularly well to me firing him when I become Editor-in-Chief."

Your grin finally earned a small laugh from her.

"Besides," you continued, glancing back down at the paperwork, "I need something to do, otherwise today is going to feel even longer than it already does."

The humor faded from her face. "Is something wrong?" Her voice lowered enough that the question felt genuine rather than curious.

You opened your mouth, then stopped. For a moment, you simply stared down at the pages in front of you. "I don't know. I'm usually really good at reading him." Your fingers paused against the pages. "But I just can't do it."

"You can't?" The surprise in her voice was immediate as she settled herself on the corner of your desk. "You think it's about the two of you moving in together?" she asked. "If it is, don't. You've been together for so long…most people would've expected you to move in together the second you both got to Metropolis."

A soft laugh escaped you. "No. No, that's not it…I mean, I hope not." You leaned back in your chair. "It's all going well." The words came easily because they were true. "As much as I love him, moving in with my first ever boyfriend straight out of college would've been a terrible idea."

Your smile softened. "We learned how to live separately first…how to have our own lives. I think that was the right decision and I know he does too."

Lois nodded. "So what's the problem?"

You hesitated, then cleared your throat and rolled your chair a little closer, lowering your voice despite the noise of the bullpen around you. "Have you ever wanted something so badly that you're afraid to call it what it is?"

Her brows knitted together. "Is that supposed to be a riddle?"

You laughed despite yourself. "No." Your gaze drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the bullpen. "There's something I want this whole situation to be..." The words felt strangely fragile once spoken aloud, like giving them a voice somehow made them more real. "What if I start asking the questions I want to ask and find out it isn't?" Your fingers toyed absently with the edge of the folder. "Then I'd be mad at him for not wanting to move at the pace I want to move at."

Lois watched you carefully and for once, she didn't rush to answer. "This isn't a race."

A small smile tugged at your mouth before quickly fading. "If it were, he'd win…I just wish I knew what we're running toward now." Your voice dropped quieter. "And if he still wants to get there with me…precisely."

You let out a long breath, hoping it would carry away some of the anxiety that had been nesting in your chest for weeks. The truth was, you had never once believed Clark would leave you, that fear had never existed.

You knew how he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, you knew the certainty behind every promise he made, every plan he included you in and every future conversation that naturally assumed you'd be standing beside him.

The fear wasn't losing him, it was timing and getting it wrong.

Had moving in together been too soon? Was he having second thoughts now that it was actually happening? Maybe he simply wasn't ready to leave behind living alone, he needed more time before taking another step forward and the answer was that simple…Or maybe you were working yourself into knots over something that had never crossed his mind at all.

"You're one hell of a reporter, Y/n." A smile tugged at the corner of Lois's mouth. "I've never known you to hesitate when it comes to asking questions."

She pushed herself off the desk and headed back toward her own. 

The conversation ended there but her words lingered as your eyes wandered across the bullpen again and they landed, inevitably, on Clark's empty desk. 

His abandoned coffee cup still sat beside his keyboard and a stack of notes remained exactly where he'd left them. Everything still looked normal, so why didn't it feel that way?

You couldn't keep living with the uncertainty and maybe it was time to stop dancing around the questions that had been circling your mind for months, but as much as you wanted answers, you'd never been someone who forced them out of Clark, never someone who cornered him into confessions he wasn't ready to make.

Your gaze lingered on the empty desk for another moment before moving to the clock. Only five more hours and you'd finally be out of this place.

Clark flew to the Fortress of Solitude at a speed he'd never thought he could reach, responding to a signal from the Superman robots. He absolutely hated hiding things from you, no matter how good the reason but this was taking longer than planned. It didn't just involve the usual planning and sourcing, this was as close to science as he'd ever get.

The cold arctic air caressed his skin as he sped up, the crystalline structure growing in the distance as it revealed itself to him.

His feet eventually sank into the snow as the doors parted before him. The Fortress received him the way it always did, silently, the crystals catching his footsteps and scattering them into nothing. Four was already standing at the central console, two of the other robots positioned at the secondary array flanking what Clark recognized as the solar concentrator, reconfigured into something smaller and more precise than he'd last seen it.

"Sir, you're here." Gary, the fourth Superman robot, turned before Clark had fully cleared the entrance.

"I got your signal," Clark told him as he moved to the center of the main room.

"I calculated twenty minutes before your arrival." Four's optical sensors held on him a moment.

Clark didn't answer. He crossed closer to the console, eyes already moving over the readings. "Tell me."

Gary turned back to the array. "The theory is sound. Whether the application holds is a separate question." He indicated the containment chamber at the center of the concentrator, it was small, built for a single stone. "The isotope that produces the radiation is not inert by nature, it requires destabilization. Conventional neutralization attempts have failed historically because they addressed the emission rather than the source."

Clark’s brows furrowed. "You went after the isotope directly."

"We modeled different broad approaches over the last year. Sixteen produced either incomplete neutralization or structural destruction of the sample." Gary paused. "The seventeenth is this. Concentrated solar saturation at a specific frequency, not broad spectrum, which scatters. The isotope absorbs until it cannot sustain the radioactive chain. It burns out rather than being suppressed."

He looked at the chamber. "And the stone?"

"Structurally intact in our simulations. The color will change, the green is a function of the active radiation. Once the isotope is spent, the stone retains its crystalline structure but loses the glow. It will read as pale…residual hue only."

Clark was quiet for a moment. "You said it would only work on a very small piece."

"Correct. The solar saturation has to penetrate the sample completely and evenly. A larger stone creates differential exposure, the exterior burns out and the interior remains active. At the scale you require–" Gary moved to the secondary console and brought up the dimensional rendering, a stone large enough to yield a single, flawless diamond.  “–full penetration is achievable. We have run the model four hundred and twelve times over the last hour."

"And it holds?"

"In simulation. Yes." Another beat. "We will not know with certainty until we attempt it on an actual sample."

Clark exhaled slowly, he'd known that was coming.

"You cannot be present for the extraction phase," Gary continued, without inflection, as if this were simply logistical. "Or the initial handling. Your proximity to an active sample at that size would still produce symptomatic response. We will handle and chamber the stone. You will monitor from the secondary console at a distance of approximately fifteen feet. Once it is inside the concentrator and sealed, the chamber will contain the emission. You can approach then."

"And the concentrator–" Clark glanced at the machine. "Same as the healing protocol?"

"Modified from it. The frequency is different as healing requires broad cellular stimulation. This requires narrow isotopic targeting but the core mechanism is the same." Gary looked at him directly. "It should not harm you. The chamber is sealed, the emission goes inward, not out...but again, it’s a hypothetical."

Clark nodded once. He stood there a moment, looking at the small containment chamber and the re-rigged concentrator, it’d been a year of work sitting quiet and precise on a console in the Arctic.

"You've been thorough," he said finally.

"You were specific about what it needed to mean, sir." Gary nodded, as Clark turned to look at him. "When you told me what the ring was for," He continued. "I did not think imprecision was appropriate."

"And the piece I chose?" Clark asked, looking around for it.

One of the other Superman robots pushed a closed lead box onto the console. "Still untouched, sir." Twelve nodded. "As are the other uncut stones, as you requested."

"The band?" Clark asked as One approached, opening a chamber on his own structure and revealing it.

Clark reached for it and held it up to the light between his fingers. He still remembered waiting for you to fall asleep so he could measure your ring finger, holding his breath the entire time, terrified you might wake and catch him in the act. The memory made warmth settle in his chest.

"It's perfect," he said quietly.

"It must be, sir. You've been working on it for almost a year," Gary spoke.

"And it's finally done."

Gary lifted a cautionary finger. "Remember there are still hypotheticals, sir. We must test the machine."

Clark shook his head. "It's going to work and when it does, I want her here for it." He turned to look around the Fortress, taking in the crystalline walls, the hum of advanced technology and the sanctity of the space. "You know the plan." His gaze swept across the main chamber. "I want this place spotless and the sunglasses ready." He drew a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle over him. "The day has come…I can’t wait any longer." He turned back to the robots. "Thank you, all of you."

"No need to thank us, sir, as we will not appreciate it. We have no consciousness, we are merely automatons here to serve," Gary reminded him.

Clark simply pressed his mouth into a thin line, long accustomed to their peculiar bluntness while some of the Superman robots scurried away, already beginning to clean. Gary, however, lingered.

"Shall we prepare for the baby?"

Clark's head snapped toward him, eyes slightly widened. "What baby?"

"My knowledge indicates it is a natural succession of events, sir."

He smiled despite himself, shaking his head. "Let's prepare for a ceremony first…That's if she says yes."

"She will," Twelve said brightly in passing, already carrying a stack of crystalline components toward the secondary console.

"Shall we rehearse the speech?" Gary pressed. "We have yet to hear it."

"No can do, Gary." Clark's voice was gentle but final. "And you won't...It’ll be for her ears only."

He stuck around long after, helping clean and organize with no real need other than the comfort of keeping his hands busy. He had thought about the day plenty, in the small hours of the morning when sleep wouldn't come, during long flights over empty ocean and in the moments just after saving the world when everything went quiet again. He had imagined it a hundred different ways, in a hundred different places and it had to be perfect.

You got home late, stopped at the door as you still couldn't quite figure out how the new lock worked. After a moment of fumbling that felt much longer than it should have, you finally managed to push inside, carrying takeout bags and immediately running into scattered moving boxes in the dark.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath as you reached for a light switch and turned it on. "Clark?" You called into the silence of the apartment, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter. 

You then walked toward the bedroom, weaving around moving boxes you'd take care of soon, phone already in your hand as you dialed his number.

You pressed call, setting the phone on the bed as you began to undress.

Back at the Fortress…

"Superman, we have intercepted a call from your human lover."

Clark chuckled, shaking his head as he moved gear out of the main room. "There's no other kind, Gary. It's just 'lover.' Please, patch it through."

There was a soft crackle and then, "Clark?” Your voice slipped through the sound systems, warm and familiar and Clark felt the anxiety in his chest ease at the sound of it.

"Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?" 

"Uh, yeah. Where are you? I'm at your–" A pause, then a quiet correction. "Our place...Any idea when you'll be back? It's starting to get late."

Clark realized then that he'd lost track of time completely. He began heading toward the exit, your voice trailing after him as you launched into what was clearly the beginning of a longer rant. The sound of you faded from the Fortress's speakers and transferred directly into his ears as he lifted off, flying fast in the direction of your voice.

He heard you kicking off your shoes and the soft thump of your pants hitting the floor.

"I'm not saying I'm worried and I don't expect you to always be back at a certain time…That's just not reasonable. I mean, I knew what I was getting into before we ever started dating–" Then came the sound of the closet door sliding open as you were surely, definitely, picking a shirt of his to sleep in. "Not that it's complicated or anything. I feel like that word has never really applied to us. I mean, I hope not. You've never been complicated to me, even after you told me who you really were."

He heard the rustle of fabric as you peeled off your shirt and the soft sound of your bra hitting the floor. Clark flew even faster.

"I remember telling you Kal was a pretty good name," you said and he could hear the smile in your voice. You cleared your throat, "I also remember that one time I moaned it while we were–"

A faint breeze drifted through the room, making you turn to the window to check if it was open. You suddenly screamed, shirt clutched to cover your naked chest as your heart hammered so loud he could count every individual beat.

Clark unexpectedly stood there unmoving and smiling unapologetically, hair slightly messy from the flight. "Having sex?" He continued for you, grin widening. "I also remember." 

You exhaled a sharp breath, rapidly pulling his shirt over your head, feeling his eyes on you, "I get carried away."

He shrugged, still grinning. "It's happened more than once."

Your eyes narrowed at him, already desperate to change the subject. "Mind making a little more noise next time? I intend to live long."

He stepped toward you, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you to his chest. "You make enough noise for the both of us, don't you think?"

"Ha. Funny." You said dryly because it was true. Once close to him, you felt his chest while observing his face as you always did, checking for injuries. He looked untouched, which was always ideal, but… "You're really cold."

He smiled and something changed in his expression. "Do you know where you packed the winter clothes?"

You blinked, eyes going to the moving boxes and suitcases scattered across the bedroom, your mind already cataloging the rest of the clutter throughout the apartment. "I'm not sure. Why?"

Clark let go of you, eyes scanning through the boxes as he activated his x-ray vision.

"It's about to be summer, Smallville…And I don't think you've ever needed them."

He walked out of the bedroom, looking into boxes as you trailed behind him, accidentally stepping on the long cape pooled at his feet.

"Oops, sorry," you muttered as you coughed yourself with a gentle hold on his shoulders.

"You're going to need them."

"Need what? Apologies?" you asked, lifting a brow.

"Winter clothes," he specified with a breathy chuckle, stopping by a box that read ‘Kitchen’ in your handwriting.

"In June?" You watched as he opened the box anyway. "That says ‘Kitchen’, Clark."

He fumbled for a second as he lifted it from a pile and put it on the ground, then he carefully opened it and pulled out your winter coat by the hood.

"That's why it was so light," you said under your breath.

"We're taking a trip tomorrow."

Your eyes widened slightly as you searched his face and found no humor there. "Did you use that little trick to find my passport and book the trip?"

"Never needed a passport to fly Clark Kent Airlines." He grinned.

"Never needed a coat to sit on a plane." You shrugged with a gentle smile. "Where are we going?"

Clark's smile faltered. His eyes searched the room, looking for anything to change the subject and landed on the takeout bags still sitting on the kitchen counter. "We should eat dinner before it gets too cold," he said, already reaching into the box and pulling out a scarf, hat and gloves. "You'll need your snow boots too." He set everything on the couch, almost distractedly and walked right past you into the bedroom, already peeling off his suit.

Your eyes followed him, narrowing at the deflection. "Good thing we have a microwave." You noted as you followed after him. "You've been acting weird lately."

"Weird?" He echoed with a light, forced chuckle. "There's nothing weird about me…Besides the obvious." He paused, pulling his shirt over his head. "Which you like telling me you love." There was another pause, longer this time. "You still do, right?"

"You mean the part of you that likes to take me along while soaring through the sky?" You questioned hypothetically, already nodding to yourself. "Yeah."

"That's good…That’s really good." He reassured himself more than you as he changed into a plain shirt and plaid pajama pants. "That you still do."

"I don't like how you keep saying 'still,'" you pointed out quietly, looking at him as if you could read his mind…and you probably could, if you weren’t suddenly scared of what you might find.

He chuckled breathily, stepping toward you and placing both hands on your arms, caressing them gently. "You're making me really nervous right now."

You narrowed your eyes at him again. "I weirdly think you're doing that to yourself." You paused, letting the words settle. "I love you, Clark…No amount of weirdness is going to change that."

His hands went to your face, cupping your cheeks slowly, thumbs brushing over your skin with so much love in his eyes that it made your chest ache. Tomorrow had to be perfect..because you were.

"I'll fly slowly," he murmured, in an attempt to reassure you.

"No, you won't…and that’s fine," You laughed softly, poking his stomach playfully. "Just make sure you hold me tight."

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered long enough to make your eyes flutter shut. "I love you so much," he confessed against your skin. "I don't know how to hold you any other way."

Moments like that had a way of dissolving whatever fear or doubt had quietly accumulated and that night was no different. By the time you had dinner and you'd both found your way to sleep, there was nothing left to worry about.

The next morning was perfect. Genuinely and unqualifiedly perfect, the kind that felt almost unfair in how completely it arrived. No alarm pulled you out of it, no distant sound of something collapsing somewhere that would take him away before you'd finished waking up, just sunlight coming in at an angle through the curtains and Clark, who woke up like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of pretending otherwise. 

He pressed kisses into your skin slowly and without urgency and the morning dissolved the way good mornings do, in warmth, weight and the breathlessness of someone who loves you, knows how to show it…and how to make you feel it. You lost track of time entirely and you didn't try to find it.

At some point he slipped away. You hadn't noticed the exact moment, sometime in the narrow window between you getting up and the shower warming, enough time for him to go somewhere and come back, which for Clark could mean almost anywhere. When you stepped out of the bathroom, towel around your chest, a bouquet was sitting on the kitchen counter and beside it, breakfast, already plated and still warm.

You ate together at the counter, knees touching, talking through where the art should go and whether the bookshelf fit better against the east wall or broken up between two rooms. 

It wasn't much later that he started mentioning getting out for the day.

You didn't question it. You started getting everything he'd laid on the couch the night before, working through the layers methodically while he stood somewhere behind you watching you with an expression you couldn't fully read.

"I think you should add another scarf," he suggested. "Just in case."

You looked at yourself in the mirror, at the coat, hat, gloves, boots and the scarf that already looped twice around your neck… and it was June. "Clark." You turned to look at him with a gentle, reassuring smile. "This is enough…You'd think we were going to the Arctic."

You meant it as a joke. You were already smiling when you said it, turning back to the mirror to adjust the hat which meant you didn't see his face go completely still behind you.

Flying with Clark was its own category of experience, one that didn't get easier to explain the more times you did it, only more familiar. The first five minutes were always the same, your stomach hadn't made peace with the altitude yet, your eyes stayed forward or shut and some part of your brain spent the whole time insisting that this was not how bodies were supposed to work but underneath all of it, was certainty. He had never once made you feel like you might fall, not for a second. His arms around you were absolute, his chest solid and warm against your cheek and the cold that hit everything else somehow didn't touch the space he made around you.

"We're almost there!" he called over the wind.

You didn't answer, only nodded against him and held on.

Then, gradually, the quality of the air changed as the speed bled out of it. You felt him adjusting his descent in small corrections and a minute later your feet met the ground with a soft crunch that traveled up through your boots and into your knees. It was snow, fluffy and undisturbed in every direction.

You kept your eyes shut even as he released you and you stood on your own.

"Sweetheart." He called softly, you could hear the smile in it. "You didn't need to close your eyes."

"Oh. I thought I'd–" you started explaining as they fluttered open.

The light hit first, that particular brightness that had no equivalent, white reflecting white under a sky that was almost cloudless. You blinked against it, adjusting and inevitably, as you looked around, your gaze landed on the structure in the distance and everything else stopped.

Your lips parted.

It rose from the landscape like it had grown there, which in every way that mattered it had. It was an eruption of crystal spires reaching at different angles, pale blue-white and enormous even from that distance, catching the flat Arctic light and fracturing it into something that barely looked real. 

You took a few steps toward it without deciding to.

"Is that your–" you started, pointing at it in awe as the words died somewhere between your throat and your lips. You stood frozen in the snow, staring at it.

Clark stepped beside you, footsteps quiet in the snow as the wind tugged gently at his cape. Your shoulders almost brushed when he spoke, "I'll show you around."

You faced him then. He was smiling down at you with his hand extended between you, patiently waiting for you to take it, which of course, you did. 

The two of you walked the remaining distance without rushing. There was no path, no track worn into the snow from use, no indication that anyone came and went from this place by foot. Just the flat white expanse and the crystal rising out of it and now, appearing behind you in a clean double line, your footprints beside his. You looked back once at the trail you were leaving and felt something open up in your chest that you weren't entirely prepared for.

He had never brought anyone here, you understood that without needing it said. This was the place that belonged to the man beneath everything else, the person who was both Clark Kent and Superman and neither of them entirely. He was bringing you into that, he was walking you to the door of the most private place he had and holding your hand while he did it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You looked up at the Fortress as it grew larger with every step, feeling the weight of being trusted with something irreplaceable.

His thumb moved slowly, across the back of your hand as the entrance came into view and the doors began to open before him.

The inside of the Fortress opened up in a way that made you stop walking for a second without meaning to. Everything climbed, walls, ceilings and structures you didn't have names for, all of it crystalline and catching the same pale light from a dozen different angles at once. It was somehow colder and warmer at the same time, the air sharp but the light itself almost golden where it pooled. You could feel Clark watching you take it in, his hand still wrapped around your gloved one, waiting for you to need him to say something.

"Welcome back, sir."

You turned at the voice as footsteps approached from your right. For a moment, you simply stared.

Clark had talked about the Superman robots before, he'd mentioned their names, their functions and the way they helped maintain the Fortress but none of those descriptions had prepared you for seeing them in person.

"Ms. Y/l/n. I have long possessed information regarding you. It is noteworthy to finally confirm your existence through direct observation.”

You looked up at Clark first, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it, then back at the robot in front of you, eyes dropping briefly to the number four stamped into his chest plate.

You smiled softly. "Nice to finally meet you too, Gary."

Gary turned smoothly toward two more robots crossing the floor behind him. "I have observed that Superman references us during conversations with his human lover…Identifying the species is unnecessary, as there is no other kind of lover for him." A brief pause, as if confirming the data was correctly filed. "This is Twelve. She is new."

You looked at Twelve and smiled.

Twelve looked back, head tilting slightly in your direction. "Oh, she looked at me!"

Seven approached next, arms already extended, holding a folded red blanket and a metallic blue thermos. Gary continued without missing a beat. "We have prepared warm blankets and tea. The tea has been heated for three minutes to the ideal temperature of eighty degrees Celsius, with two sugars, per Superman's specification."

"I'll take the tea." You took the thermos from Seven, wrapping both hands around it gratefully. "Don’t think the blanket will be necessary. Clark already had me wrapped up like a burrito before he swept me off my feet…Literally." You took a sip, the warmth spreading through your body.

"'Swept off my feet,'" Gary repeated, processing it audibly. "This is a common idiom among your kind. I hope you also intend it in the romantic sense, in the event further confirmation is required."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, glancing up at Clark. "Confirmation for what?"

Clark cleared his throat, a little too quickly. "Let me, uh, give you a tour." His hand found the small of your back, gently steering you down the hall before you could press further.

"We shall prepare for the activities, then," Gary said, already turning toward the main room. "The clock is, figuratively, ticking."

"Thanks for the tea!" you called back over your shoulder, lifting the thermos in salute.

"They're not very good at saying 'you're welcome,'" Clark told you quietly as you walked.

"Noted."

He smiled as he watched you sip more tea. "So…what do you want to see first? The glass bedroom or the bathroom? The toilet seat is heated."

You stopped walking, eyes widening slightly at the possibility of a glass bed. "Are you serious?"

His grin only widened, he shook his head. "There's no glass bedroom."

You let out a breath, shaking your head as you started walking again. "They’re doomed…The Superman robots are certainly learning from your sense of humor, Clark. Your jokes are setting their development back by decades...They need an upgrade."

"We should probably get you better winter gear, then. If you're going to be spending more time here." He glanced over at you, already thinking out loud. "I'll look into some kind of heating system." He kept walking, leading you down the corridor. "There aren't many rooms, but there's one I really want you to see."

You looked over at him, slowing your steps. "Clark…wait."

The teasing had dropped out of your voice entirely and he heard it instantly. He stopped and turned to face you and for a moment neither of you said anything.

You chose your words carefully, offering a reassuring smile. "You've already trusted me with so much…and I'm honored to be here, truly, I am, but..." You shook your head slowly. "You don't have to do this, any of this."

He listened in out of worry, the way he sometimes did without really meaning to, to your heartbeat. It was steady and still unafraid, just nervous in the ordinary way. "What do you mean?"

"This is your legacy, Clark. It's a piece of where you come from. It could just be yours…I'd understand that.” You paused, “Once I've seen it, I can't unsee it. I’ll become a part of it too, whether you meant for it to or not."

He stepped closer, taking your unoccupied hand in his. "I've always wanted you to know all of me...every piece, if you're willing to hold it." His voice dropped, steady and certain. "This isn't a sacrifice, sweetheart. Showing you this doesn't cost me anything…You've always belonged at the center of who I am. This–" he glanced around, at the crystal stretching up into the light, "–this is just proof of it."

You nodded slowly. Your breath caught and you sniffled, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes. "Do you happen to know the temperature at which tears freeze?" you asked, voice thick.

He laughed softly, pulling you gently forward by the hand as he led you toward the next room. "Yeah, I think a heating system really would be a good idea."

"Wouldn't a heating system melt the whole place, though?"

"It's Kryptonian crystal," he explained. "Not ice. It can withstand a lot more than that. It's just naturally cold in here."

"Well, insulation would ruin the aesthetic anyway, so think it through." you decided and felt him softly squeeze your hand.

He spent the better part of an hour walking you through the Fortress. Through the rooms that mattered and rooms that didn't but that he showed you anyway because you asked, small alcoves of crystal that hummed faintly when you got close enough. You stayed in a state of quiet awe through most of it but the room that stopped you completely was the one lined with his suits. Row after row, the same emblem rendered over and over in different materials and ages, the symbol of an entire dead world that he had carried across galaxies and made his own among people who barely understood what it meant.

You felt his eyes on you the entire time, watching you take it in and no matter how simple or obvious your questions were, he answered every one of them and you could hear the smile in his voice with each one.

Eventually, the two of you made your way back to the main room, where all of the Superman robots stood arranged in a loose half circle and at the center, set on a low pedestal, sat a small sealed box. You knew exactly what was inside before you directly saw it, that particular sickly green you'd only ever glimpsed in passing, in places you tried not to look too long.

Your hand tightened around Clark's, your first instinct pulling him back half a step.

"It's okay, sweetheart." His voice was steady, hand staying exactly where it was, not pulling away from yours. "Gary?"

Gary approached, holding out a pair of sunglasses toward you. "Please keep these on until we give the all clear," he said. "Your eyes are not equipped to withstand what you are about to see."

You took them carefully, turning them over once. They looked like ordinary sunglasses, maybe a little heavier and the lenses a shade darker than you expected. 

You slid them on. "Is this some kind of science class?"

"I certainly won't be the one teaching it," Clark said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He looked past you toward the console. "Gary, are we ready?"

"Whenever you are, sir." Gary moved toward the main console, where two of the other robots were already standing by, lights along their forearms beginning to pulse in slow sequence.

"Clark, what's going on?" you whispered, eyes flicking between the box and his face. 

"I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that, right?" He squeezed your hand as his gaze met yours. 

"You, on the other hand–"

"I like experimenting." He shrugged, like it cost him nothing.

Your eyes widened slightly, "With Kryptonite? Since when?"

"Uh…a year, give or take." He smiled down at you and then his eyes lifted to Gary, he nodded once. "Gary. We're ready."

Gary moved to the console without hesitation and the rest of the robots fell into position around the central platform like they'd rehearsed it a hundred times, because they had.

Twelve lifted the small box from the pedestal, carrying it with both hands toward the center of the room, where a shallow chamber sat recessed into the crystal floor, lined with something dark and metallic that looked nothing like the rest of the Fortress.

"That’s a containment chamber," Clark said quietly to you as his thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. "Built specifically for this."

"Sir," Gary said, eyes still on the console, "might I suggest you and Ms.Y/l/n retreat to the secondary platform. Fifteen feet, as discussed."

Clark's hand tightened slightly around yours. "Come on."

He guided you back, until you were standing on a raised section of crystal floor that put you above and away from the chamber. From there you could see the whole room laid out steps beneath you, the concentrator rising above the platform like an enormous lens angled toward the sky, panels of crystal catching light that wasn't there yet.

Seven lifted the lid of the box and even through the dark lenses the green light intensified, throwing long shadows across the floor, catching every facet of the Fortress and scattering it back in shades of sick emerald. Nestled inside, on a bed of dark fabric, sat the stone. Smaller than you'd expected and uncut, glowing from somewhere deep inside itself like it had a pulse of its own.

Twelve lifted it with a pair of long, articulated tools and lowered it carefully into the chamber. A transparent shield slid closed over the top, sealing it in. The glow didn't stop but it dimmed, pressing against the inside of the shield like something trying to get out.

"Sample secured," Gary announced. "Beginning calibration."

The concentrator began to hum. It started low, almost beneath hearing, a vibration that traveled up through the crystal floor and into the soles of your boots. Far above, panels began to rotate, realigning toward the chamber below and what little Arctic sunlight there was began to gather and bend, funneling down through the lens.

"Finally," Clark breathed, watching it. "We've been working on this for so long…there’ve been thousands of simulations." His jaw worked once. "I didn't want to tell you until I knew it would work."

"Tell me what?” You asked quietly, eyes never leaving the scene as worry crept in. “And do you actually know?"

"I trust the math." He nodded firmly.

The column of light reached the chamber and the room changed color. For a moment the green and the gold fought each other, the stone lit from above in concentrated solar light while it pulsed back against it, radiating that same sickly glow like it was resisting. The light intensified in stages, the hum climbing in pitch and beside you Clark's hand went rigid in yours.

You immediately looked away from the machine, eyes moving across his face, searching instinctively for every symptom you'd learned to recognize over the years. "Clark? What’s happening?"

"It's fine." His voice was rough. The green glow spilling from the chamber reflected across his face as he kept his eyes fixed on the stone. His fingers tightened once more around yours. "This is the part where it resists…Gary said it would resist."

"Isotopic activity decreasing," Gary reported. "Forty percent…Thirty-five."

You watched his shoulders ease slightly, the tension starting to bleed out of him the way it had a moment ago and then it spiked.

The green flared violently, brighter than it had been at any point and the hum from the concentrator stuttered, a half second of dissonance that set your teeth on edge. Clark's hand crushed around yours, hard enough that you gasped and beside him his knees buckled enough that you felt him catch himself right on time.

"Sir." Gary's voice changed, the flatness cracking for the first time. "Output is exceeding modeled parameters. Fifteen feet is no longer sufficient at this intensity…I recommend immediate retreat."

"No." Clark's voice came out through his teeth, low and rough.

Twelve approached. "Sir, your vitals–"

"I said no." He straightened, forcing it, his free hand braced against the crystal wall beside you, now that sweat had broken out along his hairline despite the cold. "This is the spike before it breaks…It has to be. We modeled this."

"We modeled a spike.” Twelve corrected and for the first time there was something almost uncertain underneath the calculation. “Not this one."

"Clark, baby." Your voice cracked. Both your hands were on his arm now, gripping tightly enough to feel the tension underneath his skin, the controlled violence of him holding still on purpose. "Clark, please, if it's hurting you–"

"It's not going to last." He said it through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the chamber, on the violent pulse of green fighting against the gold. "It's a means to an end. It has to burn through, that's the whole point, it can't resist forever–" He cut himself off, breath hissing out through his nose and you felt his legs lock, refusing to let his body do what it wanted to do, which was fold.

"Gary," he called, "how much longer?"

"Unknown. The output is not behaving according to any modeled curve."

"Then we wait." His hand gripped yours again like an anchor. "We wait."

The green surged again and this time you heard him make a low and involuntary sound. His head dipped slightly as if something heavy had pressed down on him. His eyes shut for a second and every muscle in his jaw worked under the strain, the effort visible in the smallest movements of his face.

"Clark, look at me." You said as you stepped in front of him, both hands coming up to his face, so he’d look at you. His eyes opened and once they found yours, they held on. "Whatever this is about…it’s not worth the pain."

"It is…" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "You’ll see."

The green light convulsed one more time, violent and bright, the air around the chamber shimmering hard enough to blur the shape of it until it broke, the same way ice breaks, all at once, the resistance simply gone. The green collapsed inward on itself and the gold flooded in to fill the space it left behind and the hum of the concentrator dropped, smoothed out and settled.

"Isotopic activity," Gary announced and there was no mistaking the relief in it now, flat as he tried to keep it, "Twenty percent…Twelve percent...Six percent."

Clark's head lifted as he watched over your shoulder, eyes moving away from yours while yours simply couldn’t. He exhaled, long and shaking and you felt the tremor in his body ease as you too turned to watch.

"Two percent," Gary continued. "Zero point eight…Zero point three…Zero point zero…one." He paused. "Within acceptable margin…The sample is inert."

The column of light thinned, it drew back up into the ceiling and the panels above began to rotate closed and the machines powered down in sequence as the Fortress went quiet.

The shield over the chamber slid back and where the green stone had been, something else sat now, pale and almost colorless, holding the ambient light of the room differently than it had before, no longer pulsing or alive with that sickly glow. 

Your lips parted at the sight as Clark straightened slowly, drawing himself back together piece by piece before stepping down from the platform and offering you his hand. You took it, following him as your eyes met his.

“It’s okay,” he said before you could ask. “I’m okay. It’s over.”

You crossed the floor behind him while every robot in the room stood motionless, watching him the same way you were. He stopped at the edge of the chamber and looked down at the stone for a long moment before reaching in and picking it up with his bare hand.

Nothing happened.

He stood there holding it, turning it slightly, watching the light shift across its surface and you realized you’d stopped breathing somewhere in the last minute and hadn’t started again. He looked up, found your gaze and set a gentle hand against your cheek.

“It’s safe now. You can remove your glasses,” he said, still looking at you.

Your hands were already moving. The Fortress returned in full, unfiltered color as you stepped closer to him, staring at Clark holding something small and pale in his open palm, like the last few minutes hadn’t happened at all, like he’d been waiting this entire time just to show you this.

You swallowed. “I think…we need a breather,” you said, mostly to yourself.

You were already turning toward the nearest corridor when Clark suggested he take you somewhere outside. It took him only a moment to follow your movement and you didn't see what all the shifting and movement among the robots behind you had been about but only felt the change in atmosphere as Clark caught up.

His arm slid around your waist and a second later, the ground dropped away.

Air rushed past as he lifted you into the sky, carrying you through the open structure of the Fortress until the cold Arctic light returned in full. He set down on a platform high among the tallest crystalline spires, where the wind moved freely and the horizon stretched wide and white. 

Snow shimmered below and the sky was pale, endless.

“I don’t…” You let out a breathless laugh, the wind catching at your words. Your eyes swept the view once before you turned back to him. “I’m not sure what I just saw in there.”

Your voice tightened slightly. "And trust me, I tried to keep my eyes open through all of it, but you scared me." You gave his chest a firm hit with your fist. "What were you thinking, Clark Kent?"

The impact barely moved him, it only made him chuckle lightly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze stayed on you, unreadable in that scary way that always came just before something important.

Slowly, he reached into his belt and your attention locked instantly. 

He pulled out a carved band, holding it between two fingers like it mattered too much to be careless with. You could hear, or maybe just feel, your heartbeat speed up, loud enough that it felt like it filled the space between you.

He reached in again and produced a small, rough stone, one that bent the light in a way you'd never seen any diamond do, every facet catching a slightly different shade as it turned.

You watched as he closed his hand around it and when he opened his palm again, fragile shards fell away, revealing a small, clear stone underneath, which he carefully set into the first empty socket on the band. 

You blinked, eyes following his hand as he reached in again and drew out another rough stone, this one glowing faintly the same way the untouched walls of the Fortress had. He crushed it the same way, the stone giving under his grip, not shattering so much as yielding, and a larger stone emerged from inside it, settling into its place on the band.

Then he reached into his belt one last time and pulled out the disabled kryptonite. Of the three, it was by far the clearest, though somehow it still caught the light in a way none of the others quite managed.

He crushed it in his hand and set the final ‘diamond’.

You stared at the ring as his eyes began to glow red, the heat focusing into two narrow beams that swept carefully along the edges of each setting, sealing the stones into place. Once he was satisfied they were secure, he lifted the ring to his lips and let out a slow breath of super breath, cooling the metal until it no longer shimmered with heat.

Your heart was pounding now, lips parting slightly as you watched him lower himself onto one knee, his eyes never leaving yours. When his knee touched the platform, he paused, drew in a breath that seemed to cost him more than it should have and swallowed. He held the ring up toward you and whatever he'd rehearsed every day for the past year caught somewhere in his throat.

"...Please."

Your brows lifted slightly, lips curving into a smile you couldn't have stopped if you tried, your heart stumbling so hard in your chest you thought you might actually faint.

It was all a blur of mumbled words, tears, tight embraces, breathless laughter and the strange sensation of height shifting under your feet as the hours folded into one another. You slid your glove off so he could finally slip the ring onto your finger and in the space of a heartbeat the both of you were already cutting through the sky, Clark holding you close as the arctic shrank into light beneath you.

What followed was a mess of emotion and surging energy you had never seen from him in that state. You made it home in record time and the first stop had been the bedroom, the both of you, but especially Clark, letting go of everything he had been holding back. Everything that had stayed trapped behind restraint finally spilled out, fast and unguarded, until the bedframe gave way under the force of it and you both broke into breathless laughter in the aftermath.

After that, everything blurred again.

You sat on the couch as a streak of motion moved through the apartment, Clark unpacking every box in milliseconds, placing everything exactly where you had mentally mapped it out. The remaining cardboard vanished just as quickly, carried away like it had never been there. He returned almost immediately after, kneeling at the edge of the couch in front of you with the same restless energy still burning through him, only now softened by relief and joy. You met it halfway on the carpet, where time stopped mattering in any real sense.

It was late when the rush finally eased into something his body could keep up with at a normal human pace. Only then did you think about food.

You ended up on the kitchen counter, one hand lifted as the ring caught the warm light and threw it back in shifting color. Clark stood at the stove shirtless, moving between pots and fridge with distracted focus, adding things, adjusting heat and insisting you needed to eat before you fell asleep. You had been fighting sleep for a while already, after so many rounds, caught between exhaustion and the aftershock of everything.

The cold air from the opened fridge brushed your bare legs and it brought back the memory of earlier that day without warning.

“Tell me again,” you breathed, eyes fixed on the ring.

Clark stopped, whatever he was doing was abandoned in an instant. He stepped closer, placing both hands on either side of you against the counter, caging you in gently without pressure. His gaze didn’t go to the ring at first. It stayed on you, studying your face and reaction, like that mattered more than anything else he had built.

“Jewel Kryptonite,” he started, voice calmer now.

His hand lifted slightly as he spoke, indicating the first stone.

“I found it in the Fortress but it comes from the Jewel Mountains of Krypton. Its primary function was amplifying psychic abilities…telepathy and mental projection for Kryptonians. In my case…” He hesitated, just briefly, choosing the right way to place it. “It represents my mind…my subconscious, dreams, grief and memories. The parts of me nobody reaches…the parts I want you to have access to.”

He shifted his attention to the largest stone, the one in the middle.

“The Fortress crystal…origin and inheritance. It’s everything I was given, my legacy, my people’s knowledge…Krypton on Earth and Kal-El’s home.” His eyes softened slightly as they stayed on you. “Which you've gone out of your way to love and accept too in ways I never expected or thought possible.”

A quiet breath left him before he continued.

“And the last one but not least…never that.” His thumb brushed lightly against your hand where the ring sat. “Disabled green kryptonite. That was the hardest part and the reason this took so long…It’s what I trust you most with, my vulnerability…but not the only one.”

His gaze lifted fully to yours at that.

You moved closer instinctively, arms sliding around his shoulders and pulling him in as if distance had become unnecessary. You raised your hand again, watching the ring catch the light between you both.

“Who you come from… who you are… and what you trust me with,” you murmured, more to yourself than anything else. Then something else caught your attention.

“What about the band?” you asked softly. You had noticed it earlier, the faint engravings when the light hit just right, the House of El symbol hidden in the design, it was subtle but definitely intentional.

It was clear nothing about it had been accidental.

He exhaled through a small smile. “Everything I am,” he said, quieter now, “set into the thing that led me to you.”

Your brows softened.

“I made it out of my ship.”

The confession pulled the breath straight out of you. “It took you a year,” you said, voice catching slightly, “and so much effort and thought and I–”

"I love you." His voice caught, eyes filling again as they held yours. "I loved you the day I met you…I love you today,” He paused, “Y/n, I'll love you long after we leave this Earth."

You sniffled as a tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it had formed but still, you smiled, voice cracking with emotion. "And I'll love you as long as it exists."

Clark lifted a hand, thumb brushing the tear away with a tenderness that contrasted everything else about him and gently tilted your face toward his as he pressed his lips to yours, leaving no distance between what he had built and what he had finally given away.

He might have been unable to say anything when he was down on one knee, but that didn’t mean he had no words for you. He simply doubted they existed in any language and if they did, they had a terrible tendency to fall galaxies short.

the idea of being in love with dean was simple enough. you’d spent a lot of time with him, learnt things he liked and didn’t like, enjoyed hearing about music and his car even if you never thought that’s what you’d be into.

what wasn’t simple, was you liking your best friends brother. although he seemed fine with it, you weren’t entirely sure.

if you and dean were actually together it would be different, sam would grow to hate it. you just knew it. he was only fine with it now because dean didn’t reciprocate your feelings.

well, at least, that’s what you assumed.

sam truly wasn’t the least bit bothered by your crush on his brother. all he wanted was for you to be happy, find someone that would love you to the same amount that you loved. especially since your heart seemed to be bigger than anyone’s he’d ever met before. even if you started off as polar opposites, changing into so much more.

after that day at the motel, when you got upset, told sam you loved dean, he watched you. saw you following dean around like a lost puppy, sat in the impala while he packed the car or fixed her up, all while he played you some cassette tapes.

you moved to sit with dean to do research instead of always staying at sam’s side, asked dean more questions on what he’d found, leaned beside him to see his laptop.

sam didn’t mind. perhaps there was a tiny piece of worry that you’d start wanting to be with dean more than him. but he’d never get in the way of your happiness. never.

the other thing sam saw though, was the way dean looked at you. a small smile playing on his lips when you laughed, how he pushed his half eaten pie towards you at diners so you could eat some, letting you sit shotgun in the impala, and most of all, that look of awe when you were peacefully asleep.

it hadn’t made sense before, but now it was starting to. he wasn’t sure if it started at the same time as you, or if it was more recent, since you’d been gravitating towards dean.

either way, it was there. he was sure of it.

maybe sam was wrong to take matters into his own hands, but he just couldn’t help himself when it came to your happiness.

it was late, after a long drive to another motel. you’d slipped out to get some ice and drinks from the vending machine. leaving the two brothers alone for a few moments. giving sam what he saw as an opportunity.

“let her ride shotgun again, huh?” sam started, trying to be casual at first.

dean shrugged, “what can i say, sammy?” he smiled. “she’s into the music now, gotta have her up there to sing along with me.”

sam sat back on the bed he’d opted to share with you. as usual. dean was busy kicking his boots off, turning to puff up his pillows to begin getting comfortable.

“even let her share your pie,” sam quietly laughed. “you never do that with anyone.”

“she likes the pies i pick,” dean glanced to sam.

“i like pie and you never share with me,” sam pointed out.

“you never ask.”

“neither does she.”

quiet surrounded the room. for the guy that usually had a comeback to everything, dean was oddly silent. oddly still. looking away from sam, more towards the window. it took sam by surprise.

“you know she never used to eat pie,” sam folded his blankets back, getting set up for bed. “never used to listen to metallica or— or radiohead either. not until you showed her.”

“so, she needed to hear some real music, and eat real food,” dean scoffed. “last time i checked that wasn’t a crime.”

“didn’t say it was.”

“then what are you saying?” dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. “‘cause it sounds like you’re trying to accuse me of something.”

defensive dean, now that was more usual. maybe going in the right direction. trying to break through this shell he always hid under. how he dealt with everything.

sam knew it would probably be hard, especially with this limited time. you’d be back any minute.

“nothing bad, dean,” sam tried to reassure quickly. “i just think that she—“

the door opened, your hands full with snacks and drinks, kicking the door shut with your foot before heading over to the table to place everything down.

that’s when you noticed the silence. you glanced to sam, then to dean, seeing the look on his face.

“everything okay?” you asked. arms folding after. “were you two getting into it about the hunt again?”

“no—“ both their voices sounded at the same time.

your eyebrows raised, hands moving to your hips as your eyebrows knitted together suspiciously.

“right, anyway,” you grabbed a beer from the table, walking over to dean. “got you a beer in case you wanted one.”

he narrowed his eyes, taking the beer from you without hesitation. but, he looked at you, really looked at you. thought you’d said you were going to the vending machine.

“where’d you get the beer?”

you scratched the back of your neck, “uh, the store, you know, the one next door,” you explained. “i just know you like having one, so i thought—“

“that’s okay, sweetheart,” he noticed you becoming unsure. “i appreciate it, didn’t have to go out of the way to get some beer.”

“well, it’s for you, so… not out of my—“ you paused, noticed sam looking at you, dean busy opening his drink. “i’m gonna go get changed for… bed.”

you walked away slowly, a little awkwardly. grabbing your bag from the end of your bed, bringing it to the bathroom so you could carry out your usual night routine. all while giving a brief glance to sam before closing the door behind you.

once inside, sam raised his hands at dean who seemed to already be enjoying his beer. he furrowed his brow, placing the drink down on the nightstand.

“what?”

“you made her feel bad,” sam tried to lower his voice so you didn’t hear.

dean was none the wiser, “i didn’t mean to,” he shrugged as if sam was personally offending him. “just didn’t expect her to bring back a beer.”

going by his brothers expression, sam knew he might’ve started to be a bit hard on dean. he wanted to try and help you out with this, get dean to admit his feelings without outrightly exposing your own.

it was harder now you were in the room, especially since you’d asked sam to not say anything to dean. although, sam was sure it was only because you felt certain dean could never like you in the same way you liked him.

sam decided to try a different approach, maybe a sweeter, less argument starting tone and word choices would work better.

“it’s kinda sweet, you know,” he smiled to himself, dean sipping his beer again. “this thing you two have going on.”

now he had more of dean’s attention again, “this thing?” a chuckle. “there’s no thing, sammy.”

sam would beg to differ, “sure there is,” a pause, maybe for effect. “you sharing your pie with her, and her getting you beer when she could’ve just got a soda from the vending machine.”

“you know what—“

the bathroom door swung open, “i can hear you guys.”

you stood there, arms folded, toothbrush in one hand. a light blush on your cheeks, a little embarrassed, a little annoyed at sam for trying to push this conversation. followed by glaring at him.

“i’m tired,” you took a breath. “i’m sure both of you are too. so please, stop bickering and go to sleep— or read lore or whatever.”

before you could step back into the bathroom, sam went to talk, inevitably getting interrupted by dean.

“why don’t you come share this beer with me when you’re ready, sweetheart,” mostly suggestion. you practically froze, gulping. “or.. to just sit.. or whatever.”

sam would’ve said something about needing sleep, that he was tired too. but he let this play out. wanted to see what you’d do, if you’d agree.

you glanced to dean, tucking your hair behind your ears on instinct, “i’ll come sit,” a timid smile. “be out in a few minutes.”

after you disappeared into the bathroom again, sam gave dean a knowing look. as if he was just confirming everything they’d just been arguing about. this way he is with you, the way this thing is going.

this time, sam didn’t speak. let dean take in the look, understanding what it was giving. up until you walked out, pyjamas on, hair tied into a messy bun to sleep in. dean’s eyes were on you instantly.

sam got up, gave a smile to you as he swapped to go into the bathroom while you were in the main room alone with dean. you folded your clothes placed them on top of your bag before making your way to the bed.

“don’t you look cosy,” dean teased, placing his beer on the nightstand.

“won’t sleep if i don’t have my fluffy pjs,” you shrugged, standing by dean’s bed.

without hesitation, dean pulled back the blankets, allowing you to get comfortable under them. leaving a small gap between the two of you for now.

“you know,” he shuffled slightly, cautiously leaning his arm over the pillows behind you. “saw a diner down the street when we drove in, maybe we can get breakfast before finding any new cases tomorrow.”

your face lit up, “yea i’d like that,” now you shuffled, an inch closer to dean. “think sammy will wanna?”

quiet. the cogs in dean’s head turning. not wanting an i told you so moment from sam, but wanting to give in just once, to let himself feel something other than anger or fear or a little of that sternness.

“well, i thought maybe it could just be… us.”

“just us?” a glance towards dean, still soft on your face.

he scratched the back of his neck, “yea, you know, like when we went out for pie but sam didn’t want any,” he reminded. “so, we just went together.”

a small smile grew on your lips, one you tried to not be too obvious about. even though you could be, you two were friends after all.

“i’d like that,” you repeated quietly. “should we ask sam though? what if he feels left out?”

that was one of the things dean loved about you. maybe love was a strong word right now. the way you always cared about others before yourself. how you never wanted anyone to feel left out.

“you can ask, sweetheart.”

the pet name slipped out again. it felt like second nature to call you that, among other things that he’d almost called you multiple times.

sam walked out of the bathroom then. all changed for bed, looking tired after a long day. he glanced to you and dean, saw how cosy you looked. hoped that while he was away you two would’ve figured things out.

“do you wanna grab breakfast in the morning?” you asked softly. meanwhile dean hoped he’d say no.

sam didn’t answer right away, “tomorrow? don’t you wanna sleep in?”

“i mean sure, but—“

dean spoke then, “i suggested it,” sam’s eyebrows raised, maybe he was trying. “said you might not want to but she wanted to ask.”

a slight pause while sam placed his other clothes over by his bag, looking away, a smile slightly grew on his face. dean had been the one to suggest breakfast. had just asked you to go, but you wanted to ask him.

he knew dean was trying, as much as he knew his brother would hate that he was right. sam wouldn’t get in the way of you being happy, knowing you wanted this too.

“think i’ll stay here,” sam acted as though a decision was made. “you two go ahead.”

he looked right at dean as he turned back, for once seeing a slightly thankful look on his face. he knew he’d said no on purpose, so it would give the two of you some time alone.

“just be quiet when you leave, i wanna catch up on some sleep before we get too deep into police files,” his eyes widened, knowing how noisy dean could be when getting ready.

“you got it, sammy, you won’t even know we left.”

dean picked up his beer once more, taking a sip. you watched as sam got into bed, seeing the small smile he offered over to you. you gave a subtle nod in thanks, knowing he’d done this for you.

sam rolled over, switching the light off by his bed to head to sleep, leaving space for you if you moved out of dean’s bed to actually get some rest. for the time being, you stayed put, leaning against him a touch more.

you glanced to dean, him already looking down at you after you’d moved closer, about to say something when… you yawned. a big one. tiredness catching up to you before you wanted it to.

“tired, sweetheart?” he placed his beer down, reaching to brush your hair away from your face.

a nod was all you could respond with. especially with how dean was looking at you. his intense hazel eyes on yours, hand hovering for longer than it should have. pulling away eventually.

“should get some sleep,” dean suggested. but the moment you went to move, his arm tightened around your shoulders. “didn’t say you had to leave, can sleep right here if you want.”

your brow furrowed, “are you sure? i haven’t slept with you before.”

he went to answer, your eyes widening at your wording, shaking your head at yourself.

“sorry— i didn’t mean— obviously i haven’t slept with you—“

“woah woah,” dean couldn’t help but laugh. “you’re good, i got what you meant.”

a small pause, then he continued, “i don’t mind,” his voice softened. “go to sleep, sweetheart.”

“okay,” quiet and tired response.

you settled down, shuffling onto your side, head leaning on dean’s shoulder. his arm staying around you as you began to drift off to sleep. dean glancing down every few minutes, a smile growing seeing you so peaceful…

. ・ 。 . ・ ゜ ✭ ・ . ・ ✫ ・ ゜ ・ 。 .

when morning came around, the sun was shining through the curtains, sam still asleep in the next bed over. you and dean had been quiet as promised, the motel door closing with a soft click as you left for breakfast.

nothing had been spoken of the nights sleep you’d both had. you’d woken up with dean’s arm loosely over your waist, your hand instinctively finding his while you slept. it was comfortable.

sitting in the diner down the street, in a booth opposite one another, you held your menu’s, sitting in silence for the time being. or maybe longer than that.

you’d been alone with dean before, but not like this since telling sam you liked him, since he’d talked to dean about his feelings, since sleeping in bed with dean and waking up with his arm around you. it’s as if you didn’t know how to talk to each other.

it took the waitress bringing you coffee for you two to snap out of it. you thanking her, dean asking for a couple more minutes which was very unlike him.

“so, uh,” dean placed his menu down, looking right at you. “you sleep okay last night?”

a visible gulp, “yea, um, slept just fine, you?”

he nodded, “sure,” a pause. “better than normal.”

your eyes fully met his, seeing his slightly wide, looking at you in a way that was almost questioning the words coming out of his mouth. after you didn’t seem concerned, or have any questions, he cleared his throat, glancing to his menu again.

“pancakes sound good.”

you saw where he was looking, scanning the options, “do you maybe—“ a hesitation, he looked at you again. “do you wanna get some to share?”

he had to stop a smile from forming, more of an unconscious one, “you wanna share pancakes?” you nodded, a soft blush covering your cheeks. “sure, we can share, sweetheart.”

then you smiled, giving dean the all okay to smile too, letting him feel this, whatever emotion it was. that’s when he shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment.

you were confused, feeling slight awkwardness at his expression. luckily you didn’t have to wait long for him to explain.

“we’re being awkward, aren’t we?” he chuckled.

you laughed quietly, “a little, yea,” you scratched the back of your neck. “if it’s because of how i slept last night—“

“what? no— no! that’s not it,” he defended faster than normal. “you were fine, sleeping like that was fine. if anything it was me, i was crushing you—“

“crushing me?” another laugh. “god no, no— no, not at all. it was more of a comforting hug. well, it felt comforting to me. it was kinda nice, you know? being that close, and you kept me warm and— oh.”

you saw the look on his face, realised you were still talking, “sorry i’m rambling,” a short pause. “why am i rambling? we’ve had breakfast alone before, it’s not like we’ve never done it. we’re alone all the time and it’s normally fine—“

“hey, stop,” he reached across the table, taking one of your hands softly in his. “it’s just me, yea?

a silent response, you stopped talking. eyes moving to look down at your hands together after. the way his fingers wrapped so easily around your hand, his thumb brushing back and forth causing warmth to spread through you.

dean couldn’t help but do the same, realising how nice it was to hold your hand. your soft, warm skin against his, something he didn’t realise he’d been craving more than anything else.

“listen uh—“

“ready to order?” the waitress cheerfully stood at the end of the table.

dean looked at you. you looked at dean. clearly still caught up from your rambling, your eyes widened, suddenly unable to get a word out.

“double portion of the strawberry pancakes for us, please, and thanks,” dean gave a quick smile, the waitress writing it down before leaving again. “as i was saying—“

“strawberry’s my favourite.”

“yea, sweetheart, i know. that’s why i asked for those—“

“you remember?” a surprise.

“course i do.”

“but you forget things that sam always orders.”

a deep breath, “because he’s my brother, he’s not you.”

“oh.”

finally, quiet again. your hand still in his. your eyes on each others. a few things starting to make sense, to click in both of your heads. maybe you didn’t think he could feel the same things you had been, but perhaps that was the same thing going through dean’s head.

“sam talked to me yesterday,” dean started. “about… us. i guess.”

you listened, giving his hand a slight squeeze in the process.

“i thought he was just badgering me,” a small chuckle left his lips. “i didn’t know what it was, him accusing me of doing things for you that i don’t do for anyone else. somethin’ like that.”

with your free hand, you tucked your hair behind your ears. nerves for where this conversation was going. slight worry about what sam had been saying.

“maybe i thought he was being hostile at how i treat you, since you’re his best friend, not mine,” a shrug. “thought he was accusing me of getting you closer to me, taking you away from him. even though we all know it ain’t like that.”

it wasn’t that at all. you knew it couldn’t be. especially since telling sam you liked dean. he didn’t seem bothered, more confused. more worried about you being happy over anything else.

had he been bringing it up to dean? did dean know? he couldn’t. you thought he would’ve said something already if he did.

“it’s been kinda nice recently,” you say quietly. “doing more of the research and hunting with you, rather than sam all the time.”

“yea?” a smile threatened to appear on his lips. “wasn’t sure if you liked it, since it’s a lot of me just… bossing you around.”

your brow furrowed, “i never saw it as that,” you reassure. “just like spending more time with you honestly.”

your voice got more quiet at the end of your sentence. the first admittance to something more. you weren’t sure if you should’ve come out with that, but you couldn’t stop yourself. hoped it didn’t come across too forwards.

“i like spending time with you too, sweetheart.”

now there were two smiles. one of relief, one of genuine happiness. dean held your hand tighter, changing to linking your fingers together, holding on more intimately. at least, that’s how he saw it.

you looked at your hands again, more obviously. smiling at the feeling. dean saw, started to slowly put things together in his head. you acting a little weird, sam and his conversation last night, the sleeping in the same bed.

it wasn’t so far fetched that maybe you did both feel the same.

“you think sam would be mad if we did this more often?” dean dropped the first hint.

“this?” you asked. “you mean breakfast? just us?”

dean nodded.

“um, i don’t think so, he was fine about this time, so i don’t see why— oh, oh!” the cogs turning in your brain. “are you asking me to do this more? is that what you’re saying?”

dean laughed softly as you realised, “yea, that’s what i’m saying,” a pause. “we don’t gotta do it all the time but—“

“no, no, i’d love that, dean,” a squeeze to his hand.

“yea?”

“yea.”

he looked at you, your eyes shining in the bright light of the diner. the sun further up in the sky now. then, pancakes, the waitress placing one plate down in front of you, double pancakes ready to be shared. quiet thank you’s passed over.

neither of you moved for a moment. feeling as though it was just the two of you here in your own little world. your own happy world full of feelings.

then you spoke, “do you mind if i come sit next to you?”

dean nodded a little too fast, shuffling over to give you some space. you moved slowly, letting go of his hand as you got up, sliding into the booth seat next to him. moving so close that your arms and legs touched.

you look a breath. so did dean. silence, until you reached for his hand next to you, linking your fingers again, turning towards him after.

“listen—“ you both spoke in unison, laughing instantly.

“go ahead,” dean let you talk.

where to start, you thought, “i spoke to sam, a little ago, about um… this,” you lifted his hand that was in yours. “i thought he’d be mad, maybe stereotypically the best friends brother thing, and i didn’t want to upset him by telling him i had feelings and—“

dean squeezed your hand, eyebrows raised at your rambling again.

“sorry,” you took a breath. “dean… there’s more feelings for me. more than friends. i didn’t know how to tell you, didn’t know what to do with sam in the middle.”

dean had to half agree, “i thought he’d be mad at me, more like a brothers best friend thing,” he copied as you’d said. “but last night, it’s like he was forcing my feelings out of me, like he wants us together.”

you breathed a sigh of relief. knowing sam wasn’t mad at either of you, and you were slowly admitting these feelings to each other. as if you weren’t sat there holding hands…

“i know i used to be an asshole, calling you a nerd just because you went to stanford like he did—“

“for the record that was… unfortunately what started it.”

“what?” dean was confused. “me teasing you?”

you blushed, nodded. unsure of why that put ideas in your head, did things to make him tease you more. because, you liked it. you liked him teasing you for being smart just like sam. that’s what it was at the start.

“then we started doing more research together, and you stopped the teasing,” you remembered. “and instead let me ride shotgun, took me on drives with you and talked to me about metallica and your other cassettes— and showed me more of baby , shared food with me. it just added to it.”

“yea, sam mentioned you’ve never been into that music, or cars, or pie…”

“i’m into it all because it’s you,” you smiled. “because it’s things that make you happy, and i love seeing you happy.”

dean’s lips curved upwards, you suddenly pointing beside his lips, “and you get those cute dimples, when you smile, and sometimes when you talk,” eyes on those spots. “i like them.”

“oh yea?” dean let go of your hand, reached up, brushed your hair behind your ears. “you get these little crinkles, near your eyes, when you’re really happy.”

your smile dropped a little, the crinkles going away. dean worried, moving back to give you a little space. you reached up, knowing where he was talking about.

“you noticed that?” you seemed unsure. “i never liked it.”

“yea? well, i like you so that kinda cancels it out.”

dean’s admitted feelings. said so matter of factly, so him, that you hardly knew how to react. other than those crinkles returning, the smile on your face growing, dean moving closer again.

his hand was on your cheek now, cupping softly, thumb moving back and forth against the warm skin. you couldn’t look away, neither could he, starting to lean in.

before he hesitated, “oh, sorry— is this okay? sam mentioned you haven’t really—“

“it’s okay,” a blush grew, slightly embarrassed that sam had told him that, mostly because of the close proximity.

he leaned in closer, breath against your lips before they connected. all you felt was a warmth in your belly, his soft lips on yours, the way his hand stayed against your cheek.

the kiss lasted longer than you’d been expecting, maybe your lack of relationships being part of that, dean having been with way more people than you. you didn’t mind though, smiling through it.

you were first to pull away, immediately leaning against dean’s shoulder, arms wrapping around his torso. he pulled you closer, a kiss getting left on your forehead.

“that okay, sweetheart?”

a shy nod, “more than okay,” you glanced up. “do you just mind if—“

“we take things slow?” he guessed, finishing your sentence. “we can talk about it more later, if there’s any boundaries that you need at first, yea?”

“i’d like that, thank you, dean,” you moved again, sitting up.

looking back to the table, the pancakes sitting there, waiting to be eaten, both deciding it was a good time to start. you grabbed your knife and fork, dean following, starting to cut into the food first.

you stayed sat right against him, knee bumping his every few minutes, a smile growing on dean’s face every time. sure that if sam was here he’d be telling you both to stop being so coupley.

“out of curiosity,” dean started talking with his mouthful. “why didn’t you say anything?”

“well,” you chuckled as you got a small piece of pancake on your fork. “didn’t think you’d like someone like me. you know, being a nerd like sammy and all.”

he knew where you were coming from. someone like his brother, who studied at stanford. but, it was completely different. you got into the music dean liked, loved learning about his car, going out for pie with him. sure he made jokes at first, but it was different now.

“so, what you’re a nerd?” you went to glare at him, changing your mind after. “but you’re my nerd.”

you blushed, a little too easily. dean smiled, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you tighter against him, your head leaning to rest in the crook of his neck.

“wait sorry— is it too soon to say stuff like that?”

your head shook, “no, i um— i like it, actually.”

he nodded to himself, instead going back to eating his pancakes with one hand, wanting to keep his other on your waist. you continued eating too, enjoying breakfast together, away from hunting for the short time you got to yourselves.

it didn’t happen often, but now you knew you’d be learning to make the most of it even more than before. wanting to make sure you had your time with dean, as well as still with sam as your best friend.

then you had a final thought, “should we tell sam when we get back?”

dean shrugged, a mischievous smirk rising, “think we should leave him in the dark for a few days, see if he figures it out.”

you nudged him, laughing softly. knowing you would most likely tell sam as soon as you walked through the door, or maybe, you’ll keep quiet, just for a little bit.

for now, all you could be was happy. a little bit relieved that this all worked out. that sam didn’t mind. that dean liked you back. things would be different now, a good different.

You head back to what you were doing before Hughie’s interruption, unloading the takeout you'd brought onto the table. In the midst of placing the burgers and fries and various condiments in the center, you hear the muffled sound of an engine pull up outside and then fizzle off. Car doors slamming follow accompanied by some voices. If you'd been paying attention, you might have realized an additional person chatted along with your expected two.

But you don't catch that until the door swings open. Before you can look, the deep baritone slices across the space right into your ears.

"So, is she part of your team too?" the man asks.

You freeze. Your heart drops into your stomach. It's almost as if your body has a biological reaction to that low, rumbly way of speaking. You recognize it anywhere. It played over speakers and filled your bedroom most nights of the week when you were younger. The face it belonged to had been plastered across every surface that could hold a poster.

But it can't be his. He's been dead since before you were born. For some odd reason, your mind must have decided today would be a fun day to play tricks on you. To make you think the man of your teenage dreams had been resurrected and brought to you through some sort of star-crossed luck.

You shake your head and swallow down the ridiculous idea before turning to face them. But when you do, he is right there.

Soldier Boy stands between your teammates in all his glory, his brows raised as he assesses you. He sports modern civilian clothes rather than his uniform. It's kind of off-putting to see him in something so current, but the discrepancy doesn't keep your heart from racing. Every other part of him looks just like he used to on your tv screen. His features are still perfectly sculpted. His hair sits on his head soft as ever.

You honestly think you might faint. Your knuckles grip the back of a chair to the point of cramping as you stare at him like he'd risen from the grave right before your very eyes.

"Is she mute or something?" he asks next, still looking unimpressed with you.

Hughie glances between you and him in confusion, not understanding what's stolen your words away. But on the opposite side of Soldier Boy, Butcher eyes you with a small smirk on his face. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the wall before walking over to you and patting your shoulder.

"She talks. Must be feeling a bit shy 'round a stranger," he says.

The physical contact seems to snap you out of your little starstruck daze. You straighten up and shrug his hand off.

"I- I'm not shy," you stutter and smooth your clothes out. "I just um... I think I recognize you from like some old movies my mom used to like. Caught me off guard. Sorry."

A shaky breath expels from your lungs, and you hope the cover-up is enough to stave off any further questions. Luckily, that seems to be true as a grin spreads across his face.

"Your mom, huh? She still around by chance?"

You bristle at the sleazy way he asks the question. It's ridiculous to feel jealous over his interest in a lie you made up, but you still feel it prickling at you.

"No," you answer before turning back to the table to empty the rest of the fast food bag.

You shoot a glare at Butcher who's still grinning at you. Of course. This was why he hadn't told you. It wasn't part of his normal failure to consider anyone else's feelings or his typical manipulative ways. He did this to fuck with you.

He was the only one who knew about your soft spot for Soldier Boy. Though, soft spot was an understatement. Attachment might have been more appropriate. Undying love and devotion also good possibilities.

You adored the guy. Part of your lie had been true, you'd gotten it from your mother. She introduced you to his movies and showed you all the tv appearances she'd taped. You inherited her small collection of posters and t-shirts, and styled your room to reflect your Soldier Boy centered world. Eventually, your obsession superseded the one she experienced in her younger years. That was probably because her love for Soldier Boy fizzled out not too long later when she met your father. Yours stayed strong as you kept to yourself and focused on getting through school.

You'd confessed all of this to your team leader one night after too many drinks. Years had passed between now and the height of your obsession, so your drunken-self figured it was fine. The information came out hiccuped amongst a flood of giggling. You had found it so funny, that you had been so hot for a supe when now, your entire life revolved around taking them down.

Honestly you thought, or at least hoped, that Butcher hadn't cared enough to remember it. But clearly you were wrong.

The four of you sit down to eat the food you bought. You're across from Hughie while Butcher takes the seat opposite Soldier Boy. He obviously finds it amusing to dangle the other man in front of you, taunting you with what he knows you want but will never admit to.

You try your hardest not to stare, but it's a challenge. You're not eating much. Your appetite pretty much vanished with the shock of his arrival. Instead you rest your cheek on the heel of your palm, attempting to keep your eyes on the table and not his face.

The whole thing is just too weird. It's like you've been transported to the fantasy world you used to imagine to fall asleep. In there, Soldier Boy, or Ben as you called him in your dreams, went everywhere with you. He took you to the mall, accompanied you to the family gathering you didn't wanna go to, sat beside you on the bench at the park while you listened to music alone. Imaginary Ben stroked your hair when you failed a test, told you he loved you when you cried, and rubbed your stomach when you had cramps.

He was always there for you in those years, filling the void everyone else's lack of attention left. 

That was until he started to fade away. He popped up less and less as you adapted to life and found other people to fill your time. And then one day he just wasn't there anymore. You strolled through the mall with your friends. You went to see your family without anyone on your arm. You sat on the bench alone.

You outgrew the posters and the t-shirts. It all went into a storage bin tucked away in your closet. He went with it. Not thrown away, but no longer a part of your days. Looking back, it feels like you had two different lives — the one when you loved Soldier boy and the other where you remembered him.

But he's actually here now, sitting a foot away from you. Only everyone else can see this version of him, and he writes his own dialogue. Somehow you're just supposed to pretend like it's normal for you.

The guys chatter amongst themselves, but you barely hear it. You consider asking Butcher if you can leave. You'd do damn near anything else to get out of this situation. Your younger self would probably slap you across the face, absolutely maim you for fumbling your chance with him, but you just can't take it. It's like he's radiating humiliation and shame that projects only onto you.

Before you can speak up though, Butcher and Hughie rise from the table. You look up at them, desperation glimmering over your irises.

"Sorry, love. You're on soldier-sittin' duty for the next few hours," Butcher tells you as he goes to grab his coat.

"It's just until we get back," Hughie adds, sensing your discomfort with the situation.

Pouting and rising from your chair, you follow after them. You ignore Hughie and stare right at Butcher putting on his trench coat. "Can I come with you instead? Please?" you ask.

"Why? Thought you would be excited to get some one-on-one time with your-" he starts but you cut him off.

"It's too weird," you whisper. "Plus, he’s not gonna listen to me anyways. Can I please come with you?"

"'Fraid not," he tuts. "This one's for me and Hughie. You'll be fine for a couple hours."

"Butcher," you say, on the verge of begging.

But he holds no sympathy for you. Hughie gives you a kinder look. "Just put on the tv. He seemed pretty interested in filling in his gaps about the world on the drive here."

You weakly nod, watching them gather their remaining things before departing. Their absence leaves you and him alone in the room. It's quiet except for the crinkling of his wrapper and the thundering beat of your heart.

Turning back towards him, you force yourself to return to the room and clean up the other trash Butcher and Hughie had left behind. You gather the greasy papers while trying to keep your hands steady. They're shaking pretty bad, but moving them disguises it. At least you hope so. You don't want him seeing how nervous you are. It's stupid and pointless, but a small piece of you still wants to look cool and collected in front of him.

When you finish, you head over to the small couch that sits against the wall. You can feel his eyes on you. One thing you realize now that your juvenile fantasies failed to account for was that you really had no clue what to talk about with him. What was there to say to someone born nearly a hundred years ago? What could you bring up when he'd missed the last forty years of life? You decide to fill the silence with what Hughie had suggested.

"Do you wanna watch tv?" you ask.

"Not really, but what else is there to do in this shit hole," he says and shrugs.

You nod, reaching for the remote and flicking the screen to life. The first station is on a commercial break. You switch it to the next which is playing a basketball game. Finally, you get to the numbers playing movies and scroll through to find a good one.

While you occupy yourself with the television, he stands from his chair and heads in your direction. He plops down on the couch next to you, spreading his thighs and draping his arm across the back of the sofa. You keep your eyes locked on the screen ahead. There’s no way you’re gonna look over at his open lap. If you do that, you won’t be able to fight off the heat that keeps trying to rise into your cheeks.

You can still feel him looking at you though. The constant weight of his curiosity makes it hard not to shift around in your seat. Your thumb keeps tapping through the channels until you come across one showing something you recognize. It takes you a few seconds to place it, but as soon as you do, you go to skip it.

Before you can, he straightens up. "Wait- what's this? This looks familiar," he says, eyes narrowing.

You glance over at him, blinking a few times before giving an answer. "Um yeah... it's the remake of Red Thunder that came out a few years ago," you explain. You work hard to keep your voice even.

He looks over at you, astounded. "Remake? What do you mean remake? They just did it over again?"

You nod. "Yeah, y'know. Like how Scarface is a remake of the old one from the thirties... Like that."

He scoffs. "They tried to remake my movie?" he asks, still in disbelief. He examines the tv again. "Which one's supposed to be me?"

You wait a few seconds, looking for the updated version of him. "Um... that one," you say and point to the younger actor dressed in Soldier Boy gear.

He laughs, the sound booming across the room. "That guy? That's who they chose to play me?" he mocks. "Jesus, if that's the type of man you kids think a hero is no wonder the world is in the state it's in."

"Yeah..." you say, a little smile rising to your lips. Your nerves begin to settle. This isn't so bad when you keep your mind off your feelings… even if he does talk a little bit like your grandfather. "I like the original way better," you continue.

"Oh do you now?” he asks. That start of a smirk on his face is nearly audible.

"Mhm. This one is just kind of boring," you answer, eyes flitting between him and the screen. "They took all the romance stuff out, and we're not in the cold war anymore so the bad guys are just some vague, random evil army. Plus, I don't understand why they didn't just use one of Vought's new supes instead of imitating you." 

The words flow easily, just as they did to all your friends when the movie had first come out. You don't have as much trouble expressing yourself when the topic of discussion is one of your favorite subjects.

He nods as if he's genuinely interested in your points before commenting. "I thought your mother was the fan?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, your heart rate picking up again under the spotlight of his attention. It wasn't too big of a slip up. You can play it off like you had with your initial anxiety. Though you can't focus enough to answer while gazing into his cocky eyes, so you look down at your lap.

"She was. But I saw some of your movies too. Doesn't take a genius to know they were better than this stuff," you shrug.

There's a little pause. Your heart beats impossibly faster. But he just chuckles and turns back to the tv. "You sure you've only seen some of my movies? Sounds like you know more than a casual fan," he goads.

Hesitation creeps up on you. Maybe this is your opportunity to tell the truth. You can just confess your thing for him like it's an embarrassing story. Maybe then it won't hold so much power over you and this will be a whole lot easier. Your palms flex against your thighs as you steel yourself.

"Well... more than some. I've seen a lot. I just didn't wanna weird you out or anything," you admit, doing your absolute best to seem casual. Maybe they should give you the Oscar they never offered your beloved.

"There you go. Be honest," he praises, and you think you feel something throb between your legs. You glance up at him for a second before your eyes drop back down. He shakes his head. "It doesn't ‘weird me out.’ I'm used to the attention y'know. I lived with it longer than you've been alive."

"Yeah, but I didn't want things to be uncomfortable. Make you think I was like obsessed or something."

"Well are you like obsessed or something?’ he teases. Something in his tone tells you he already knows the answer.

"No," you deny immediately.

"It would make sense if you were. It'd explain why you're so nervous," he says, his voice smooth as polished marble.

"I'm not nervous," you defend.

"C'mon, sweetheart. You can't look at me for more than a second, and I can hear your heart beating faster than a baby bunny runnin' from a wolf."

You practically swoon when he calls you sweetheart, but you force your eyes up and onto his. No matter how many butterflies erupt in your stomach, you're intent on being professional. That little childish crush is a thing of the past, you're sure of it. You're an adult now with a real passion for your job.

"It's just that you're kind of intimidating," you reason. "It's weird seeing a movie star in person."

"A movie star? You flatter me."

Rolling your eyes, an involuntary huff slips from your lips. "You know what I mean. It's just different talking to you like in real life and not just seeing you on a screen. That's it."

"Is that all? I don't know if I believe you, honey. I recognize that look on your face," he says.

"What look? I don't have a look," you say.

"No, you do. You have that look I used to get from the girls hanging around outside set. They'd stand there with their little autograph books, waiting to get a glimpse of Soldier Boy," he says, eyes almost twinkling as he reminisces. "Only every time I'd go over to sign something for 'em, they could never get their eyes off their shoes. Always looking down, stumbling over their words. I don't typically go for you younger girls, but it was pretty cute."

You feel your cheeks heating up along with a small smile forming on your lips. Just like that, your commitment to professionalism has started to wane. It's dumb, but you can't help yourself. He basically called you cute. You just count yourself lucky you haven’t started giggling.

"Yep they used to do that too. That little smile," he continues.

He's making you malfunction with only a handful of words. Your head spins, but you're powerless to stop it. You can't help reacting like one of those girls because, inside, part of you is still one of them.

"C'mere, sweetheart," he says next before patting his lap.

You know you shouldn't. If Butcher and Hughie came back and saw you like this, it would be the humiliation of a lifetime. But you can't resist him. It's easy to declare your commitment to acting professional when the situation is only a hypothetical. When it becomes real, presented right before your eyes, it's a different story entirely.

Tentatively, you scoot towards him, eyeing his thighs. His hand comes to your back between your shoulders to urge you along.

"I'm not gonna bite you, bunny," he says with that action-hero smile.

More timidity pumps through you at the repetition of that term. You find the courage to close the rest of the gap and crawl into his lap. His arms welcome you, shifting you around on his thighs into a comfortable position.

"Perfect. Feels better like this, doesn't it?" he says.

That palm on your back strokes up and down. He runs it along the length of your spine, bringing a chill over every area it touches. You keep your gaze on your hands in your lap until his fingers tap beneath your chin and redirect your vision onto him.

"Don't hide those pretty eyes from me. That's how I know what you're feelin’. They give so much away.”

You honestly believe you're seconds away from melting into a puddle, from slumping over against his chest and becoming some boneless rag doll for him to play with. You can only imagine how stupid you look if even half of the lovesickness you feel reflects on your face.

"Tell me — have you ever thought about this before? I bet you have," he murmurs.

Of course he's right. You'd envisioned yourself on this very lap countless times when you were younger. But a part of you still clings to the idea that you should hide how absolutely pathetic you are for him. You shrug.

"I guess..." you answer. The words come out airy, almost as if your voice is getting away from you.

He simply smirks at the reply while rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over your chin. "Yeah? You imagined sitting my lap, hm? Dreamed of me holding you close?"

"Something like that," you reply, feeling as though your throat was constricting.

He chuckles at your squeak of a reply. "Well, how do I match up to your dreams? Am I everything you hoped I would be?" he asks. His voice drops, and there's no question about what he wants from you now. Something you would give without hesitation.

"You're doing a pretty good job," you say. You try to adjust yourself to face more towards the tv, but he keeps you pinned in place.

"I haven't really done anything yet," he says.

A little bout of silence rises between you two. Neither of you say anything. The only sound is the hushed chatter of the tv in the background. Despite the lack of conversation, his eyes stay on your face. His fingers caress your cheek before smoothing down to your neck.

"How'd a pretty girl like you get involved with those two jackasses who brought me here anyways?" he asks.

"It's a long story..." you say. Your skin is on fire everywhere his fingers trace. They're working over your throat down onto your collarbone and shoulders. 

"Too long for you to care about right now, yeah?" he asks, completely smug.

You nod though because smug or not, he's correct about that. Recounting how you got involved with Butcher ordinarily wasn't too hard. But in this moment, on his lap, it seems like the effort of a lifetime for your foggy brain.

"You're too soft and sweet for hunting supes," he says. Despite poking fun at you, he remains gentle and soft, careful not to really upset you and break you out of this docile little haze he's got you in.

"It's not so bad,” you say.

"Sure, sure. You're strong and independent, can do anything a man can and all that. I'm just saying-"

Talk talk talk. So much talking, and you can barely focus on a word he's saying. Your eyes are lingering on his lips. They look so soft and smooth. Nothing’s touched them in forty years. He’s definitely noticed your stare. And you know that means you should stop. You can’t though. You want it, and he’s practically offering it up to you.

He continues speaking, however. “- I can think of a few things you’d be much better at. Things that don’t involve your little hands getting bloody.”

“Like what?” you start to ask.

“Maybe something like this.”

That hand on your chin tugs you closer. Before you register what’s happening, his mouth is on yours. Electricity zaps all through your body like a live wire. You lean into it without thinking, pressing closer and molding your lips to his.

He chuckles as your arms slide up to loop around his neck. You swallow up the low, rough sound, not disconnecting from him for a moment. His hand flattens out along your jawline. It allows him to hold you right where he wants you for a series of more kisses, all of which you reciprocate.

“Atta girl,” he mumbles in the brief interval where you’re forced to drawback for breath. “Not so shy now, are ya?”

You shake your head before diving in for more. He receives you by opening his mouth. His tongue gently flicks over your lip. He slides it against your own as things become deeper. The heat inside you no longer holds the sting of shame or embarrassment. It aches now. It burns with pure want, clustering in the pit of your stomach rather than in your face.

He leans back into the sagging couch. His hands ensure you move along with him. With a firm grip on your waist, he boosts you closer and shifts you around so your thighs are parted across his own.

A small whimper leaves you. You can’t help it. Your bodies are even closer now. Your center is pressed right against his lap, right where his cock is. You can’t feel it yet, but the idea is enough to send phantom sensations rippling through you.

You feel his lips curling into a smirk against yours. Those hands leave your waist. They dip lower, sliding across your curves to grip onto the plush flesh of your ass. That gets a real moan out of you. Your head falls back, away from his mouth. He doesn’t let you go too far though. A second later, his affections move to your neck. His kisses are hot and wet, tongue laving over your pulse point and teeth nipping sensitive skin.

Just a few simple touches, and his strength shines through each one. The firmness with which his fingers knead your ass is unlike anyone else you’ve ever felt. You’ve been with muscular guys before, but nothing like this. Strong is too weak a word to describe the undercurrent flowing through his grasp.

You roll your hips down in an exploratory swivel, something faint to see if you could find some friction. He aides you. His fingers tighten around your ass, pushing you down harder and then dragging your core back over his lap. 

You suck in a little gasp.

“That feel good, huh? Your pretty pussy’s getting wet for me, isn’t she?” he asks with another rotation of your hips.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter. You push your upper-half closer to him so that your chest squishes against his own.

To your dismay, he stops you from fully holding on. He nudges you backwards and boosts you off his lap entirely so that you’re standing on your feet. A whine builds at the front of your mouth, but before you can protest, his fingers come to the button on your jeans.

He flicks it open, looking up at you as he yanks your pants down. “Been forty years since I got some tail. Let’s not waste any more time,” he says in explanation.

You nod along and step out of each of your pant legs, kicking the garment aside. You also take your t-shirt off. The fabric lands on top of your discarded jeans. Once you’re left in just your bra and panties, he tugs you back down.

Your bodies come together with a thud. The material of his sweats grazes your tingly inner-thighs. Before you can get back into rutting yourself on him, he runs his palms over your legs. They’re pretty smooth for someone of his age and experience. You always imagined something a little rougher, something that would contrast against the smooth nature of your own flesh. But forty years in a cryo-tank hadn’t given his skin much opportunity to become weathered.

His hands find your ass again, one coming down to give it a quick smack. Your hips jolt in surprise at the sudden sting. He soothes it away by rubbing over the heated area. His fingers dig into your malleable skin harder now that it’s bare to him.

“Skin’s baby-soft,” he murmurs mid-grope. “Been wanting someone rougher to come and mark it up?”

Your eyes flicker over his mocking smirk, heat filling your face. You grind yourself on him again with a whine. It feels so much better with your clothing out of the way. Even though the thin cotton barrier of your panties keeps you from rubbing down on him raw, the material is skimpy enough that it doesn’t impede. Instead it adds a little extra spark to the building pressure between your legs. Your eyes roll towards the back of your head, fluttering as you rock yourself forward and back.

He helps out just like before. His hands rein your movements into a steady rhythm. In between your bodies, his bulge starts to form. With each swipe of your covered cunt across his lap, you feel it becoming more and more prominent; hard and solid right up against your soaked folds.

“Just like that, get yourself ready for me,” he praises with another slap to your backside. “I’ll teach you how to really ride.”

You moan while biting your lip. Your hips work faster on him. Being so close, so lost in his feel and scent, has freed you of your previous trepidation. You’ve lost the ability to be stuck in your head with him like this.

He shifts you over slightly so that you’re lined up with the flat top of his thigh. It makes no difference to you. You keep your hips moving like nothing’s changed, grinding your throbbing clit down onto the firm muscles in his leg.

“Fuck,” you whimper. Your arms wrap over his shoulders once more. You squish your face into the crux of your elbow.

This time he lets you stay. He wraps an arm around you and lazily pats your back. “Good girl. Keep going. I gotcha.” His voice rumbles beside your ear. “Better than any dream, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you whimper. “Fuck- so much better. You- you’re perfect.”

While you continue to pleasure yourself on his leg, he lifts his hips off the couch just enough to push his sweats down towards his knees. He takes his cock out. It’s fully hard now, stiff in his hand as he gives it a few strokes.

You don’t notice at first, so wrapped up in your own bliss. But when he starts pulling you center again, you lift your head and glance down through heavy-lids.

You’d imagined him big, but seeing his cock for real makes you feel like you didn’t imagine big enough. His length is long and moderately thick. It’s flushed for you, the tip shimmery with the slightest bit of pre oozing out.

Your mouth waters. You want to taste him. You want to show him how badly you want it. You want to drop to your knees and think about nothing but how good he fits in your mouth.

But you know you have limited time. Butcher said you had a couple hours, but he’s also unreliable and a liar and purposefully fucking with you today so… you don’t want to take any chances.

He doesn’t seem too eager to have you like that anyways. He gives you a slight boost and pulls the soaked material of your panties to the side. The silky skin of his tip replaces the feeling. He drags himself across your entrance once, twice, and then nudges inside.

Your teeth sink into your lip as your head falls back slightly. You still can’t understand how this is real, but it undeniably is. The feeling of him working himself in, inch by inch, is not a figment of your imagination. That sweet stretch is absolutely real, and it consumes you more with every passing second until your ass is flush against his thighs once more.

He groans. “Shit, that’s good.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “Haven’t felt anything this nice in a longgg fucking time.”

Your walls flutter around him, eliciting another hiss from between his gritted teeth. Every noise he makes feels as good as a physical touch. You can’t get enough of hearing his voice strained with pleasure — pleasure you’re giving him.

You rise on his lap before sinking down. The rhythm is slow to start, a way for both of you to get used to the feeling. His hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bring a little burst of pain. You like it though. You want more of it.

He smacks your ass again. “C’mon, bunny. I know you can do better than that.”

Your hands plant themselves firmly on his shoulders, giving you the leverage needed to go a little faster. You bring yourself up and then down in quicker succession.

“That’s it. Such a good girl. Show daddy what you’ve been dreamin’ about.”

A shudder tears through you. Your muscles feel weak, like the simple string of praise had loosened them up completely. It doesn’t matter though. You start to bounce faster. Your body works with a mind of its own. It doesn’t let you slow down.

He slides in and out easily with how wet you are. Every drag of his cock on your insides is a straight shot of bliss. You feel even better when he grips your jaw and pulls you in for another few kisses. His mouth moves against your own before moving along your jawline to the space below your ear and then onto your neck and collarbone.

“Every inch of you tastes so fucking good. Like cherry pie,” he mumbles. “I’ll have to try out that pussy of yours next.”

“Mhm, fuck,” you whimper.

You keep riding as his teeth nip at one of your bra straps. The noises of your skin on his fill the small motel room. His tight grip on your waist helps you maintain the rhythm, pulling you down hard and boosting you up quick

The tip of his cock bumps up against your g-spot and gets a squeal out of you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as a way of bracing yourself. Neither of you slow down. You stutter slightly, but his hips lift to meet your movements. His fast thrusts strike at that angle over and over until your legs are quivering to the point that it truly feels like they might give out.

Luckily for you, he makes sure you don’t go toppling to the floor. The firm weight of his hands guide you closer to his body. Your weight shifting gives him the leverage to take over pumping in and out of you.

Your cheek hits his shoulder as your head fills with a warm, thick fog. He pounds into that sweet spot inside of you over and over. You can hear him grunting beside your ear, low and strained sounds that have your stomach full of butterflies.

“Pretty, pretty girl. You were worth the wait,” he mumbles alongside another deep thrust.

You whimper, lazily nodding your head against him. “You- mm- you were too.”

Sweet, tight heat coils in your belly. You know release is creeping up on you. Your eyes flutter shut, waiting for it to take over. You don’t notice his hand sliding between your bodies until you feel the pads of his fingertips rubbing at your sensitive clit. Your hips buck into the pleasure, and your walls clamp around him hard.

He lets out a deep laugh that only makes you tighten up more. 

“Yeah, that’s a good girl. I know what you need, babydoll. Let go for me. Let me see how good you look when you cum,” he says.

His fingers keep swiping at the little bud between your legs. Syrupy shots of bliss shoot through you, pushing you along, taking you to the edge. It’s no time at all before a round of shudders rack through you. Your arms latch around his neck while your thighs clamp on either side of his. Embarrassing strings of whines trickle into the air.

“I- I- fuck,” you whimper. “Feels so- so fucking good, god.”

The last word to leave your lips is pitchy and broken. Your release cuts it short. Moans replace any coherent praise you could have given him. You bury your face in his neck and pant against the warm skin. Vaguely, you can feel his arms tightening around you. One of his hands rests between your shoulders while the other stays at your waist. He keeps pumping up into you, fucking you through each and every wave of orgasmic euphoria.

He’s less clingy as he finishes. His hips snap up into you a few more times before he groans loud and deep. He maintains the solid grip he has on you, hands still clamped around your waist as he spills inside. His chest rises and falls under your own, puffing quick with the exertion of finishing.

Your eyes stay closed for another several seconds as the room goes quiet and your nerves stop buzzing. His thumb lazily drags back and forth in tiny lines along the base of your spine. That almost makes you shiver more than anything you did on top of him.

With the fog of lust clearing from your mind, you separate from his chest and sit up straight. He’s relaxed as can be, head tilted back against the couch, watching you with the same lazy appraisal you’re giving him. Now that your entire body isn’t thrumming with want for him, he doesn’t seem so intimidating. You know that’s not the truth, that he could still crush any of your bones with minimal effort if he so desired — but in a weird way, you just don’t feel like you’re perpetually looking up at him now. It’s not negative, but the mystique is gone. The man of your dreams doesn’t exist anymore. Soldier Boy is flesh and blood, sweaty and spent beneath you.

You roll off of him to the other side of the couch. You’re pretty sure not much time has passed, but you don’t want to risk anything. You’re gonna be well and dressed when Butcher and Hughie come back. The two of them will be none the wiser that anything out of the ordinary occurred.

He stretches for a moment before adjusting his own appearance.

“Gotta say, I’m in no rush to do whatever it is they thawed me out for now. You’re much more fun.” His voice breaks the silence.

A small smile cracks on your face. “Yeah… think I’ll be pretty distracted too.” You look over your shoulder at him.

Little comments bounce back and forth between the two of you with nothing substantial really being said. That’s ok with you. The fact that you really just fucked Soldier Boy has left your mind void of conversational skills.

After the two of you are back to looking plain as you had been before, your collective attention returns to what’s left of the Red Thunder remake still playing on the tv.

“Who’s the head honcho nowadays? Was it Homelander they said?” he asks you. “Guy must not be able to get it done if they’re remaking this old shit.”

You laugh softly and nod. “Yeah… I’m sure Butcher will tell you allll about him when they get back.”

The two of you watch the remainder of the movie, with you chattering here and there about things you don’t like or little facts you know. It’s nice in a weird way. Feels almost like something you would’ve dreamed up all those years ago.

Your little bubble of fantasy bursts when the car doors slam not too far from the motel room entrance. You sit up a little straighter, smooth out your hair a bit, trying to make sure you look totally normal before Hughie and Butcher walk in.

Soldier Boy makes no such effort. His eyes rest on the tv while his legs stay spread and his posture slightly slouched.

The door creaks open and shuts just as quick. Hughie enters first with Butcher right behind him. You keep your focus on the tv. But even though you’re not looking, you can feel Butcher’s curious stare.

“We got everything we needed, so we should be good to go for tonight,” Hughie says, not giving the two of you any real thought.

You nod and take the chance to look over at him walking towards the table all of you sat at earlier. In your sweep of the room, you catch Butcher’s gaze lingering on the two of you. 

“Seems like everything went well here,” he says. You know from that lilt in his tone the words aren’t as innocent as the untrained ear would believe. You know he wants to poke and prod and expose your new dirty little secret, but you won’t let him.

You shrug. “There wasn’t a ton to do here, so yeah,” you huff like it’s obvious.

His boots squish on the cheap carpeting as he takes a few steps closer. 

“So just smooth sailin’. Nothing out of the ordinary happened?”

You roll your eyes. Does he somehow know what you did? Is he sick enough to have left cameras or something?

“Yeah. Everything’s the same as you left it, boss.”

He laughs, brief and short, a prelude to his killing strike.

“’s funny cause I don’t remember your shirt bein’ on inside-out when we left.”

Your eyes zip down only to find he’s right. The seams on your shirt puff out as they do on the interior side of the fabric. Heat rushes into your face. You grab the lumpy throw pillow jammed between your hip and the couch and chuck it in his direction.

“Shut up,” you huff as you take off towards the bathroom, swinging the door shut behind you.

His laughter carries after you, and there’s a bit of Soldier Boy’s as well, lower and deeper in timbre.

“What can I say? She’s a super-fan.” His voice rumbles through the thin walls.

You want to be offended, to go back out there and tell him and Butcher off, to not put up with any of their shit. But hearing him talk about you in that sugar-coated, condescending tone of voice, openly acknowledging he’d been with you… it wouldn’t be honest. 

Dean chuckles. “Alright, fair. As long as I get visitation rights on weekends.”

You’re still smiling, but the buzz in your brain is louder now. The diner’s not too crowded, but the flicker of the fluorescent above the counter is grating. The hum is high-pitched. Someone slams a glass down two tables over and it startles you just a little too much. You grip your straw tighter.

Dean clocks it. Not in a pitying way—more like a hunter spotting a shift in the wind. His voice goes a little quieter.

“You okay?”

You nod, but then shrug, because honesty’s easier than pretending.

“Just… kinda loud. Lights’re doing the thing. Not a meltdown or anything, just... a little much.”

Dean’s brow furrows, but not with discomfort. Concern, sure. But the good kind. The “tell me what you need so I can do it” kind.

“We can leave,” he offers immediately. “Or we could take it to-go. I know a spot where the Impala always looks good at night.”

You blink. “Are you… asking me to go look at your car under moonlight?”

Dean leans back, smirking. “Maybe.”

You snort. “God, you're such a gearhead.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You slide your milkshake across the table toward him. “Only if you don’t share.”

Dean grins, and that’s that. You split the check, grab the pie to-go, and make your way back out into the night.

The “spot” he mentioned turns out to be a hill just outside of town. Gravel shoulder. Empty road. Crickets chirping like backup singers.

He parks with the nose of the Impala aimed right at the valley below, the glow of faraway lights blinking like stars. The sky above you is clear—deep navy, dotted in constellations you only half-remember the names of. The air smells like engine grease and pine trees and something sweeter you can't place until Dean opens the pie box.

“Apple,” he announces proudly. “No better nightcap.”

You sit on the bench seat, knees turned toward him, fingers sticky with pie crust and joy.

Dean leans back, elbow on the steering wheel, his other hand resting casually on the seat behind your shoulder. Not touching. Just there. Just available.

“You always like cars this much?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You nod. “Before I could write, I was drawing V8 engines with crayons. I memorized the gear ratios of every ‘60s Chevy before I turned ten.”

Dean whistles. “That’s impressive. I was mostly just getting into trouble at ten.”

“I was getting suspended for correcting my science teacher about spark plug heat ranges.”

He laughs, but it’s soft. It’s fond. You look over to find him watching you, eyes warm.

There’s a pause. A moment heavy with something not uncomfortable. Something nice. You’re not sure what to do with it, but Dean seems okay just sitting in it.

Then, after a second, he says: “I like how you talk about things.”

You blink. “Things?”

“Things you care about. You light up. Makes it feel like the world’s got a little more color in it.” He shrugs. “Kinda makes me wanna find more stuff to light you up with.”

You stare at him.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry, that was maybe—too much—”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Your voice is soft. Real. And Dean turns to look at you again.

You point at the dash. “You know how Baby’s engine sounds different in third than it does in fourth?”

Dean blinks. “Yeah…”

“That’s how your voice just changed.”

He raises his eyebrows, curious. “Meaning?”

You smile. “You just downshifted. Got softer. That’s your ‘I’m being real’ voice.”

Dean watches you like he’s not used to being seen. Not like this. And you’re watching him like you’re already mapping out his mechanics in your head—like he’s a beautiful, complicated engine you want to understand.

He leans in then. Slow enough you can move away if you want. But you don’t. You tilt toward him just a hair, and the kiss is barely more than a press of lips—gentle, for a guy who probably fights monsters before breakfast.

When he pulls back, he smiles.

“Bench seat privilege,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Best date I’ve ever had.”

Dean nods, serious. “Same. Not even just ‘cause you knew the exact horsepower of my car.”

“You said that like it isn’t the sexiest thing someone could do.”

Dean laughs, head thrown back.

And maybe the stars burn a little brighter that night. Maybe the Impala catches the moonlight just right. Maybe two people sit there talking engines and life until it’s nearly dawn.

But either way— It’s already a love story.

It just keeps going with pie.

To him, it’s just habit.

You’ve been working together long enough that you’ve become part of the rhythm of his day — the quiet presence across the room, the soft laugh when Chimney says something ridiculous, the way you duck your head when someone compliments you. Buck thinks it’s adorable.You think it’s humiliating. Because every time he looks at you, your brain forgets how to function.

“Y’know,” Buck says casually from the couch, stretching his arms behind his head, “you could just let someone else do that.” You don’t look up.

“I’m capable of wrapping a bandage, Buck.”

“Never said you weren’t.” His boots drop to the floor as he leans forward. “But you’re doing it wrong.” Your eyes snap up.

“I am not.”

“You definitely are.”

“You haven’t even looked at it." Buck grins.

“I don’t need to.” Your stomach flips. You quickly drop your gaze back to your wrist. Across the kitchen counter, Hen leans toward Chim.

“Ten bucks says he ends up touching her hand in thirty seconds.” Chimney snorts.

“You’re on.” Buck stands and crosses the room before you can protest. You feel his presence before you see him — tall, broad shoulders blocking the light as he crouches down in front of you.

“Lemme see.” Your brain instantly goes fuzzy.

“It’s fine.”

“Uh huh.” His hand gently takes your wrist. Your entire body goes rigid. His touch is warm. Careful. Familiar in the way it only becomes after months of working side by side. But somehow it still sends a bolt of electricity straight up your arm.

God, get it together.

Buck unwraps the messy gauze with a small huff of amusement.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You were definitely doing it wrong.”

“I was not.”

“You wrapped it like you were trying to mummify your hand.” You huff softly, trying to ignore the way your face is heating. Buck notices immediately. He always does. His mouth curves slowly.

“Are you... blushing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.” He tilts his head closer, studying you with exaggerated seriousness.

“Oh wow.” Your stomach drops. “You really are.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended.

“Buck…” Behind him, Chimney is vibrating with barely contained laughter. Hen elbows him. Buck finishes tying the gauze and taps your wrist lightly.

“There,” he says. Your hand lingers in his for half a second too long. You notice. He notices.Your brain immediately panics. You pull away.

“Thanks.” Buck leans back on his heels, still looking at you. There’s something about the way you avoid his eyes that makes him smile. You’re always like this with him. Soft. Quiet. A little flustered. He’s never quite figured out why.

“You’re cute when you get shy,” he says without thinking. Your soul leaves your body.

“I’m not shy.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Am not.”

“You literally won’t look at me right now.” Your eyes snap up in protest. Which is exactly what he wanted. Buck laughs.

God, that laugh. It should be illegal.

Before you can respond- The station alarm blares. Everyone moves instantly.

“118, respond to a vehicle collision on Western Avenue—” Buck is already jogging toward the trucks beside you. You shake the lingering warmth from your wrist and follow.

--

The crash scene is chaotic.

Two cars tangled at an intersection, smoke rising from a crushed hood while bystanders crowd the sidewalk. The familiar rush of adrenaline settles your nerves immediately. Work mode. Focus. Buck grabs the jaws of life while you and Hen move toward the passenger side of the sedan. Another engine company is already there — firefighters you don’t recognize. You kneel beside a shaken woman in the passenger seat, speaking calmly while checking her pulse.

“Hey, you’re doing great,” you reassure her. A firefighter from the other crew crouches beside you. Tall. Dark hair. Friendly smile.

“Need a hand?” he asks. You glance up.

“Oh— yeah, could you stabilize her shoulder?”

“Sure.” He does, working easily beside you. After a moment he glances at you again. “So do you always look this calm during a disaster?" Your brain stutters.

“Oh— uh—” You feel heat creeping into your cheeks again. Across the wreckage, Buck looks up. And freezes. The guy is smiling at you. Leaning a little too close. And you’re blushing. Buck doesn’t know why that bothers him. Except it really does.

Like a lot.

He grips the tool harder than necessary.

“Buck,” Chimney mutters beside him. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re bending steel.” Buck immediately loosens his grip. But his eyes stay locked on the scene. The firefighter says something else that makes you laugh quietly. Something sharp twists in Buck’s chest.

What the hell?

The call finishes quickly. Patients loaded. Scene cleared. But Buck’s mood stays weirdly sour the entire ride back. Back at the firehouse, the sun is setting through the bay doors. You’re wiping grease from your hands when Buck walks up beside you. He leans casually against the truck. Too casually.

“So,” he says. You glance up.

“Yeah?”

“Who was that guy?” You blink, staring up at him. He seems tense, his shoulder squared as if he's ready to pounce.

“What guy?” You breathe.

“The firefighter.” Realization dawns. You lean back against the truck, crossing your arms in a desperate attempt to look normal.

“Oh. I don’t know.” Buck frowns, his eyes trailing over you.

“You were talking a lot.”

“We were treating a patient.”

“Looked like flirting.” Your heart nearly stops.

“I wasn’t flirting.” Buck shrugs.

“He seemed like he was.” Something warm and nervous flutters in your chest.

Why does he care?

“He asked if I was calm under pressure,” you say defensively.

“And?”

“And I said yes.” Buck studies you for a moment. Then suddenly grins.

“Well, that’s good.”

“…Why?”

“Because if he asked you out you’d probably panic.” Your face goes red instantly. Buck laughs.

God, he loves that reaction.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” You turn away, mortified. Buck watches you for a second. Then something clicks in his brain. A quiet little realization he’s been too oblivious to notice before. You only blush like that with him. Not the other firefighter. Not Chimney. Just him. Interesting. Buck pushes off the truck.

“Hey.” You look up nervously.

“Yeah?” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“You wanna grab dinner tonight?” Your brain goes completely blank.

“…What?”

“Dinner,” he repeats. “Like… food.”

“I know what dinner is, numbskull." Buck chuckles.

“Well?” Your heart is beating so loudly you’re sure the whole station can hear it.

“Why?”

“Because you’re terrible at wrapping bandages and I need to supervise your recovery.” You stare at him.

“You’re kidding.”

“Maybe.” He leans a little closer. “But mostly because I want to.” Across the room, Hen slowly lowers the mug she’s been pretending to wash. Chimney whispers,

“Oh my god.” Your voice comes out small.

“Like… a date?" Buck pauses. The word settles in the air. Date. He watches the way your eyes widen like you’ve just said something forbidden. And suddenly the idea doesn’t seem weird at all. Actually…It makes a lot of sense. Buck smiles slowly.

“Well,” he says. “If that’s what it takes to convince you…” His gaze softens. “Then yeah.” Your stomach flips violently. Buck tilts his head. “So what do you say?” You hesitate for half a second. Then nod.

“…Okay.” His grin widens.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Buck pushes off the truck, suddenly energized.

“Great.” He pauses. Then adds with a teasing glint— “And don’t worry.” You swallow. “If that firefighter shows up,” Buck says casually, “I’ll scare him off.” You stare at him. Your face is burning again.And Buck thinks — not for the first time - that he really likes the way you blush. He grins.

"I'll pick you up at seven !" He calls out, before turning away from you.

----

Your room is a mess. Like, hiroshima after the atomic bomb mess. Clothes, jewlery, towels- everything you posess is scattered across the floor and your bed, as if a testament to your girlhood has been declared. If someone walked in right now, they’d think a department store had exploded. You stand in the middle of it all with your hands on your head.

“Oh my god.” This is a nightmare. A wonderful, terrifying nightmare. You glance at the clock.

6:14 PM.

You groan and flop backwards onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Buck asked you out.

Buck.

Not in the joking, flirty way he sometimes tosses things around the station. Not in the “we should hang out sometime” vague way. Dinner. At seven. Your brain replays the moment for the hundredth time. The way he leaned closer. The little smile. The casual confidence in his voice like this was the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile you nearly passed out just hearing the word date. You roll over and bury your face in a pillow.

This is dangerous.

Because your crush on Buck isn’t small. It never has been. It started innocently — little things at first. The way he always checked if you were okay after calls. The way he’d casually sling an arm around your shoulders while explaining something. The way he looked at you when you laughed. Then somewhere along the way it became… something else. Something heavier. Something you buried deep down because having a crush on your best friend slash coworker slash walking golden retriever of a firefighter felt like a terrible idea.

And Buck— God.

Buck doesn’t even realize what he does to you. The teasing. The little touches. The way he calls you cute when you get flustered. He does it like breathing. Your face heats just thinking about it. You roll onto your back again and stare at the mountain of clothing around you.

“Okay,” you tell yourself. "Calm down. It’s just dinner." You worry your bottom lip, running your hands down your face. "Just dinner with the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with for months. Totally normal."

You sit up abruptly.

Clothes. You need clothes.

You grab the first shirt you see and hold it up. Too casual. You toss it aside.

Next dress. Too fancy.

Next outfit. Too obvious.

You collapse back onto the bed again with a frustrated groan.

Why is this so hard?!

You’ve been on dates before. You’ve handled burning buildings. You’ve crawled through collapsing structures. But somehow choosing an outfit for dinner with Buck feels like the most high-pressure situation of your life. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You grab it. A text from Chimney.

CHIM Hen says breathe.

Another message appears immediately.

CHIM Also Maddie said Buck has changed shirts three times already.

You sit up.

“…He has?” Your heart does something weird in your chest. Another text pops up.

HEN Just wear something that makes you feel confident.

You stare at the message for a long moment. Confident. Right. You look back at the mess of clothes scattered everywhere. Then slowly stand. Maybe… this doesn’t have to be perfect. Maybe Buck asked you out because he likes you. The thought makes your stomach flutter. You pick up a soft shirt you’d tossed aside earlier. Simple. Comfortable.

Something you’d actually wear around him. You hold it up to the mirror.

“…Okay,” you whisper. Not perfect. But you. You pull it on and smooth the fabric over your sides, studying your reflection, the way the material tightens around your waist and stretches over your breasts. You pull on your jeans and study yourself in the mirror. Your heart is still racing. Your hands are still a little shaky. But there’s also something warm blooming in your chest. Excitement. Outside, a car engine pulls up.Your stomach flips violently. A moment later— Your phone buzzes again.

BUCK i’m here.

You stare at the message. Then at yourself in the mirror. Then back at the phone.

“…Oh my god.” You grab your jacket and rush for the door before you can overthink it. Your heart is pounding the entire way down the hallway.

What if this isn’t a date? What if Buck just meant dinner the same way he means grabbing food after shifts sometimes? What if you read it wrong? What if— You open the front door. And every single thought disappears.

Evan Buckley is leaning against his jeep in the fading evening light. One shoulder against the door, arms loosely crossed, head tipped down as he scrolls through his phone. He’s wearing dark jeans and a navy henley that hugs his shoulders in a way that should honestly be illegal. His hair is slightly damp like he showered right before coming here. Then he looks up.

And Buck forgets how breathing works. Because you’re standing in the doorway. Simple jeans. Soft shirt. Hair slightly messy like you ran your hands through it too many times.

You look nervous.

Adorably nervous.

And suddenly Buck understands something that hits him so hard it almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

He doesn’t just like you.

He wants you.

Bad.

Not in the casual, flirty way he’s used to wanting things. Not in the easygoing Buck way where he smiles, dates someone for a few weeks, and moves on when it fades. No. This is different. This is the kind of want that makes his chest feel tight and warm all at once. The kind that makes him suddenly very aware that if he screws this up, he might actually lose something important. This is the kind of want where his pants are getting so uncomfortably tight he's afraid he might burst if he looks at you for too long.

And that thought alone makes him stand up straighter.

You step outside slowly, closing the door behind you. Buck pushes off the jeep, trying to look casual even though his brain is currently screaming do not mess this up.

“Hey,” he says. Your fingers tighten around your jacket.

“Hi." Your voice is soft. Shy.

God, it’s doing things to him.

Buck runs a hand over the back of his neck, looking you over for a second longer than necessary. Not in a creepy way. Just… appreciating.

“Wow,” he says. Your stomach drops.

“What?” He gestures vaguely at you.

“You clean up nice.” Your face immediately turns red. Buck grins.

There it is.

That blush.

He swears it might be his favorite thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “I noticed.” You groan quietly, covering part of your face with your hand. Buck laughs.

God, you’re cute.

He steps closer, opening the passenger door for you.

“C’mon,” he says. “Before you change your mind.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Good,” Buck says. Then he leans a little closer, voice lowering slightly. “Because I’d be very disappointed.” Your brain short-circuits again. You quickly climb into the jeep before you combust. Buck shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side. The moment he gets behind the wheel, he steals another glance at you. You’re sitting stiffly in the seat, hands folded nervously in your lap, eyes focused very intensely on the dashboard. Buck bites back a smile. He’s suddenly realizing something else. You’re nervous. Like… really nervous. About him. Which makes a warm, protective feeling bloom in his chest. He starts the car.

“Relax,” he says gently.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re sitting like someone’s about to interrogate you.” You glance down. Your posture is, in fact, extremely tense. You try to loosen your shoulders. Buck chuckles. “Hey.” You glance at him. His voice softens just a little. “It’s just me.” And somehow that makes your heart race even more. Buck notices. And something about that realization settles deeper into his chest. Because suddenly he knows something he hadn’t fully processed before tonight. You matter to him. More than he realized. More than he expected. More than he’s probably ready for. But he also knows one very important thing. He wants this night to go well. He wants you smiling.He wants you relaxed.

And maybe— if he’s lucky— he wants to see that blush a few more times. And maybe watch it spread over your tits as they bounce- he snaps his eyes back to the road, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

“So,” he says casually as he pulls onto the road. You brace yourself.

“Yeah?” Buck smirks slightly.

“On a scale of one to ten…” You sigh.

“Buck.”

“…how nervous are you right now?” Your face immediately turns bright red again. Buck laughs softly to himself.

Yeah. He definitely wants this. And he’s suddenly very, very determined not to screw it up.

----

Dinner ends later than either of you expected.

Not because it was fancy. Not because the place was particularly special. But because neither of you seemed ready for it to end. At first you’d been nervous — painfully aware of every word coming out of your mouth, every time Buck looked at you, every brush of his arm across the table. But somewhere between sharing fries and Buck telling a ridiculous story about Chimney accidentally setting off the smoke alarm at the station, the tension had softened. You laughed. Really laughed. And Buck had gone quiet for a second just watching you, like the sound surprised him. Now the jeep rolls to a stop outside your place. The engine idles softly. You stare ahead for a moment, gathering your courage.

“…Thank you,” you say quietly. Buck glances over.

“For what?”

“For dinner.” His mouth tilts into that easy smile again.

“You say that like it was a big deal.”

“It was,” you say before you can stop yourself. Buck pauses. Something flickers across his face at the honesty in your voice. He clears his throat lightly.

“Well,” he says, trying for casual, “I had a pretty good time too.” Your heart does a little flip. You reach for the door. Buck’s already out of the jeep before you’ve fully stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, jogging around the front of the car.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Walking you to your door.” You blink.

“…You don’t have to.” Buck shrugs like it’s obvious.

“Yeah, I do.” You try not to read into the way your stomach flutters at that. The two of you walk up the short path to your front door. It’s quiet now. Not awkward. Just… charged. You can feel Buck beside you — his shoulder close, his presence warm in the cool night air. You stop at the door, fishing your keys out of your pocket. Your fingers fumble slightly.Buck notices.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs. You huff softly.

“Maybe.” Buck chuckles under his breath.

“Cute.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Buck.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Teasing me.” He leans one shoulder against the doorframe beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him.

“Can’t help it,” he says quietly. You finally get the key into the lock, but you don’t turn it yet. Instead you look at him. The porch light catches the soft gold in his hair, the familiar curve of his mouth. Your heart is racing again. Buck notices the way you’re looking at him. And suddenly the teasing fades from his expression.

“Hey,” he says softly. Your breath catches.

“Yeah?” For a second he just studies your face. Then his hand lifts, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw.

“You had fun tonight, right?” he asks. You nod immediately.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs. Because he did too. More than he expected. More than he’s probably ready to admit. Your eyes drop briefly to his mouth before you can stop yourself.Buck sees it. And something in his chest tightens. He steps a little closer.

“Careful,” he murmurs. Your heart jumps.

“Why?”

“You keep looking at me like that…” His voice lowers. “…I’m gonna think you want me to kiss you.” Your face flushes instantly.

“I—” Buck doesn’t let you finish. He closes the distance. The kiss starts soft. Careful. Just the gentle press of his mouth against yours. For half a second your brain stops working. Then your hands clutch at the front of his shirt. Buck makes a quiet sound against your lips. And suddenly the careful restraint disappears. The kiss deepens. Warmer. Hungrier. Your back bumps lightly against the door as Buck steps closer, one hand sliding to your waist. Your fingers tangle in his shirt as if you need something to hold onto. Buck exhales softly against your mouth, his forehead brushing yours for a second before he kisses you again. It’s messy now. Breathless. Like neither of you quite planned for this but neither of you wants it to stop. Your hand fumbles behind you, fingers blindly finding the doorknob. The door clicks open. Buck barely notices until you’re suddenly stepping backwards into the house. Still kissing him. He lets out a quiet laugh against your mouth as he follows you inside, one hand bracing against the door as it swings shut behind him. Neither of you breaks the kiss. Your hands press at his chest, his own hands drifting to the front of your pants to toy with the button of your jeans. You whimper into his mouth and he pulls away, breathless.

"Are you sure ?" He gasps, his chest heaving. You nod, your eyes locked on his, filled with trust and desire.

"Yes. I'm sure." With a low groan, he captures your lips in a fierce, hungry kiss, his hands roaming your body, touching, teasing, and driving you wild with need. You melt into him, your body responding to his every movement, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press yourself against him. Buck's hands find the hem of your shirt, slowly pulling it up and over your head, his lips never leaving yours. He backs you up against the wall, his body pressing against yours, his hardness evident through the fabric of his pants. You can feel the heat of him, the strength of his body, and it makes you ache with need. His lips trail down your neck, his teeth nipping gently at your collarbone, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through you. His movements are hurried, pressing you against the counter of yout kitchen as our lips move against each other.

“Buck.” You mutter in between kisses, making him groan. His hands grasp at your breasts, easing them out of the bra and gently pulling away to cup your cheek.

“God, i love seeing you fucking blush. I wonder if you'll blush when I fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name.” He mutters, his eyes soft. You groan, fully unclasping your bra and throwing it away next to your discarded shirt. In a quick motion, he has you pinned to his body, guiding you somewhere else. You reach the couch and he smirks, taking a step back. You watch him, sitting on the edge of the couch slightly, as he unbuttons his shirt teasingly slow. You groan and he takes it into consideration - his shirt comes off quicker, revealing the toned and muscly chest that he hides. You bite your bottom lip and walk up to him.

"God, you're beautiful." He hums, kissing your neck as his hands wrap around the hem of your jeans, pushing them down yout legs along with your underwear. He grabs your waist and spins you around, bending you over the couch’s arm rest as you kick off the discarded pants pooling around your ankles. He leans over you, kissing your exposed back, making you shudder, before he pulls away, twisting your hair into his fist. You can hear his belt buckle clink on the floor, and then you feel his tip nestle between your ass cheeks. His chest presses to your back and you whimper as he reaches forward and grabs your nipple in his fingers, twisting it around. “This might hurt baby, so tell me if you want me t'stop.” You nod, eyes closed as you push your ass against him. “I want to hear you say it." He rasps. "I want to know if you understand. I don't want to hurt you.”

“I understand.” He smiles against your cheek, kissing the shell of your ear.

“Good.” Your body is completely bent over the couch armrest, your hands outstretched in front of you, grasping at a cushion. You look over your shoulder to see him slowly pumping himself in his hand, before his tip teases your entrance, barely grazing your insides. You suck in a breath.

Nothing is happening, so you start to move your hips, gently bouncing up and down on his cock, whimpering leaving your lips as you feel him slip in farther. He groans as he slips inside just a tiny bit, his hands secured around your waist. With a slight lick to your fingers, youreach over and under you to graze them over your folds, nails gently scraping his length as you rub them over your clit in a circular motion, still moving your hips. With a sudden thrust, your entire body shoots forward as he pushes in fully. You cry out in pain, hands darting back to plant against his hips, slightly pushing him out. Tears are pricking your eyes, your thighs already shaking.

“Buck !” You cry out, pushing your hands against his waist. He groans.

“Shit, I'm sorry baby.” You whimper as you feel him ease himself back in fully, slower this time. “Better ?” He asks, gently leaning forward to kiss your neck.

You nod, grabbing his hair from behind as his hips start to slam on youts repetitively. Your mouth falls open and your entire body falls forward, hands clenched around the pillows, loud moans leaving your lips. you can hear him groan in your ear as he slips his hands under you and lifts you up, pressing you flush against his chest, still thrusting himself in and out of you. Sweat is beading on your upper lip as you whimper, his hand moving down to rub in circles on your clit all while pounding into you. You reach over and grab the back of his thighs as he continues to thrust faster and harder, making you a whimpering mess.

“Fuck.” You hear him whimper in your ear, his breaths labored as he comes to a stop. You whimper in protest, body falling forward. He pulls out and you gasp, thighs clenching to protect your throbbing core. His hand settles around your forearm and he tugs you up, brushing your hair out of your face.

“Did I do something wrong ?” You ask, looking up at him. He shakes his head, kissing you jaw and sucking harshly. “No. I just realized I prefer to see your face when I make you come.” He mutters in your ear, gently grabbing your thighs and wrapping them around his waist, hoisting you up. His lips are on your within seconds as he marches off to your bedroom, his hands kneading your ass as you slip your hands into his hair. He lets you drop suddenly, your back colliding with the mattress.

“Evan !” You shriek as he lets you fall, making him chuckle. He creeps up towards you, settling between your legs.

“I have loved you..."He mutters, kissing your collar bone as he creeps down to your abdomen. "Since you first set foot in that firehouse." You suck in a breath, hands flying to wrap into his hair. He looks up at you, giving your core a quick suck before walking back up to meet your eyeline. He crouches in front of your, grabbing your thighs and spreading them apart, settling your legs on either side of him. He grabs the edge of your thighs, just under your waist, right where they fold slightly. He pulls you forward, and before you know it he’s filling you up again. His body retracts slowly, his chest caving as he pulls out, before he slams back in. You gasp, chuckling as you bite your bottom lip and look up at him. His eyes are closed as he pushes in again, before his hips start moving faster, doing quick and sharp thrusts. You gasp, hands fisting the sheets as he grips your thighs, pulling you more towards him, the sound of skin slapping filling the room.

“Oh god.” You breathe out, whimpering as he leans forward, his hand wrapping around your throat and driving his cock deeper into you, pushing you down on the bed. You moan, gripping his wrist as his other hand lands right next to you head. You can hear the soft groans leaving his lips.

“ Fuck, you're so fucking tight baby.” He grunts, his entire body falling forward, his arms caging you head as he rests his forehead on your shoulder and continues his thrusts. Your thighs have wrapped fully around his waist, and your arms are intertwining around his neck. You can hear the soft whimpers leaving his lips as his arms start to shake.

“Ah, fuck. E-Evan, I'm gonna- Fuck i’m close. Don’t stop.” You whimper, feeling yourself getting closer. you throw your head back, lips tightly clamped together as you squirm under him, your entire body clenching. He kisses your cheek, gently and softly, grazing his lips against your sweaty skin. “You’r e being so fucking good for me. Such a good girl.” you whimper."You- ah, shit- you're squeezin' me so fuckin' tight baby."

“ Fuck, fuck, Evan !” Your entire body jerks as the fiery pit of pleasure in your stomach erupts. He groans, kissing your neck.

"Shit, just like that. Come on my cock, baby." Your eyes roll backwards. “I love you, Evan Buckley.” He moans slightly, a loud groan erupting from his mouth. “Fuck, say that again.” “I love you.” “Again.” He orders in between kisses. “I love you.” “Again.” He says through gritted teeth. His hips buck against yours, and you whimper, clenching myself around him to stop him from moving anymore, your orgasm crashing over you in devastatingly high waves.

“Fuck, i love you, i love you, i love you.” You repeat over and over.

“Ah, shit.” He groans, and you feel him twitch inside you. You're filled with warmth and you feel it trickle down your folds. He looks down, and a sly smile creeps onto his face.

“Jesus." He says, before he kisses your forehead. Buck pulls out slowly, his movements gentle and deliberate. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering as he savors the moment. You can feel his breath on your skin, warm and comforting, as he pulls back slightly to look into your eyes.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice low and tender. "Are you okay?" You nod, a small smile playing on your lips as you reach up to cup his cheek.

"I'm more than okay. I'm perfect." He smiles back, his eyes shining with a mix of satisfaction and affection.

"Good. Because you are perfect. Absolutely perfect." Buck rolls off you, but keeps you close, his arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls you into his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling content and safe in his embrace.

"You were amazing," he whispers, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "So beautiful and responsive. I loved every second of it." You blush at his words, your cheeks flushing a delicate pink.

"Buck…" He chuckles, a soft, warm sound that vibrates through his chest.

"What? It's true. You're incredible, and I'm lucky to have you." You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a mix of curiosity and tenderness.

"You're not so bad yourself, you know. I've never felt like this before. So… seen and cherished." Buck's expression softens, and he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I'm glad. I want you to feel that way. Always." He pulls you back down, cradling you in his arms, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You sigh contentedly, your eyes fluttering closed as you drift into a state of blissful relaxation.

"Stay with me tonight," Buck murmurs, his voice a soft plea. "Let me hold you. Let me take care of you." You nod, your answer a soft murmur of agreement. Buck smiles, a look of pure happiness spreading across his face. He tightens his hold on you, his body molding to yours as if he never wants to let you go. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and it lulls you into a state of deep contentment.

"Sleep, my love," Buck whispers, his voice filled with tenderness. "I've got you. Always." And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth and safety of his embrace, you know that you are exactly where you're meant to be.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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The weather is always perfect here – warm, but not too hot. He sits on the porch in the late morning, drinking his second cup. People he’s known and loved and lost walk past, greet him. Some sit down with him, chat for a while.

His house is an enigma – it’s like someone took all the places that ever meant something to him, put them in a blender. Everything smells like his childhood home, or at least how he remembers it smelling. The entryway is that of the boys’ home he lived in for a while, something familiar and comforting about that area where he would kick off his shoes so as not to carry in any dirt. The porch is Bobby’s, in a way, or it feels like Bobby’s. The view’s nicer though.

Speaking of the old hunter, that’s where Dean usually goes in the early afternoons. There’s a lake close to where he lives and if he walks its perimeter, it’ll take him to his house. Bobby might pour him a whiskey, both feeling indulgent for having a drink early in the day. He doesn’t really get drunk here, only reaches that pleasant buzz that makes time flow easier around him. He doesn’t need to hide the discomforts and pains he feels with the liquor.

Most of the time, it’s dinner with his parents. Dean usually knows to leave when Bobby either dozes off, or Annie Hawkins comes knocking. She sometimes winks at Dean, but he knows to stay far enough away from that. He’s seen the look on Bobby’s face.

So he goes outside. Sometimes he walks along the lake with Miracle, but more often than not, his car waits outside. The distance is longer when he drives than when he walks, but he’s learned not to question that.

He parks the car in front of his parents’ house, kills the engine, and then sits there for a moment. It’s usually dark at this point, a breathtaking sunset having accompanied his drive. The lights in the house are all turned on, and it looks warm and safe from the outside. He sees his mother and father in the kitchen. Mary’s cutting something up or stirring something in a pan and John will walk up to her, kiss her cheek and she will laugh. Dean sits, just for a moment, watches them. Then he gets out and walks inside.

Mary is sweet and soft-spoken, the way he remembers her. She’s not haunted, like she was when he got her back. She cooks his favorite meals, ruffles his hair. Sometimes Dean wonders if there’s something wrong with him, with the absolute bliss he feels by how different, how much calmer she seems. That his happiness shouldn’t be dependent on it so much. But it is.

Things are different with John, too. After dinner, they often sit outside. Dean hears cicadas as loud as train whistles, but there’s never a single mosquito. John at some point brings out a bottle of what he calls the good stuff. Something his own father used to drink. Dean hasn’t seen Henry here yet, but maybe John’s just not ready for that. This heaven, while different from the way it used to be, has a way of bringing you the things you need when you need them. Dean doesn’t fully understand it. It’s fine. The need to understand isn’t that strong here.

Before Dean goes home to bed, he drives out to the lake. There’s a spot there where the mountains on the other side are perfectly reflected in the water. There’s nights where the sky is so clear, the water so still, that he’s sure he’s looking at an upside down photograph. He takes a deep breath of the clean air. He’s calm. He’s content.

He’s out walking one day with Miracle, throwing him his favorite ball, when he sees you. 

He’s in the woods near his house and usually, he doesn’t meet anyone there, especially not people he doesn’t know. He’s got everything he needs in his corner of heaven and he hasn’t felt the need to go exploring further. He sees you, looks away, then looks back.

An old Beagle is just running up and you lean down, scratch its ear, take the toy from its mouth. Suddenly, it runs off, and it takes only a moment before Dean understands it’s running towards him. Well, towards Miracle technically. 

When you straighten you must realize someone’s nearby, because you turn your head. Your eyes land on Dean, and stay on him for a second while you take him in.

“Cute dog,” you say, nodding a little. Dean smiles carefully.

“You too,” he says. You look away from him, down at the Beagle.

“Her name’s Suzy,” you reply, while Suzy looks up at Dean with big, wet eyes. “She’s a retired show dog.” You look up again, shrug.

Dean nods awkwardly, then looks down at Miracle, who is letting Suzy sniff him, while giving Dean a confused look.

“This is Miracle, the… the dog,” Dean says, feeling idiotic immediately. He used to be good at this, but heaven has made his defenses go down, his persona starting to feel like a distant memory. He looks back at you.

“What makes him a miracle?” you ask, smiling softly. Dean huffs.

“That’s a long story,” he replies. You nod again.

“So, what brings you here?” Dean asks, widening his arms to refer to the air around him, wondering if small talk is the way to go here. You follow his gesture, look unsure about what he means. “I mean, I… death, obviously, but I’m not sure what heaven etiquette is on asking someone how they died.”

You blink, and then your smile slowly falters. Dean feels a pit open up in his stomach.

“I’m dead?” you ask, sounding shocked. 

Dean opens his mouth, hoping he can somehow explain, but then he sees the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. A second later, you start laughing, and after another second of confusion, Dean has to laugh as well.

“That’s… that’s funny,” he says, scratching at his neck, a little embarrassed that he fell for it. You bring your hand up to your mouth.

“I’m sorry, that was mean,” you say, and Dean looks up at you, checks your face to see if you’re really sorry. It gives him a chance to just look at you. You’re beautiful, he notices. He’s pretty sure you catch him checking you out, but you act cool about it.

“Car crash,” you reply at last, and Dean has to tear his eyes off you for a second to remember what he asked. “You?” He inclines his head.

“Big… nail,” he says. You pull down the corners of your mouth.

“That must have been one pissed off nail,” you reply and Dean chuckles. 

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets, unsure what to say next.

“Well,” you say, “Suzy and I were gonna go over to that clearing with all the squirrels. She loves running after them and then giving up and whining.” Dean nods, smiles a little and you raise your eyebrows.

“Do you and Miracle wanna come as well?” you ask. Dean studies you for a moment. He’s not sure if having impure thoughts is gonna get him kicked straight out of this place, but he can feel some creeping up on him. At the curve of your neck, your hands. The intense way you look at him.

“Sure,” he says.

Dean doesn’t question why there are squirrels in heaven.

“Are they extras, do you think?” you ask while Miracle and Suzy are racing around, being made into absolute fools by the small, reddish creatures.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks.

“You know,” you say, “are they actual squirrel souls? Or are they just put here for set dressing?” Dean narrows his eyes.

“Do you think squirrels have souls?” he asks. You turn towards him. So far, you have been standing next to each other, looking off in the same direction, but now you’re looking at him.

“I didn’t even think humans had souls,” you say. “I thought it was all just chemistry and biology. I didn’t think there was a heaven, either.” Dean smiles, turns to you.

“Disappointed?” he asks. You narrow your eyes.

“Not sure yet,” you reply, then incline your head. “I do hate having been wrong, though.” He grins. He hates being wrong too.

“What about you?” you ask. “Did you believe in heaven? God and angels and the whole shebang?” Dean looks back at the dogs, who are currently barking up a tree at an unimpressed squirrel.

“I sorta knew heaven existed,” he says, watching. “And hell too.” He looks back at you just as you’re narrowing your eyes.

“Let me guess,” you say, “Methodist?” Dean shakes his head.

“No, I… I’ve died a couple of times already,” he says, checking your face to see how you react. “Went to both places.” Your expression is neutral, and he’s not sure if you believe him. To be honest, it does sound crazy, but you are also standing in heaven watching your dead dogs play with possibly dead squirrels.

“If we were on earth,” you say, slowly, while not taking your eyes off Dean, “and we were alive, I’d probably be paying and getting out right about now. But something tells me you can’t lie about that stuff up here.”

“I promise it’s the truth,” he insists and you nod, look towards the dogs again, a slight smile spreading over your lips before you look back at him.

“You want some ice cream?” you ask.

Dean closes his eyes, makes an effort not to sigh at the taste. He shakes his head and when he opens his eyes again, you’re watching him, fascinated.

“I had no clue apple pie ice cream existed,” he says before bringing the cone back to his mouth, tasting the delicious treat again. You chuckle when he lays his head back, groans at the taste.

“He’s got some unusual flavors,” you say, dipping your tiny spoon back into your own scoop. To distract himself from how pretty you just looked when you laughed and the not-at-all-suggestive-but-making-him-think-things way you lick the ice cream off the spoon, Dean turns, looks at the little cart you just came from - no payment necessary. There’s some kids running around, laughing, chasing each other. Parents sitting on the benches close by, watching them, smiling softly. Dean tries not to think about that part too much.

“So there’s some guy whose heaven it is to just sell ice cream?” he asks, trying to distract himself. You turn as well, look at the smiling man. He’s wearing one of those little paper hats. He looks content.

“I guess?” you say, shrugging. “There’s gotta have been someone somewhere at some point who thought the greatest joy in life was making people happy with something simple and sweet.” Dean looks back at you. He just saw a guy selling ice cream, but you saw what he’s really doing. He likes that. You’re damn smart. Just then, you look back at him, your eyes meeting and Dean holds your gaze just for a second. It’s you that changes the topic.

“So demons and vampires, huh?” you ask, referring to the things Dean told you while you walked over here. The walk was exactly the right length, the two dogs still running around you. You listened, asked the occasional clarifying question.

“And werewolves and ghosts,” Dean continues and you nod.

“Right,” you say. “Can’t forget about those.” Dean chuckles at your reply. He’s almost done with his ice cream so he lowers the cone, holds it out towards Miracle who munches it up, crunching the waffle between his teeth. Not like he can die again, Dean thinks. 

“Must have been scary,” you continue. Dean lets Miracle lick the rest of the ice cream off his fingers, then scrunches up his ear briefly before looking back at you. “Fighting them. Killing them. Tough job. What made you pick it?” Dean blinks at the sun shining into his eyes. It’s getting a little lower. He used to get anxious at each day’s end when he was alive. He never figured out what that was about, but he doesn’t feel it now.

“It was kind of a family business,” he replies. He sniffs. You nod slowly.

“So it’s what you wanted to do?” you ask. You could have left it there. Gleaned what you wanted from his half-answer. But you seem to really want to know.

“You do some stuff long enough,” he settles on after thinking for a second, “and it doesn’t really feel like there’s anything else you can do.” It sounds more pretentious than he means for it, so he carefully looks at you again. There’s a soft expression on your face.

“I know exactly what you mean,” you reply, and Dean raises his chin, motions for you to continue. 

“I sold ACs. Air condition units,” you say, deadpan, then slightly tilt your head. “Well, I worked in the accounting department of a company that sold ACs. So I know exactly what it feels like, that responsibility.” 

You look off into the distance, and once again, Dean’s not sure how to react.

“Keep it cool at home,” you finally say with a slow nod, voice serious. “That was their slogan.” You turn back to Dean. He sees it then, the twitch at the corners of your mouth. He presses his teeth together, but you break first, sputter, then chuckle. Dean does too.

“That is important,” he says.

“It really was,” you confirm. “I once had a woman tell us we made her entire week. Beat that, demon fighter man.” You give him a loose smile at that last bit. A smile that makes his stomach flip.

“My brother and I once had a guy beat us with a broom after we took care of a ghost that was haunting his apartment complex,” Dean says and you snort, the effect he was hoping for, except it’s even better. “Feels good to be appreciated.” You give another small chuckling sound, and then the two of you are quiet. Look at the park around you. Listen to the voices and laughter.

“I should get going,” Dean says, even though he really doesn’t want to. He’s not sure how long he’s been here, but it doesn’t feel long enough to not go see John and Mary for dinner. He has half a mind to ask you to come, but that would be… weird, right? That would be weird.

“I’ll be at the park again tomorrow,” he says, and it’s out of him before he’s even thought about it. He wasn’t actually planning to go back to the park, but now he’s said it. You look at him, that unreadable expression on your face again. “In case Suzy and Miracle wanna hang out again.”

Your smile this time is smaller, a little less enthusiastic. 

“Sure,” you say. “I mean, maybe, yeah.” 

Dean feels awkward, suddenly. Did he read this completely wrong? Do you not want to see him again? Does he want to see you again, and he only just realized?

And then you get up, pat the side of your thigh, and yeah, Dean wouldn’t hate doing some of that himself, but it’s only to get Suzy to follow you. She waddles up, wet eyes blinking.

“See you around, super hero,” you say with a final look at him, and then you begin walking away. Dean opens his mouth before he realizes he has no idea what to say. So instead, he looks after you, hoping you’ll turn back.

You don’t.

You’re not at the park the next day, and not the next day after that either. You are, however, at the lake a few days after that.

Dean sees you from far away. He’s not sure at first if it’s really you, but then he gets closer. You stand only about a foot from where the water begins, look out at the mountains beyond. There’s a soft breeze that smells fresh, like something blooming.

“This is my lake, you know,” he says, coming up to you. He’s not sure if you noticed him approaching, but you only turn your head, don’t seem surprised to see him. He’s giving you a look that’s clearly supposed to imply he’s joking. “You’re gonna have to get your own.” You turn to him, cross your arms.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m dead longer than you are,” you reply. “So I got dibs.” Dean walks up to you, stops a few feet away.

“You can’t call dibs on the heaven lake,” he says and you give him a challenging look. 

“And yet, I just did,” you reply, but there’s a small smile playing on your lips. Both of you turn towards the body of water, the beautiful display of nature, though Dean would prefer looking some more at the beautiful display of you.

“When did you die?” he asks, a strange question even for someone who’s lived his life.

“1920s,” you reply and when Dean throws you a questioning look, once again not sure how to react, you look down yourself, at the jeans and t-shirt you’re wearing. “Obviously, I’m a flapper.” He grins.

“Must have been some car crash,” he replies, not sure if it’s weird that he remembers what killed you, or if that’s normal. Is it like remembering someone’s birthday? Does it imply more or less closeness? You shrug.

“2010,” you answer, and Dean makes it a point to remember without consciously deciding to. “Right after the Repo Men remake. So it’s probably for the best.” Dean presses his lips together. 

“Could be worse,” he says and you widen your eyes at him. “Means you missed the RoboCop remake.” Your mouth drops open.

“Noo,” you say and Dean nods. You chuckle, then turn back to the lake. Both of you are quiet again.

“I’ve seen you around, you know,” you say, and when Dean turns back, you’re not looking at him. Your eyes are still on the water. “In that car of yours. It’s a nice car. Or walking with Miracle. “

“You have?” Dean asks. Did he see you too? He’s not sure. Surely, he would remember. He feels like he would.

“Yeah,” you say, clear your throat. “A few times. It always looks like you’re waiting for something. Looking for someone.” Dean blinks. 

You might be right. He can’t help himself. There’s nothing he needs to look out for up here - no cars driving the other way, no wildlife he needs to swerve for. But he can’t help himself. Squinting through the windshield, or into the thickness of the forest. His eyesight’s better now than it was when he was alive. Yeah, maybe he is looking for something. Someone. 

“My brother.” It’s out of him before he’s made the conscious decision. He suddenly thinks he knows what you’re asking him, or maybe trying to ask him without actually saying it. You want to know if he’s waiting for someone special, a wife or girlfriend or some long lost love. He’s always wondered at that - whether he’d see Cassie or Lisa or someone he’s not expecting up here, all of it suddenly clear. He always found loving difficult, so many other things to consider and sometimes he wasn’t sure what he really felt and what he’d made himself feel.

“Oh,” you say, and you seem surprised, and maybe just a little relieved. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “He’s taking his time, though. Must be living a pretty good life down there.” You scrunch up your nose.

“That doesn’t really matter,” you say, voice careful. “The idea is that he shows up when you need him. It doesn’t cut his life short or anything.”

“Right,” Dean replies. “Well, guess I just need a break from him. He’s kind of a dork.” He grimaces at his own words. He misses Sam, is the truth. Bobby explained it to him, and he thought he’d see him the minute he got up here. But he hasn’t. And he has no idea why.

“Okay,” you say, turning to him, and Dean’s dragged from his thoughts, sure that you’re gonna bolt again. But you don’t. Instead you give him a slow smile. “You got any beer in that car of yours?”

And that is how it happens. 

Sometimes you meet at the park, sometimes at the lake. You walk or sit and drink and talk. Play with the dogs.

One day, Dean opens his front door to see you leaned against Baby with a backpack sitting on the hood behind you.

“I thought we could take a roadtrip,” you say, shifting around, seeming a little shy. Dean frowns.

“To where?” he asks, wondering about the technicalities. But like so often, you don’t answer the way he expects you to. You shrug.

“Wherever we want,” you say.

So the two of you just drive, the dogs in the backseat. Chat some more. Stop for coffee, the best he’s ever had. At some point you stop somewhere else, some place that’s not on any map, despite the big paper one Dean inexplicitly found in his glove compartment. It crinkles but you don’t need it to navigate. So you climb a few rocks. Dean takes off his flannel, ties it around his hips to chase around Miracle. When he turns to you, you’re watching him. He straightens, takes a deep breath. When you look away, he’s pretty sure you’re hiding a grin.

You invite him over for dinner, but Dean’s worried he’d miss the one with his parents, so you do lunch instead. You’re a horrible cook, which, weirdly, heaven does not fix. Maybe it’s because it allows Dean to show you how to make lasagna. It means you sit on the counter with a beer and watch him, commenting on everything he does. Maybe it’s a means to an end. 

He raises a spoon with some of the sauce to your mouth, lets you taste it. He almost leans in then. Chickens out at the last minute. He thinks he might see you looking disappointed at that.

It’s not long before he wakes up in the morning and you’re the first thing he thinks about. He lies there, comfortable between the sheets, and finds himself smiling at the memory of something you said. The way you gently pushed him when he made a dumb joke. Looked at him in that way you do. 

It’s not long before he wants to kiss you.

Once he starts thinking about it, he can’t stop. It’s like his eyes are glued to your lips. It’s not a sexual thought, not really. But they promise such comfort, such warmth. He’s pretty sure he’d be perfectly happy just holding you. It’s very strange.

After a long walk one day, he asks you to come to dinner with his parents. You initially say no, but Dean keeps pushing. You pull up your shoulders, bite your lip and it flusters him harder than if he’d opened up a nudie mag. 

“I don’t know,” you say, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I do know,” he says, and finally you say yes. 

John is quiet but weirdly charming with you, a side Dean’s never seen of him and watches with fascination. Mary is sweet and once the four of you are sitting down, she throws Dean a meaningful look over her glass of wine. He wants to shake his head but doesn’t. 

Dean and you do the dishes. There’s something peaceful about doing them here - it’s not stressful or a burden, it’s a way to wind down. All the glasses come away without streaks. No plate ever breaks.

“Your parents are nice,” you say, hands in warm, soapy water. Dean’s drying a fork. “Did you get along well before?” Dean puts down the fork, reaches for the bowl you pass him.

“It was complicated,” he answers. “They had their own stuff to deal with.” You nod.

“The part where they’re only human too can be kinda tough to accept,” you say and Dean huffs. He looks at your profile, the shape of your nose, the way you’re giving your entire attention to the dish you’re washing. He wants to reach out, brush your hair out of your face and pull you close, but his hands are wet and soapy.

“I think they think there’s something going on between us,” he says, tries to make it sound like a joke, like it’s hilarious, even though he’s not sure why. “I’ve never really brought anyone home. I mean, here or then.” You pass him what you were cleaning, and your gazes meet. The sun’s gone down and you’re only illuminated by the soft kitchen light. It’s a pretty mesmerizing sight, Dean thinks.

“I did,” you reply, and he has no idea what you’re referring to. “Bring someone home, I mean. I thought they would hate him and it would give me a reason to break up with him. But they didn’t, so I married him instead.”

Dean shifts around, his hands halting. You’re not wearing a wedding band, but maybe you just weren’t into that. This feels like something he should have known about you, but he didn’t. He can’t deny the stab of jealousy he feels. That someone got to marry you, even though he clearly messed it up. Dean thinks it takes a special kind of idiot to do that, to let someone like you go.

“Did he…” he says, then changes his approach. “Is he around? Up here, I mean?” You chuckle, and Dean swallows quickly.

“He’s not in hell, if that’s what you’re asking,” you reply, looking down at where you’re working again. “He wasn’t a bad guy. We just weren’t a good match. Nobody’s fault.” Dean nods slowly. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. You pull the plug from the sink.

“Thanks,” you say, as both of you watch the water swirl. When it’s gone, you turn your head, look at Dean. Something wistful on your face.

“Do you wanna go grab a beer?” you ask.

Somehow, the lake is even more beautiful than it is normally. The beer is cool, the air just warm enough to be comfortable. And you’re there. Moonlight on your face.

“I know I’ve probably convinced you that my life was pretty exciting, what with the accounting and Suzy the show dog,” you say and Dean brings the mouth of the bottle to his own, takes a long sip. “But it wasn’t.” He swallows the drink.

“Believe me,” he says, shifting where he’s sitting on Baby’s hood. “Exciting doesn’t mean good. I would know.” He looks at you and you look back.

“True,” you say, “I just kinda wish I could have hit some sort of medium, you know? Not full apocalypse-averting levels, but a little more adventurous.” Dean chuckles. He’s told you more about his life in the past weeks, or months, or whatever it is. Could be minutes, or seconds. You’ve listened to him, fascination on your face. At the beginning he felt awkward talking about himself. But you’ve made it comfortable. Like he can’t say anything wrong.

“I didn’t want to have any regrets,” you continue and Dean keeps looking at you, unable to look away. “I thought that would be the worst thing that could happen. Took me too long to realize you could have regrets from not doing things, too.” He nods slowly.

“Not sure which one’s worse,” he replies. “The things you’ve done or the ones you didn’t.” You nod.

“I just always thought, one more day,” you explain, looking out at the water. “One more year of hard work, of grinning and bearing it and then that’ll be it. I’ll be ready to just enjoy life. To do all the things I always wanted to do.” You give a sad smile, take a sip from your beer, swallow. 

“And then suddenly I was living in a place I didn’t care about, with a job I didn’t want, a husband I didn’t particularly like,” you continue, then clear your throat. 

“I remember putting my keys in the front door one day, and thinking: if I have to do this one more time, I think I’m gonna kill myself.” You huff, like it’s funny, but Dean doesn’t miss the way you run the back of your hand over your nose. 

“So I tore it all down,” you say with a small nod. “Quit the job. Quit the husband. Sold almost everything I owned. And I just drove. I drove until the tank was empty and then I got gas and I drove some more.” You turn to him, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful as you. 

“And I kept thinking, just after that next curve, there’s gonna be happiness. There’s gonna be peace. Or purpose.” You look down. 

“And did you find it?” Dean asks. You purse your lips. 

“No,” you reply with a soft, sad smile. “I rounded one of those curves and I lost control of the car and went over an embankment.” You scoff, and Dean does the same. 

“That sucks,” he says and you nod. 

“It does suck,” you say and you look at him again. “I just wanted so badly for it all to mean something, Dean. I just wanted… to belong. Somehow. To be me, but I didn’t even know who I was.”

“I know what you mean,” he answers. You raise your chin, listening. “I mean, I did all these things, but in the end, it felt like I was using a teacup to get the water out of a boat with a hole in it the size of an elephant.” You chuckle, and it’s the best sound in the world.

“Sisyphus,” you say. Dean frowns a little. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use that word anymore,” he says and to his delight, you laugh. Slap his shoulder. Take another sip, and it gives him a chance to look at you some more. He feels something so deep and big inside him he wonders if he’s about to die all over again.

“Anyway,” you say, swinging your legs. You move just a little, your shoulder pressing against Dean’s. Then you look up at him. “None of it matters now. Not like we can go back and–”

Dean leans forward in the middle of your sentence and kisses you. It’s like a magnet leading right from your lips to his. And when they meet, it all makes sense. 

He’s pretty sure he’s not able to fool himself about the whole love thing up here the way he was able to down there. Any of his old flames could have crossed his path, found their way back to him, but none of them did. Instead he found you. And maybe Dean understands why. He breaks away, stays close enough that he can feel your breath on his face. 

“If I shouldn’t—” he says, interrupts himself. “If you don’t want me to—” But then you grab his face with your free hand, and you pull him back in. Your kiss is intense, passionate, and it makes Dean’s head spin. He blindly tries to put his beer bottle down, nearly pushes it over, but when he rights it he can bring his hand to your face, cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin and his middle finger just below your ear. 

You must have put your bottle down too, because your hands are on his arms, pulling on him. You taste like spring and lazy afternoons and Dean’s stomach feels the way it feels when he’s swimming - light and airy and like nothing can touch him. Except you. Only you.

One of your hands wanders lower, down his chest and then grabs at his jacket to pull him closer.

“Dean,” you mumble against his lips. But Dean has a hard time opening his eyes. When he does, he expects you to look regretful. But you don’t. You’re looking into his eyes, tugging at his jacket. When Dean understands, he feels like his heart tries to escape through his throat.

“Do you…” he asks, unable to finish the sentence, and you nod.

“Kinda been thinking about it a lot,” you say and Dean grins and then you do too.

“Are you allowed—” he starts, then stops himself, cause the wording makes him sound like an angsty teen. “Can you have sex in heaven, or will you get, I don’t know, evicted?” You giggle at that, shake your head. 

“I have no idea, I haven’t tried it,” you say and then something beautiful comes over your face as you raise your chin. “But I think we should risk it.” 

Dean grins, runs the tip of his nose over yours when a thought crosses his mind, probably the last coherent one for a little while, he assumes. Without letting go of you, he looks up at the wide, star-spattered sky. 

“Look away now, Jack,” he says. When he turns back to you, you’re frowning. 

“Who’s Jack?” you ask and Dean shakes his head, is already on the way to your lips again. 

“I’ll tell you later,” he says and then he kisses you again, and nothing else in the world matters.

“So you know God?” you ask, laughing, your naked back shaking against Dean’s chest. 

The two of you are squished into the backseat of the Impala. It’s almost too small for two adults, but the way it forces your bodies together is perfect. Dean has his arms wrapped around you, grinning at your amusement while he presses his lips to the back of your ear, then moves down and kisses your neck. You taste salty, sweat from your passionate love making already drying. 

“I do,” he says, “both the old one and the new one.” You give an unbelieving huff. 

“What are they like?” you ask. Dean pulls you closer against him, takes a deep breath, thinks for a second. 

“One’s a giant douche, and the current one’s a toddler.” 

You go quiet, and he moves his head to see that you’ve raised your eyebrows. 

“Well, that’s… reassuring,” you say and Dean kisses your cheek. 

“I think he’s doing alright so far,” he says and you lay your hands over where his arms are holding you, lean down and kiss the back of his hand.

“Can’t complain,” you reply. Dean rests his nose against the side of your head, closes his eyes. Just breathes you in, feels you. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this content. Not that he’s felt a lot of contentment in his life. But this, right here, is pretty amazing.

“So who are you waiting for?” he asks. You let your head drop back, against his shoulder, look at the ceiling of the car.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“You said you thought I looked like I was looking for someone,” he says. “So what about you? Your heaven isn’t taking walks with Suzy all day long, is it?”

He realizes he fucked up when he feels you stiffen.

“I didn’t mean…” he says as you sit up and turn to him.

It’s not easy with the small interior of the car. You need to scoot around, hands resting on the seat, nearly shove Dean in the groin but then you mostly manage, sitting on your left butt cheek, turned to him. Your expression is serious, but you don’t seem angry.

“Maybe it is,” you say. 

“Nothing wrong with it,” Dean quickly corrects himself. He’s very aware that he can see your breasts now, but he keeps his eyes on your face, stays focused. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like–”

“Like there has to be some guy coming?” you interrupt him, and Dean’s not sure how to interpret your tone. You’re not mad, not heated, but also not exactly soft and sweet the way you were a few minutes ago. “Louie McHale who frenched me on prom night?” 

Dean snorts, then clears his throat.

“Maybe not him,” he says with a shrug. You take a slow breath, then let it out.

“Maybe heaven is just me being on my own,” you say, and although your voice is calm, Dean can’t deny the way it stings. “Maybe it’s just about being free of everyone’s expectations, of their judgement.”

“I didn’t mean to judge you,” Dean says. You’re still looking at him, expression neutral.

“Maybe it’s being free,” you say, and it’s quick, but Dean thinks he sees a slight quiver in your bottom lip. “Maybe it’s being at peace.”

And yeah, that Dean gets. He carefully lays his hand on your shoulder, worried you’ll shrug him off, but you don’t.

“It sounds amazing, honestly,” he says. He sees you swallow.

“You don’t think it sounds lonely?” you ask. Dean’s thumb traces your skin.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Do you think it does?”

It’s like someone letting the air out of you. Your shoulders go lower, your expression falls a little. Your gaze goes down, somewhere into the middle distance.

“I’m good at being lonely, Dean,” you say, and he’s sure this time there’s tears in your voice. “That might not make sense to you, but…”

“Hey, it does,” he says, and you raise your gaze, blinking quickly a few times, and Dean gives you a soft smile. “It absolutely does. I’ve just never been good at it.” You nod slowly, and then, to Dean’s utmost relief, you lean in, press yourself against him. His arms go around you and he holds you close. Sways you, gently, just a little. Both of you are quiet for a while.

“Do you think we can sleep in here without waking up with our spines in our asses?” you ask, and Dean snorts. He nods against you.

“I’m sure we can,” he replies.

“Good,” you say, voice quiet. Dean closes his eyes.

When morning light wakes him to a completely pain-free neck, you’re gone.

He goes to your house. He goes to the woods. The lake. The park with the guy selling ice cream. But he can’t find you anywhere. 

That’s all his days consist of, for a while. Circling between these points, driving slowly, staring out the window. But no sign of you.

He finds your t-shirt in the backseat of the Impala. Wonders how you got home without it, then remembers you’re not home, but somewhere else. He lifts it to his nose, takes a deep breath. Remembers your laugh, the way you felt leaned against him. He holds the shirt out to Miracle, raises his eyebrows. Miracle just tilts his head to the side. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

He didn’t know you could grieve people in heaven. It seems redundant. Heaven’s supposed to be perfect, but he feels himself drift away to thoughts of you every chance he gets. Thinks of your voice, the feel of your skin. The sweet way your breath tasted in the back of the Impala. 

Mary asks him if he’s alright, and then asks about you, like the two things aren’t connected. Giving him an out in case he doesn’t want to talk about it. Later on, when he leaves, he hugs her extra hard. She tells him it’ll be okay. He really hopes it will.

It’s not long after that Sam shows up.

He’s not there one second, and the next one he is. Dean blinks, looking at him, but it’s Sammy alright. He walks forward, pulls his little brother into a rib-breaking hug. Something opens up inside him.

He drives the two of them to their parents’ home. The drive is long, the road open. They don’t talk. They don’t need to. 

Mary is standing outside the house when they pull up in front of it, watering some gardenias. She turns at the sound of the car, and when she sees not one but both of her sons getting out, she drops the hose, runs towards them. She and Sam hold each other close, tears on their faces. John, when he comes out of the house, doesn’t fare much better. Dean watches them, feels his heart run over with love for them. It’s almost painful. It is painful. But in the right way.

It’s when he blinks and looks past his family that he sees you.

You’re standing at the edge of the garden, hands clasped in front of you, watching. Dean blinks again. Sam, Mary and John haven’t noticed you, so he walks around them towards you, but he can’t help himself and by the time he reaches you, he’s jogging. 

“Hey, there you are!” he says when he stops in front of you. He’s too excited to see you to slow himself down. He puts his hands on your arms. He’s missed the feeling of your skin. You look up at him, and there is something unsure in your face. Some doubt. To play over it, Dean takes your hand in his. 

“Come on, I want you to meet Sam,” he says, starts walking towards his family but you stay where you are. He looks back at you. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, smiling softly. “Maybe you two should just spend some time on your own right now.” Dean frowns, takes a step closer to you again, not dropping your hand. 

“I want you to meet him,” he says, not understanding. “You’ll love him. He’s a big dork, but I think you two would really get along.” You blink and for a second Dean’s not sure if there’s tears in your eyes. 

“Just… enjoy this, okay?” you say, laying your other hand over his, squeezing. “There’s no rush. Enjoy your time together.” 

Dean steps even closer to you. He wants to hold you, wants to touch you, but something tells him this isn’t the right moment. 

“I don’t get it,” he says and you raise your shoulders, sigh. 

“You know how it works,” you say, “people show up here when we need them to show up. Maybe Sam finally coming here is a sign that you need him right now.” You swallow, but then force a smile on your face again. 

“Maybe you and I were moving a little fast, and he’s here to remind you of what’s really important.” Dean can only blink, so confused is he by what you’re saying. 

“I…” he starts, but doesn’t know where to go from there. You raise one hand and cup his cheek. 

“It’s okay,” you say, and by the slight tremor in your voice, Dean is pretty sure you’re putting on a brave act. 

He hopes you’ll kiss him then, but you don’t. You look at him for another second and Dean hopes, prays, it’s not so that you can remember his face. Then you drop his hand and walk away.

He looks after you, rooted in place. Sam calls his name behind him and he turns, raises his hand to signal he’ll be there in a second. When he turns back, you’re gone. 

The evening doesn’t end.

The sun goes down, but it stays warm. They sit at the table outside in the garden, empty plates and full bellies. Some lanterns lit, warm light on everyone’s faces. It’s when Mary asks John to help her carry the dessert outside, that Sam turns to his brother. Face serious.

“Who was that woman earlier?” he asks. Dean clears his throat, then reaches for his beer. For a second, he thinks about pretending he doesn’t know what Sam is talking about. Maybe that’s what he would have done if he was still on earth. But what would be the point now?

“Someone special,” he opts for. Sam nods in that wise way he does, the way he used to even when they were kids. “Someone… real special.”

“Are you two…” Sam asks, letting the sentence taper out, accompanied by a raise of his eyebrows. Dean huffs, looks out into the dark of the garden. Fireflies dance in the air near an old apple tree.

“I don’t know,” he says, sighs. “Something happened. I think I said something that hurt her. About her heaven being kinda… empty.” He clears his throat again. Feels shame hot and stinging in his heart.

“Ouch,” Sam says, and Dean scoffs. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Really put my foot in it.”

They’re quiet for a while, Dean looking at his beer, thumb peeling off the edge of the label. God, to have you here now. Have you meet Sam, listen to you talk to him. Watch you eat, take a drink. Maybe Dean would pull you into his lap when no one is looking, press his nose into the spot under your ear that he found when you were in the backseat of the Impala, the one that made you squeal and giggle. He feels himself smile at the memory. Maybe you’d run your fingers over the side of his face in that way that makes him feel so soft, outside and inside.

“You know,” Sam says and Dean blinks, looks over. “I’m kinda waiting for someone too.” Dean frowns, not understanding.

“You’ve been here for half a day,” he replies. “The three of us not enough action for you?” Sam huffs, looks down and when Dean follows his gaze, he sees the gold band on his little brother’s finger.

“Sammy,” he says, feeling suddenly horrified at the fact that he didn’t notice, or didn’t ask. Hasn’t been bombarding him with questions about everything that’s been going on with him. 

“I just think,” Sam says with a shrug, “I don’t know. We get the people we need when we need them, right? Isn’t that how it works?” 

Dean chews the inside of his cheek. He’s not totally sure what Sam means by that. Yes, that is how it works, but what is he trying to say?

“I thought heaven was supposed to be perfect,” Dean mumbles instead, taking another sip. “If that’s the case, where’s your girl? Why would me and mine get into some dumbass argument? Why would… I mean, it’s not supposed to be like this, right?”

“Dean,” Sam says, but he’s not listening.

“It should just be easy,” he rambles on. “No hurt feelings, no goddamn… just, wanting someone and not having them. How does that make sense? You just end up alone, the way you did down there?” His eyes shoot to Sam, and he clears his throat.

“Not that I was alone down there,” he quickly adds, and Sam raises his hand, telling him it’s okay. “I just… why would I meet her? A complete stranger? And then for it to just not work out, what’s the point?” He finally stops himself, looks at Sam again. His lips are pursed in thought and then he drops his head back, looks at the sky above. Dean follows his gaze, looks too.

More stars than he could count. Hundreds, thousands. He needs to swallow. He waits for it to make him feel small, the way it used to, but it doesn’t.

“It can’t all be perfect,” he hears Sam’s voice after a while. He looks to the side. Sam’s face is in deep concentration. “If everything was perfect, nothing would be. You need a little bit of conflict. Something to work on. To get through.” 

“That doesn’t sound like heaven,” Dean cuts in, and Sam rolls his eyes. It makes Dean feel such fierce love for him. 

“Problems on earth,” Sam continues, “they could be too big. Too painful. Some things that happened, you couldn’t be sure you’d make it through…” Sam stops, clenches his jaw, looks at Dean, and he knows exactly what he means. Damn it, sometimes it felt like his life was filled with more of those things than with anything else. Most of the time it felt like that.

“But here?” Sam continues, then shrugs. “Maybe they just exist so you can learn something about yourself. Or about someone else. Maybe they’re just there to give you that little extra push you need.” 

Dean nods, slowly, even though he’s not sure he totally understands it. He looks off to the side, trying to fit Sam’s words into the context of you. It’s only when he realizes Sam hasn’t looked away that he meets his brother’s gaze again.

“So…” Sam says, eyebrows raised again in that smartass way he does.

“So?” Dean replies, sounding annoyed.

“So, go,” Sam says, shaking his head at Dean’s pigheadedness. “Go, be with her. Tell her. Come on, dude.”

Dean opens his mouth, sure to fire something back, then closes it. Both brothers look to the side when the door that leads from the kitchen to the garden opens, Mary and John walking outside, laughing. 

And that’s when Dean gets it.

Not because of his parents, necessarily. Not because of his brother’s words. Not because whoever Sam had in his life hasn’t shown up either, because maybe Sam needed to spend some time on his big brother first, get his happiness taken care of before he could look to his own. 

He gets up so quickly he nearly sends the chair he’s on flying. Mary and John are just approaching the table, look up in surprise.

“I gotta go,” Dean says, looking between them, then looking at Sam. His parents seem almost worried, but Sam gives him a barely noticeable nod, a self-satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just… I gotta go.”

With that, he turns around. Presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek and then he’s off, speed-walking to his car.

It’s morning when he arrives at your place, and he does not question it. It’s just how it has to be. He gets that now.

He takes the steps up to your porch two at a time, then bangs his fist against the door, the mosquito screen clattering. He does it again when you don’t show up within two seconds. He’s terrified you won’t be there. 

He feels nervous and giddy. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt nervous. It was always just mortal fear and pain. This shouldn’t feel as significant as it does compared to the other things, but it does. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you appear in the living room, surprise on your face at the loud knocking before your features soften when you see it’s him. You make it to the door, push it open, and Dean needs to take a step back for you to do it, but he immediately steps closer to you again. 

“Dean?” you say, like you’re wondering if he’s taken a wrong turn somewhere. 

He hasn’t. He’s taken a lot in life, but this one is the right one. 

“I always kept hoping for something on the other end of the curve too,” he says and you blink at him, not understanding, but Dean can’t stop himself to explain, just barrels on. 

“I always thought, one more case. One more monster. Then I’m done. But the truth is, I wasn’t ever gonna be done. Living that life was a good way to stop myself from ever having to risk whatever came after.”

He feels breathless almost, but you are listening to him intently, and he needs to make himself understood, needs you to understand how similar you two are. How you’ve been looking for the same thing.

“And heaven… I don’t know, I think I was so terrified of what would come after, that heaven would have been just more of the same. Because allowing myself to want anything else, it just…”

And he’s not sure if you understand. He raises his hands, looks at them in a bid to make himself understood, and then yours go up, and you take his, hold them, almost as if to calm him. He looks back at your face. Your beautiful face. How could he have been so dumb and not seen it. 

“Sam was always a good excuse not to get out,” he continues, and he feels something tight in his throat. It’s a mix of overwhelming love for his brother, and maybe some regret. But mostly love. “He was the excuse. Sammy didn’t need me. He was good on his own, too good, sometimes. But I needed him. Cause with Sam there, I never had to do anything else.” 

He sees you trying to understand what he’s saying, trying to make sense of the mess of words he’s hauling at you. He loves you so much in that moment, so much that if he wasn’t dead already it would kill him all over. 

“That’s why Sam didn’t show up,” he explains to you, and you tilt your head a little, so maybe he is starting to make sense. “He didn’t show up because I wasn’t supposed to use him as an excuse anymore.” You shake your head a little. 

“Excuse for what, Dean?” you ask softly. But he can’t say it with words. Not really. 

He steps closer, wraps your hands that are still intertwined with his around himself and then takes your face in both of his. You look up at him, and he thinks maybe you’re nervous too, or a little scared, but so is he, and maybe that’s okay. 

“To avoid the things that scared me. But meeting you wasn’t scary,” he says, looking deep into your eyes, and it’s the only thing he wants to do for the rest of forever. “Falling in love with you wasn’t scary. It was the easiest thing in the world.” 

You blink, lashes fluttering, and Dean sees the tears in your eyes. You swallow, your lips move.

“Dean,” you say, voice cracking on those few letters. He waits, waits for you to say something. You press your lips together, still looking into his eyes. “I’m scared.”

He nods. Runs his thumb over your skin, encouraging you to continue.

“I’m scared it’ll hurt,” you say, and he understands you perfectly. “I’m scared of…” You take a sharp breath. 

“I know,” Dean says. “Me too.”

You look at him, and then you nod too. Take another breath, slower this time. 

“Okay,” you say, blink, and it makes a single tear dislodge from your eye. “Okay.”

What can Dean do but kiss you?

He didn’t know that’s what it would feel like. It’s terrifying. It’s perfect.

You pull him close, so close that it hurts, and while there shouldn’t be pain in heaven, he understands why it’s there. Why he can feel the way you press your fingers against him, why he can feel the burn of his own tears in his eyes. 

Because it’s part of it. Because it makes the feeling complete.

It’s a week or a year or a second later. John and Mary’s garden again. 

The party is endless. No one gets tired, they never run out of food. No one gets too drunk. If you need a minute, you go inside or walk out to the road. Throw a ball for one of the dogs. You might see a deer in the woods. Freeze and look at it. Wonder if it’s a soul or set dressing.

Dean moves his hand, his fingers brushing over the back of yours before he interlocks his fingers with yours. The deer’s ear twitches, but it doesn’t bolt. Just stands there, in a beam of sunshine, like it doesn’t have a care in the world.

Dean turns his head, looks at you. There’s a soft smile on your face as you watch the beautiful animal, before you turn, look at him.

You’ll go back to the party soon. The dogs, the family, old and new. But for a moment, Dean just wanted to walk along the road with you, listen to the quiet all around. Not alone, not lonely. But a third thing that he hasn’t found the word for yet.

He pulls you close, and you lean your head against his shoulder. There’s a soft breeze. The deer’s ear twitches again, and then it starts walking away. After a while, Dean and you move.

Keep walking down the road, back towards all the sounds and laughter. Round the curve, and you do it holding hands.

It’s a young woman, her mousy brown hair up in a braid. She adjusts her glasses. “Hi.” The way  she speaks is soft, a stark contrast to the deafening sounds outside the room. She gives you a small smile. “Um, I’m Dr. King. What’s brought you here today?”

“I, uh, I fell and hit my head,” you point to the left side of your temple. “It’s been hurting a lot. 

“Okay,” she nods and slips on a pair of blue gloves, approaching the side of your bed. She feels along your temple, feeling the bump that has formed there. She sits down on a rolling stool. “How long has it been hurting?”

“Like nine hours? A little more, I think.”

Dr. King hums. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I was a bit dizzy at first, but then it went away.”

“Did you lose consciousness when you fell?”

You open your mouth to answer. Before you can even make a sound there’s a knock on the door that is more a formality than asking for permission and the curtain is drawn just so that a head and half of a torso can poke in and say, “Mel, our patient from North 4 is back from his MRI, he’s–”

Frank freezes when his eyes finally stray away from Mel and he realises that her patient is not a random person. The change is barely noticeable– his back straightens, shoulders rolling back and gaze sharp as he analyses every inch of your body in a matter of seconds. He checks you for any obvious life-threatening injuries from head to toe, stares a moment too long at the ugly bruise that peeks out from the waistband of your low-rise shorts, and then his eyes finally go up to your sheepish smile. 

“Hi, Frankie,” you say quietly. Frank’s jaw relaxes the tiniest bit.

Mel looks uncomfortably between the two of you, eyes going back and forth between her coworker and patient. “Oh, um, do you have the results?” she asks. Frank hands her the tablet he was holding without sparing her a glance. “Right…” she mumbles.

She taps and looks at the screen for a few seconds before looking between the two of you again. “Um, I’ll just…” she makes a weird gesture to the door and gives you an awkward smile. “I’ll be right back,” she tells you, though you both know she won’t be coming back now that Frank is here.

She cradles the tablet against her chest and fumbles with the curtain in her hasty getaway. She practically scampers away, closes the door behind her with a tight smile and then it’s silent. 

Frank stays rooted to where he’s standing for a long, tense minute. You gnaw at the inside of your lower lip and watch him near the hospital bed you’re sitting on. His fingers brush along your exposed thigh on his way to grab your hand. In a hushed voice, he asks, “What happened?”

“I…” You look everywhere but his face– the ceiling, the floor, the rolling stool Mel had been sitting on. You settle on the wall, but Frank moves his head so that you have no choice but to look at him. “I fell. In the shower,” you mumble, embarrassed.

His hold on your hand tightens. “Baby,” he sighs. “I told you to get a shower mat,” he scolds lightly. 

“I haven’t found one in the shade I want,” you explain for the fight time with a whine. The high-pitch of your own voice makes your head throb and you wince. 

Frank catches onto your grimace immediately. His hand cradles the right side of your head and you lean into his touch. “D’you hit your head?”

You nod. “It’s been hurting since I fell.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “You might have a concussion. I’m gonna do some tests, all right?”

He lets go of your hand and head and you already miss the warmth of his touch. He takes out a small flashlight from the pocket of his scrub and turns it on. He points the light tight at your left eye and then switches to the other side. “Okay,” he says and turns the flashlight off. “Follow my finger.” 

You follow it dutifully. He moves his finger up and down on one side, slides it along the other side and repeats the same motion. “Good, now stand up, honey.” You get up from the bed, but the small jump to the floor makes the bruise on your hip flare up and you grimace. Frank’s eyes are already on your side, calculating. “We’re gonna do an x-ray,” he concludes. 

He then moves to the other side of the room and stands against the wall. “Walk towards me in a straight line.” You do as he says. Every step makes you wince a little, but you’re 98% sure it’s only because of the bruising and not because a concussion has altered your facial nerves. 

Once you reach him, you smile at Frank. “How did I do?” 

“Too slow. We might have to open up your skull to fix it,” the corners of his mouth twitch. Knowing you’ll worry too much until he confesses he was only joking he assures you, “Everything looks normal. I’m still ordering an MRI to make sure there’s no damage inside, though.”

His hand gently goes to the back of your head and he uses his hold on you to bring you closer to him, his lips brushing against your forehead. You sigh. “Is it gonna take long?” Frank raises an eyebrow questioningly. “It’s just– I have my ceramics class in an hour,” you explain.

“It’ll be at least an hour, maybe two. We’re a little backed up today.” And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds with a pointed look, “If you had come in earlier you wouldn’t miss your class.”

You have the decency to look ashamed. 

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” you whisper with a small shrug. What you really mean is ‘I didn’t want to be a bother again’. You’ve been to the ER twice this week. Four times already this month, and you don’t even want to think about how many times you’ve ended up in the hospital the past year. 

It’s no secret you are a clumsy person. When you were younger, it was endearing. Now, it’s embarrassing. Annoying. You try your best to avoid potential accidents: you wear flip flops instead of slippers so you don’t slide along the floor and use oven mittens every time you bake to avoid burning your hands– just to name a few adjustments you’ve made to your everyday life. But no matter how hard you try, you still trip over your own shoes and cut yourself while cooking and bump into tables and doorways and hit your head when kneeling down to reach something under the dinner table. 

You hate it. But Frank, oh sweet caring Frank who understands and tries his best to help. He’s switched most of the glass bottles and tuppers and glasses for plastic or aluminium so that when you inevitably drop something while cooking or setting the table you don’t cut yourself. He’s added padding to the legs of the couch and bed to protect your toes. When you go out, he pays close attention to you and your surroundings: he steers you away from a light pole you would’ve hit and stops you from crossing the street with a red light on. 

He’s done all that and much more. Without you even asking. And he’s never once complained about your penchant for unfortunate mishaps. He never got mad at you. How could he, when it’s your own clumsiness that brought you to him in the first place? 

He knows you don’t do it on purpose, that it’s not something you do because you think it’s cute and fun, nor an elaborate plan to sneak into his workplace. He doesn’t enjoy the fact that you get hurt so often, of course he doesn’t, but he understands that it’s not something you can control. And what is he to do but take care of you when you need him?

Frank exhales sharply. “You’re not a bother.” You try to say something but he cuts you off before you can make a sound, “You’re not. Not to me.”

“Frank, it’s the second time this week I’ve come here,” you deadpan.

He blinks, baffled. “What do you mean second?” Shit. His face turns serious, really serious, and you know he’s angry now. “When the hell were you here?”

You scrunch your face at your accidental confession. “Tuesday,” you mutter.

“Tuesday,” Frank parrots. “And why am I finding out 3 days later, exactly?”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you!” you exclaim, but your loud voice makes your head throb once more. You clutch your temple and close your eyes, the fluorescent light suddenly too bright. 

Frank combs his fingers through his hair in frustration and pulls at the roots. His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Come here,” he mumbles. With a hand on the small of your back he leads you back to the bed and, once you’re sat, he turns the light off and sits down on the stool. “Better?” 

You nod. He stares at you, elbows on his knees, and licks his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” He’s talking about your Tuesday visit to the ER, but he also means why didn’t he know you were there today.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you repeat. You play with your fingers as you speak. “You are so busy and I don’t want to annoy you with my silly stuff when you have patients that really need your help. Like, right now, you are here with me and there’s somebody out there probably dying that needs you.”

“You need help too, you might have a concussion.”

“Yeah, because I fell in the fucking shower like an idiot,” you scoff. “It’s always something stupid that happens to me and those people out there are actually sick and I take up your time because I’m too stupid to even shower by myself.”

Frank sighs and gets up, hands reaching for your face. He cradles your cheeks in his palms, heart twisting at the angry tears gathering in your waterline. “You are not stupid,” he says firmly. “You just have a… particular proclivity for accidents involving stationary objects.”

You snort. The corners of his mouth tick upwards, satisfied that his comment managed to cut through the tension. 

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Softly, he tilts your chin up and leans down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss that makes the pain in your head subside. When you part, you rest your forehead against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, one of his hands gently massaging your scalp while the other rubs your back up and down. It’s the first time since your fall this morning that you feel any sort of relief. 

“I’m serious,” his voice rumbles beneath his sternum. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And I want to take care of you when you need me. You could never bother me when you’re in pain.”

He’s been your doctor for almost a year, even before you started dating. He’s not planning on stopping taking care of you, especially not when it’s one of the things he knows how to do best.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Next time you get hurt, come find me, okay?”