Apocaliptyc and insane my dreams will never change

“Exactly.”

“You have no taste. You lack… enlightenment.”

“I have standards. And I lack nothing,” he shoots back, flashing that grin that should come with a warning and a government-issued permit.

While you aren't truly mad, you try to pretend, but then he starts singing. Purposely loud and off-key, twisting the lyrics into something ridiculous to make you laugh.

Absurdly, it works.

By the time you stop for gas, you’re not speaking to him. Not because you’re actually mad, but because he knows he’s charming, and you refuse to reward that.

You lean against the car while he pays, scrolling your phone like you’re deeply invested in something.

He comes back with snacks. “It was the last one,” he says, holding out your favorite chocolate like he’s presenting a tribute to a mildly hostile queen. “Peace offering.”

You don’t take it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Still doing this?”

“I don’t negotiate with men who insult Sleep Token.”

“Alright,” he nods thoughtfully, "but I didn't insult them. I just chose not to listen to them." With a smug grin, he unwraps the chocolate and takes a bite.

Your head snaps up. “You did not!”

“Oh, I did,” he says, chewing slowly. “And wow. This is really good. Shame you’re missing out.”

You snatch it out of his hand so fast it would impress a magician.

He laughs, head tipped back slightly, sunlight catching on his sunglasses, a bead of sweat on his throat drips down into the collar of his shirt.

It hits you, sharp and inconvenient. You like him. Not just in a ‘this is fun’ casual way. You like him in the 'this feels dangerous and real' whole-lot-terrifying way.

Great. Fantastic. Brilliant timing.

You shove the chocolate into your mouth like it will choke the realization.

The teasing settles into something softer once you're back on the road. Windows down, music lower, the world stretching out in long, lazy miles.

You’re turned slightly toward him, one leg tucked up under you. He has one hand on the wheel, the other on your knee, loosely holding your fingers while his thumb smooths over your knuckles.

“You’re staring,” he says casually.

“I’m not.”

He glances over, smirking. “You’re doing it right now.”

You look away immediately. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he challenges.

You hesitate, just for a second, but it's enough for him to notice because usually you’d accept the challenge by kissing him to stop the charm and smugness from leaking out.

His demeanor shifts, no longer teasing, but curious. “Something on your mind?”

“Just thinking,” you shrug.

“Dangerous.”

“Please. I think all the time.”

Jake chuckles. “And I usually end up in the dog house.” He pulls your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “What’s on your mind?”

You don’t answer because the truth is sitting right there, heavy and impatient at the back of your throat, like a tickle that you can’t clear away but has decided, inconveniently, that now is good enough.

You should ignore it. You should swallow it down. You should absolutely not say anything while he’s driving seventy miles an hour.

So naturally you say, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The car jerks to the side, but only slightly. Years of training keep him in control, but the mood shifts.

Pulling your hand from his, you clap it over your mouth like it will physically grab the words and shove them back in.

“I,” you start, voice muffled. “I didn’t. That just...”

He’s too calm. “You’re in love with me?” he repeats, not looking at you.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Like what? Out loud?”

“Jake.”

Finally, he glances over, the look on his face isn’t panic or confusion, it’s warm and soft, and it makes your stomach drop in an entirely new way.

“You picked a hell of a time,” he says.

“I know,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I was going to be cool about it. Maybe wait until we weren’t in a moving vehicle. Face to face.”

“Bold strategy.”

“Shut up.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, then looks back at the road. A beat passes. Two. Three. You brace yourself for the deflection, the gentle letdown.

“I was going to say it first.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just casually rearrange your entire emotional framework. “Been trying to figure out when. Didn’t think blurting it out at the Hard Deck or between gas stations was the move, but...”

"You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about stuff like that.”

“You literally just ate my chocolate out of spite.”

“That was different, that was war.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. A small, disbelieving, half-hysterical laugh. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious.” He reaches over, his hand finding yours, giving it a steadying squeeze. “I love you.”

Your heart tries to somersault out of your chest. “I love you too.”

Jake smiles at you. “You’re still not touching the aux,” he adds.

"Hey," you protest, "I just confessed my love...”

“Doesn’t mean I trust your playlist.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re in love with me,” he shoots back, grinning smugly.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around his anyway. “Yeah, unfortunately for me.”

Jake laughs, and you turn to hide your smile.

You stopped at the same gas station on the way back to Fighter Town, and Jake had emerged with a magnet of your favorite chocolate bar. It lived on the fridge in the apartment you shared with Jake until you left. Now it lives on your fridge.

Hugging a coffee mug, you stare at the faded souvenir, wondering how it all came to this. Funny how a cheap magnet could become a token for a life you no longer have. You kept it because throwing it away felt too much like admitting your relationship was over.

“Hey.”

Jake’s voice startles you from your reverie, and you twist to see him leaning against your bedroom door. Shirtless and beautiful and rested. The dark circles and redness his eyes had worn last night are nearly invisible.

“Morning.”

His eyes move beyond your shoulder, and when that boyish smile appears, you know he's seen the magnet and had a brief flash of the same memory that sent you spiraling into the past. His smile fades faster than yours had, and the silence that follows is heavy, filled by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city waking up.

Neither of you can pretend last night didn’t happen, and neither of you knows what happens next.

Jake scratches the back of his neck. “I still think Sleep Token sucks.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You still have no taste.” You take one last look at the magnet, then move to grab another mug from the cupboard.

“Do you regret it?” Jake blurts at your back.

“What?”

He’s at your side before you’ve set the mug down. “Do you regret it?” he asks again, “Not last night or this morning or whatever.” He frowns, shaking his head like he’s trying to shake his thoughts into order. “Us. Do you regret us?”

“No,” you say softly, “I don’t regret any of it.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “I know last night doesn’t magically fix anything, and I don’t expect it to," he winks, "although I was in top form."

You roll your eyes, chuckling, “There he is.”

“Seriously,” he sighs, taking your hands, “can I come back tonight? Or tomorrow maybe?”

“Jake.”

“I don’t mean,” he gestures vaguely toward your bedroom. “Well, okay, maybe I mean that a little, but that’s not what I’m asking.” He takes a deep breath. "I’m asking if I can come back and have dinner with you? Can I call you when Rooster does something stupid today? Can I send you videos of dogs doing cute stuff? Can we go to dinner and you steal my fries when I specifically told you to order your own?”

Your eyes well with tears because you miss all of those seemingly trivial things. “Stolen fries taste better.”

He chuckles but brushes his thumb over your knuckles, and it seems to ground him. “I know we can’t just pretend nothing happened. I know I hurt you, and there are things we need to talk about. What I’m asking is,” he smiles weakly before dropping his gaze to where your hands are joined. “Can we start over?”

“Start over?” The hitch in your breath draws his attention back to your face.

“Not all the way over." The gravity in his tone contrasts with the glint in his eyes. Lifting his chin toward the refrigerator, he asserts, “I’m not sitting through the Sleep Token phase again.”

“It wasn’t a phase.” Your attempt at sterness is thwarted by the involuntary curl of your lips.

It seems to ease the tension in him. The urgency in his voice is gone. “I don't want to erase how this began or pretend we haven’t loved each other,” he sighs, “or ignore that I screwed this up.”

He squeezes your hands, searching your face as he seemingly searches for words. The vulnerability in his expression is so rare that your body reacts with a sharp stab in your chest.

“We’ll go slow this time, like normal people.”

“We’ve never been normal people.”

“That’s true.” He grins. “Just... let me take you on a date tonight?”

“A date?”

“Yeah. It's been a long time since we've done that. So let me take you on a real date.” He rolls his eyes, smirking, “I’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

You gasp. “Wow”

“I know. Huge personal growth.”

Your laugh feels lighter than any you’ve managed in months. Jake watches, hopeful and terrified.

“One date,” you agree.

His grin arrives slowly, bright as the rising sun.

A/N 2: I'm sure I'll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don't miss it.

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He was handsome, cocky and brave, all of which enticed and scared you.

A month of dating had only done so much as to show you that Jake was an amazing person, despite the initial air of bragging everyone first observed with him.

After he approached you at a restaurant near Miramar, it took one and a half weeks to declare your dating exclusive, and you made everything work despite his strict schedule.

Despite only knowing Jake for a limited time you felt like you had known him forever.

There was something you were scared of, though, which was his recklessness.

You were sure that he was a reckless pilot not just while training, from what you had heard from his friends.

Each day you spent with Jake your fear of losing him grew worse, because you fell more in love with him.

While Jake's friends were astonished by the way he behaved around you, the way you domesticated him as they'd called it, you were still not sure about Jake being able to change by flying responsibly.

On your one month anniversary, not that anyone counted, you and Jake had decided to spend the evening at the beach, with a picnic and watching the sunset.

You had chosen to dress extra cute and you packed all your shared favorites.

Jake picked you up at home with a bouquet of flowers as he liked to do and drove to the beach, finding the perfect spot for the two of you.

Hours were spent talking about nothing and anything until the topic landed on Jake's flying, which had you growing quiet.

Of course you loved Jake and you didn't love him less for flying, yet your anxiety had crossed the border to panic more than once thinking about his way of flying.

While Jake wasn't a very empathetic he had learned to read you well, which was why he asked what was wrong.

Ignoring the heavy topic for the sake of your date seemed amazing, but you felt obligated to share your feelings with him.

It took you a moment to be able to put your thoughts into words, but Jake was patient.

He could see how much the words weighed on you.

“I don't know what to say, baby”, he chuckled, but the chuckle wasn't very humorous.

“I’ve never felt this way before, and that's why I never knew what I had to lose before you“, he continued.

It was the beginning of a good conversation, you felt, so you pressed the matter.

“Jake, I just don't want to wake up one day without you by my side, just because you didn't care for me or your life enough to take care of yourself”, you added, and the hint of a smile that had been lingering on his face vanished completely.

“I do take care of myself now”, he exclaimed.

“I… well, I’ve changed. And I'm serious about you, about this. As a heart attack. I love you. And I want to marry you”, he said and you quite honestly got lost in his eyes and words.

You were almost intoxicated by what he had said, your heart beating faster in your chest and heat spreading through your body.

You didn't manage to say anything and just stared at him, until Jake felt like he had to say something.

“Some day. I would like to marry you… some day”, he added, which sent a grin over your face.

“You want to marry me?” You asked, and he nodded determinedly.

“Definitely”, he replied, and you chuckled softly.

“Sooner rather than later?” You asked, and he nodded again.

“Absolutely”, he said.

It might have been the alcohol in the system or the evening sun going to your head, but a wicked smile, one that Jake secretly loved so much, appeared on your face.

“What about next week?” You asked, and it was Jake's turn to chuckle.

He sat up a little, facing you even more and straightening up.

“Will you marry me next week?” He asked and you nodded thoroughly, moving to press a kiss to his lips just as the sun went down.

A shotgun wedding was never a bad idea, right?

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Our turn.

He feels sick. The Dagger Squad doesn’t invite people in out of politeness. Fanboy’s squeeze of the week isn’t invited. Rooster’s new girlfriend hasn’t passed the test yet because they only invite people they love. It’s more than a squad, it’s a family. Jake isn't the only one who's lost you. They have too. They’ll never forgive him. He’ll never forgive himself.

“I assumed they knew.”

“Coyote knows.” Jake sighs. They probably all know by now, but he has neither confirmed nor denied. No one has asked him directly because he hasn't been around to let them. He isn’t hiding the breakup, but not talking about it helps him keep the illusion that it isn't real. He takes a sip of his coffee, and his chest tightens. It’s perfect, exactly how he takes it. It’s not been long enough for you to have forgotten, but something about the fact you remembered cuts deeper than it should.

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Afraid they’d uninvite you?”

“They would.” Jake huffs. “They tolerate me. They love you.” He pauses, biting his tongue, but decides he has nothing to lose and says it anyway. “We all do.”

“Jake, don’t.”

“Don’t love you or don’t say it?” he asks.

The regret hits hard. A moment ago, he thought leaving would be best for both of you. Now, he's afraid you’ll make him go.

You close your eyes. “Please don’t.” The plea in your voice is worse than anger. He can survive anger because it means there is somewhere for all this hurt to go, but you just sound tired.

“It took me months to build the courage to leave.” A tear slips free, landing on the rim of your cup. “Then weeks of fighting the longing not to.” Your eyes finally meet his. “None of this is easy, Jake.”

“I know.” He rubs a hand down his face. “But I won’t apologize for how I feel either.”

You sigh, wiping the dampness from your cheek as you stand. Moving to the kitchen, you busy yourself with washing out your mug, a way of gaining some distance from him.

With your back to him, voice nearly inaudible, you state, “I haven’t told anyone either. Saying it out loud made it too real.”

His eyes flit around the apartment, at the life you're making. “If I’d known…,” he says just as quietly, staring at the book, “If I'd known the last time I kissed you was gonna be the last time. I would’ve taken more care.”

You turn and lean against the countertop, tears flowing freely, as he looks back in your direction. His vision blurs, and the first tear slips from the corner of his eye. “If I’d known the last hug was the last one, I‘d have held on a little longer.”

The sound you make is heartwrenching.

He blinks to clear his vision.

Your fingers flex around the counter's edge. Your lip trembles.

“You can h-hug me now.”

Jake swears his heart has stopped. Wondering if he misheard or if he’s just so desperate that he’s making it up, he remains still.

“P-please,” you say a little stronger with a watery, nervous laugh.

Jake stands so fast his chair nearly tips over. He rounds the table, and you take a step to meet him. The moment his arms wrap around you, everything in him breaks. “I miss you.” Voice cracking, he laments, “I love you, and I’m sorry.” Squeezing his eyes closed, he tightens his embrace. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Weeks of denial, of regret, of trying to quell the ache by pretending it wasn’t there, vanish. This is all he needed. You. He buries his face against your neck as your fingers curl tighter into the material of his shirt.

For the first time since you left, neither of you is pretending you’re okay. It won't magically mend what was broken or spontaneously forgive the mistakes made, but it's a beginning.

A step forward to move through the grief. Together.

Part 5 - Coming very soooooon

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the reputation is useful. simple. uncomplicated. lets people look at him and decide they know the shape of him without getting close enough to notice the things he hides. nobody expects anything from the guy who can charm a bartender out of an extra slice of pie and be gone before she learns how he actually takes his coffee—which, side note, is not black.

nobody expects him to stay.

but then he gets you.

and god, isn’t that what he has always wanted, even if he would rather swallow broken glass than admit it out loud? someone who looks at him as if there’s still something worth choosing beneath all the damage. someone who laughs at his worst jokes and steals his shirts and reaches across the front seat of the impala to squeeze his hand when the road gets quiet in that particular way it does after a bad hunt.

someone who looks at him like he hung the fucking moon.

he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love at first.

sometimes, you catch him watching you from across the motel room with this strange, almost startled softness, as though he’s still waiting for the moment you realize you could do better. as though you might wake up and see the blood beneath his fingernails, the exhaustion in his bones, every ugly thing he carries around with him, and decide you made a mistake.

you never do.

tonight, the motel room is warm from the ancient heater rattling beneath the window. sam’s taken off to collect dinner and give the two of you a little privacy after the hunt, making a pointed remark about not coming back for at least an hour while dean tells him to shut up and you try not to laugh into your sleeve.

now, it’s quiet. dean stands near the foot of the bed, looking at you in the amber glow of the bedside lamp. there’s a faint bruise forming near his jaw and a shallow cut at the edge of his eyebrow, cleaned but not bandaged because he insists it makes him look rugged. his flannel is unbuttoned over a dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there’s something in the way his eyes move over you that makes warmth gather low in your stomach.

he looks at you as if he still can’t believe you’re real.

“what?” you ask, leaning back on your palms.

his mouth curves faintly. “nothing.”

“you’re staring.”

“can’t a guy appreciate his girlfriend?”

“you can,” you say. “but you have that face.”

his eyebrows lift. “what face?”

“the one where you look like you’re thinking too hard. which you know… rare, because you barely think at all.”

he huffs out a laugh and steps closer, settling between your knees. “cute.”

“you love me.”

the words come out teasing. casual. you say them often enough now that they shouldn’t feel like anything dangerous. yet, they still make his expression change.

his hand rises slowly, knuckles brushing along your cheek before his palm settles there, rough and warm. “yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “i really do.”

your breath catches, because dean’s never learned how to do anything halfway once he finally lets himself do it at all. his tenderness isn+t polished or poetic. it’s awkward in places. too honest. almost shy. he looks at you like he wants to memorize every little shift in your face before the world finds another way to take something good from him.

when he kisses you, it’s slow.

that’s the thing nobody would expect. dean doesn’t kiss you like he has somewhere else to be. there’s no performance in it, no smug little edge designed to prove anything. he cups your jaw carefully and tilts your face toward his, mouth warm and unhurried against yours, letting the kiss deepen only when you lean into him and fist one hand in the fabric of his shirt.

his other hand slides to your waist.

“you okay?” he asks against your mouth.

you smile, breathless already. “mmhm.”

“need an answer, sweetheart.”

“i’m okay.”

“yeah?”

“more than okay.”

something in his face loosens. he kisses you again, and it makes your chest ache in the best, worst way, because he touches you as if your comfort matters more than whatever he wants. every movement is patient. attentive. his thumb drifts along your side beneath the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he pauses when your breathing changes, eyes flicking to yours immediately. watching. always watching.

you’ve heard people talk about men like dean before. confident men. experienced men. men with reputations. the assumption is that they come with something complicated to prove, that intimacy with them is supposed to be wild or rough or full of tricks designed to make you feel lucky to have their attention.

dean has none of that with you. with you, he’s almost painfully simple.

he wants to kiss you until you forget every ugly thing that happened on the hunt. he wants to feel your arms around his shoulders and hear the little breathless laugh you make when his stubble scratches your neck. he wants to pull back every few seconds just to look at you, eyes softened by something so open it nearly embarrasses him whenever you catch it.

he wants you comfortable.

he wants you warm.

he wants you looking at him like that.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the corner of yours.

you laugh softly, a little self-conscious despite yourself. “you’re biased.”

“damn right i am.”

“that isn’t how compliments work.”

“works exactly how i want it to.”

he eases you back onto the mattress, following carefully, one forearm braced beside your head so he never puts too much weight on you. his hand slides along your waist, then higher, then down again, not rushed. never rushed. the sheets shift beneath you, motel fabric rough against your legs, while dean kisses along your jaw and murmurs things into your skin that make warmth spread through you in slow, dizzy waves. nothing clever. nothing filthy for the sake of being filthy. just your name. sweetheart. pretty girl. tell me if you need anything. you good? and then, softer, as if it slips out before he can stop it, “god, i love you.”

you tighten your arms around him. “i love you too.”

he goes still for half a second, forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. it isn’t the first time you said it. far from it. but dean receives every declaration like a man who grew up expecting love to come with an expiration date.

the rest unfolds slowly, with the lamp still glowing beside the bed and the sounds of passing cars drifting faintly through the motel window. dean kisses you until everything outside the room feels distant. the monsters. the blood. the impossible odds. all of it quiets beneath the warmth of him, beneath the steady drag of his hands and the way he keeps checking your face, making sure you’re with him every step of the way.

there’s nothing extravagant about it. nothing reckless. just dean holding you as if he’s been cold his entire life and finally found somewhere warm enough to rest.

afterward, he lies on his back beside you, one arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other hand moving lazily along your skin. his breathing is still uneven, hair mussed, cheeks faintly flushed. there’s something younger about him in moments like this. softer. almost peaceful.

you turn your head and catch him watching you again. “what?” you repeat the question.

he gives you a tired little smile, but his eyes stay serious. “nothing.”

you wait.

eventually, he looks toward the ceiling, jaw working as if the next words are harder than fighting a nest of vampires with one good knife and a bad plan.

“just don’t get tired of me, okay?” the question is so quiet you almost miss it. it hurts more than anything could.

you shift closer until your cheek rests against his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart. “not planning on it.”

dean exhales, long and slow, while he holds you with both arms like the world has spent his whole life taking things from him and he’s not quite ready to believe it’ll let him keep you.

he scratches the back of his neck as your daughter races toward the slide, sand still clinging to the knees of her leggings, and says, “you eaten yet?”

you look at him over the rim of your coffee cup. “it’s four-thirty.”

“yeah, well—i’m planning ahead.”

“planning ahead,” you repeat, with the same amount of belief you gave his big park guy routine.

dean narrows his eyes. “some people appreciate organization.”

“you used to pack one shirt for a three-week hunt.”

“it was a good shirt.”

“i’m pretty sure it had holes in it.”

“ventilation.”

the smile happens before you can stop it. his follows a second later, quieter and a little crooked around the edges, and there it is again—that strange pull low in your chest, too familiar to dismiss and too old to feel this new.

he glances toward your daughter, then back at you. “there’s a place a few blocks over. decent burgers. actual tablecloths. no laminated menus stuck together with syrup.”

“high standards.”

“i’m classy now.”

“you have mustard on your jacket.”

dean looks down immediately. you laugh when he realizes there’s nothing there, and he gives you a deeply unimpressed look that would probably work better if his mouth wasn’t twitching.

“you’re still mean,” he says.

“you liked me mean.”

his eyes catch yours just for a second. long enough to remind you that this hasn’t always been teasing on park benches and careful questions about where you live now. long enough to remember motel mattresses, his hand around your wrist as he tugged you back beneath the sheets, his sleepy voice against your shoulder telling you to stay another five minutes when both of you knew there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

dean clears his throat. “yeah,” he says, quieter. “i did.”

your daughter shrieks happily from the slide. the moment breaks before either of you has to do anything dangerous with it.

“my mom can take her tonight,” you say, trying for casual and getting close enough. “if you still want to… catch up.”

“catch up,” dean agrees quickly. “yeah. exactly. two old friends. food. normal amount of catching up.”

“what would be an abnormal amount?”

“guess we’ll find out.”

you agree to meet dean at the restaurant at seven-thirty. he checks his watch afterward and realizes he has just under three hours to help sam kill whatever has been dragging people into the storm drains beneath the town, shower, find a clean shirt, and pretend he hasn’t spent the last decade occasionally thinking about what your laugh sounds like when you’re trying not to let him know he’s funny.

it should be manageable. it isn’t. the creature takes two iron rounds, a machete, one extremely undignified wrestling match in approximately three inches of sewer water, and a final shot from sam before it stops moving. even then, it manages to rupture something wet and foul-smelling all over dean’s chest on the way down.

dean stands there in the dark tunnel, breathing hard, covered from his hairline to his boots in a greyish slime with the texture of half-set gelatin.

sam lowers the shotgun slowly. “you okay?”

dean looks at him.

sam presses his lips together. he makes it almost three seconds before laughing.

“shut up.”

“you smell terrible.”

“yeah, no kidding, sam.”

dean checks his watch and swears. loudly. with feeling.

the motel shower has the water pressure of an elderly garden hose, but he stays beneath it until his skin turns pink and the water finally stops running an alarming shade of brown. he shampoos his hair twice. then a third time because he catches a faint whiff of sewer monster when he leans closer to the mirror and refuses to risk it.

his cleanest shirt is only slightly wrinkled. his jeans are fine. his boots have survived worse. he stares at his reflection, rubs a hand over his jaw, then reaches for the bottle of aftershave beside the sink.

not enough.

dean opens sam’s toiletry bag.

“touch my stuff and die,” sam calls from the other side of the bathroom door.

“why do you have three different bottles in here?”

“because i know how hygiene works.”

“this one says eau de toilette.”

“put it down.”

“what the hell does that even mean?”

“it means you don’t need half a bottle of it.”

dean uses some anyway. then a little more aftershave. then, on the drive across town, he stops at a gas station and sprays himself once with the tester bottle of cologne locked inside a dusty plastic display beside the register, because dignity is a flexible concept and he’s already running twelve minutes late.

by the time he reaches the restaurant, he smells less like a dead monster and more like an airport duty-free shop. you’re already waiting near the entrance.

for one stupid second, dean forgets every excuse he rehearsed in the car.

you’re not dressed for anything fancy. neither is he. but your hair is loose around your shoulders, and there’s a softness to your mouth when you spot him weaving between the tables that makes his palms damp in a way he’d prefer not to examine too closely. you smile. dean smiles back before he remembers he’s supposed to be annoyed with himself for being late.

“sorry,” he says as he reaches the table. “case ran long.”

your eyes drag over him, taking in the damp hair, the faint nick beside his temple, the clean shirt he has clearly pulled from the bottom of a duffel bag.

then your nose wrinkles. “did you bathe in cologne?”

dean slides into the chair opposite you. “no.”

you raise a very questionable brow at him.

“there was an incident.”

“an incident.”

“monster goo.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. it does nothing. your shoulders start shaking anyway.

“glad my suffering’s funny to you.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, entirely insincere. “i’m trying to be sympathetic. it’s just—”

“i smelled worse before.”

that does it. you laugh into your hand, warm and helpless, and dean stares at you with the beginning of a grin he can’t quite suppress.

“much worse,” he adds, because apparently he’s willing to humiliate himself for the sound of it now.

“i believe you.” you reach across the table without thinking and brush your thumb lightly over the scrape at his temple. the touch lasts barely a second before you pull your hand back. “you okay?”

dean goes still. you used to ask him that after every hunt, usually while patching him up in some motel bathroom with your knees pressed against his and your medical kit spread across the sink. he used to lie. you always knew when he did. sometimes you’d let him anyway. “yeah,” he says. “nothing serious.”

your eyes stay on his face for another moment. “what was it?”

“ugly bastard living beneath the storm drains. sam’s digging through the lore. had these teeth—” dean holds two fingers apart, warming immediately to the story. “seriously, they were huge. and it moved fast. faster than it had any right to move, considering it looked like a melted halloween decoration.”

you listen as he talks, interrupting with questions in the right places, your expression shifting with easy familiarity when he mentions sam nearly losing his footing in the tunnel. by the time the waitress arrives, dean has stopped feeling quite so aware of his own hands. by the time your burgers come, he’s made you laugh twice more and learned that you still steal fries from other people’s his plate without asking.

“you have your own,” he says as your fingers retreat from his side of the table.

“yours looked better.”

“they’re the same fries.”

he pushes his plate slightly closer to the middle anyway.

it should feel stranger than it does. there are years sitting between you, too many of them, full of things neither of you knows how to ask without making the evening heavier than it’s allowed to become. but some habits survive untouched. dean still eats the pickle from your burger because you slide it onto the edge of his plate without asking. you still nudge your knee against his when you laugh too hard. neither of you acknowledges the contact. neither of you moves away.

eventually, he asks about you. not in the easy, polite way people do when they are waiting for their turn to speak. dean wants details. where you work. whether you still hate mornings. how long you have lived in town. whether your mom is nearby. what your daughter’s favorite cartoon is and why she apparently considers apple juice a matter of national importance.

you tell him more than you mean to. about preschool drop-offs and your job and the apartment with the unreliable kitchen faucet your landlord keeps promising to fix. about the way your daughter insists on wearing mismatched socks because matching ones are “too serious”. about your mother taking her tonight and giving you a look so unsubtle it should legally qualify as harassment.

dean laughs at that. “she still hates me?”

“she never hated you.”

“she threatened me with a carving knife.”

“she threatened everyone with a carving knife. it was her favorite knife.”

“comforting.”

“she asked whether you were still handsome.”

dean pauses halfway through reaching for his beer. “what’d you say?”

you pick up a fry, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking embarrassed. “i told her age had been very cruel to you.”

“wow.”

“tragic, really.”

“and yet here you are.”

“free burger.”

“right.”

his smile lingers afterward. yours does too.

the plates empty. the restaurant grows quieter around you. someone begins stacking chairs upside down on the tables near the window, and you realize with a start that you’ve been sitting there for almost three hours. dean glances toward the closing staff with visible betrayal, as though they’re personally responsible for the fact that the night has to end.

he pays before you can argue properly, but you argue anyway. he ignores you with the smug ease of someone who has always enjoyed irritating you in very specific, carefully cultivated ways.

outside, the air has cooled. your car is parked beneath a streetlamp at the edge of the lot, but neither of you moves toward it immediately. dean stands in front of you with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels. for a man who has faced demons without blinking, he looks strangely uncertain now.

“so,” you say.

“so.”

“this was nice.”

“yeah.” dean looks down, then back at you. “yeah, it was.”

the silence isn’t uncomfortable. it would be easier if he gave you a grin and some teasing line, something familiar enough to hide behind. instead, he watches you with an openness that feels almost accidental, as though the part of him that usually shuts every door has forgotten where the locks are.

“what time do you work tomorrow?” he asks.

you blink. “eight-thirty.”

“i could drive you.”

your eyebrows lift. “dean—”

“or we could get coffee,” he says, too quickly. “before. after. lunch, maybe. doesn’t have to be—” he exhales through his nose, frustrated with his own mouth. “anything. i just thought i could see you again.”

the honesty of it settles between you. slightly awkward. too specific. very dean, even if he looks as though he wishes he could grab the words and shove them back inside his chest.

you should make him work harder for it. maybe you will, eventually. he left once. you remember that too. the motel room door closing. the impala disappearing from the parking lot. the horrible, childish part of you that waited for the sound of the engine returning even after you knew it wouldn’t.

but he’s here now. smelling faintly of too much cologne and looking at you with that small, nervous smile he probably doesn’t realize he’s wearing.

“coffee,” you say. “before work.”

dean’s shoulders loosen. only slightly. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

“i’ll pick you up.”

“seven-thirty.”

“on the dot.”

you laugh softly, pulling your phone from your bag. “you’re a little out of practice.”

“been busy.”

“with sewer monsters?”

“amongst other things.”

you exchange numbers even though some stubborn, embarrassing part of you still remembers his by heart. dean sends himself a message from your phone, then hands it back carefully, his fingers grazing yours.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

you nod. “tomorrow.”

he takes one step backward. then another. he looks reluctant to turn away, and it makes your chest ache in a place you thought had learned better.

“dean?”

“yeah?”

“you’ll show, right?”

his expression shifts. the teasing leaves first. what remains is quieter, stripped of every easy escape he has relied on since the moment he saw you wearing your grandmother’s ring.

“i wouldn’t miss it.”

you’re sitting on a bench with one leg tucked beneath you, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, one hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup. older, obviously. no—not old. just more you somehow, softer around the edges and sharper in the places that used to undo him. the same mouth. same tilt of your head when you’re trying not to laugh at something.

his chest does something stupid.

then he sees the ring. gold. obnoxious. bright enough in the afternoon sun to feel personal.

well… great.

“dean?” you say, and your voice hits him with all the subtlety of a shotgun loaded with nostalgia.

he should walk away. absolutely. give you a polite smile, maybe a quick hey, how’ve you been, nice kid, gotta go kill something ugly, and leave before his face starts doing anything embarrassing.

instead, he stands there with his hands in his jacket pockets and says, “hey.” smooth.

your smile spreads slowly, surprised and warm, and it makes him want to both grin back and fake his own death. “wow,” you breathe. “i didn’t expect to see you here.”

“yeah, well.” he glances around the park, at the moms with strollers, the barking dog, the kid currently trying to eat sand. “i do a lot of park stuff now. big park guy.”

you stare at him. he regrets everything. then you laugh, and it’s so familiar it kind of hurts. “sure,” you say. “very believable.”

the little girl looks up from the sandbox. “mommy, look.”

mommy.

dean knew. obviously he knew. context clues. the kid. the bench. the snack bag. the terrifying amount of wet wipes beside you. still, hearing it lands somewhere weird and low in his stomach.

you turn, softening instantly. “i’m looking, baby.”

the kid holds up a lumpy sand pile. “castle.”

“gorgeous,” you say, deadly serious. “architectural masterpiece.”

dean huffs before he can stop himself.

you glance back at him, and for a second it’s so easy to remember motel rooms and gas station coffee and your bare feet on the impala’s dash, the way you used to steal his fries and kiss him when he complained. he remembers your hands in his hair. he remembers leaving. he remembers you letting him. some things don’t die. rude of them, honestly.

“she yours?” he asks, because apparently he enjoys pain now.

your expression softens. “yeah. she is.”

he nods, looking back toward the sandbox. “cute kid.”

“thanks.”

“takes after you.”

your eyebrows lift. “that almost sounded sincere.”

“it was sincere.”

“dangerous.”

“i’m growing as a person.”

“are you?”

“no.”

you laugh again, quieter this time, and his eyes drop to your hand before he can stop them. the ring catches.

you notice. you always used to notice everything, especially the things he tried to hide badly. your mouth twitches. “you okay?”

“yeah,” he says too fast. “yeah, no, totally. great. you know. kids are the best.”

silence. your face changes just enough. your lips part, and then press together, and your eyes go bright with the kind of amusement that means he’s about to suffer. “kids are the best?” you repeat.

dean looks away. “yep.”

“you?”

“what, i can’t appreciate the youth?”

“the youth,” you echo, delighted.

“future of america.”

“she’s four.”

“with architectural skills, apparently.”

you’re laughing now, one hand over your mouth, and he feels warm in the worst way. caught. ridiculous. exposed down to the bone by one stupid sentence he didn’t even mean to say out loud.

except he did mean it. sort of.

he means the kid is cute. he means you look happy. he means there’s this ugly, tender part of him imagining what it would’ve been like to be the guy sitting beside you on this bench, holding the snack bag, knowing which wet wipe brand doesn’t irritate your daughter’s hands. he means he wishes he had earned a normal life with you before someone else did. which is insane.

so he clears his throat instead. “anyway,” he says, rough around the edges. “your husband around, or do i have time to flee before he sees me being charming?”

you blink. then you look at your hand. then back at him. “my husband?”

“the—” he nods toward your ring. “the big gold situation.”

your face does something complicated. then wicked. “dean.”

“what?”

“this is my grandmother’s ring.”

he says nothing. absolutely nothing.

your smile gets worse. prettier, too. unfair. “and i’m not married.”

his mouth opens. closes.

the kid drops her shovel and yells, “mommy, i need juice!”

you stand, still smiling to yourself as you grab the juice box from the bag. “yeah, baby, i’ve got you.”

dean watches you crouch beside her, careful with the straw, brushing sand from her tiny fingers. something in him shifts. not fixed. not easy. just awake.

when you look back at him, your expression is softer than your teasing. “you can sit, you know.”

he should say no. he should run. instead, he sits on the bench beside your coffee, close enough that his knee almost brushes yours when you come back.

“so,” you say, settling beside him. “big park guy.”

he looks at you, then at the kid, then down at that stupid, harmless ring. “yeah,” he says, quieter now. “guess i am.”

“Fuck, you feel so good…” he practically whines out into your skin.

The lazy desperation in his voice makes you clench. Jake has always been loud in bed, never been ashamed of it. If he feels good, he’ll make damn sure you, along with the whole neighborhood, knows it. But there’s just something so much more unguarded, shameless, and loud about him when he is sleepy. It’s like all and every inhibitions are gone, not that he has any to really begin with but still.

He lifts his head from your neck, green eyes half lidded and mouth slightly agape from pleasure, it’s one of the very rare occurrence where a smirk isn’t stretching out his lips.

His mouth crashes into yours sloppily, tongue coming out to tangle with yours. A string of spit still connects the two of you when he pulls back.

“Do you feel good, baby ? Tell me how I make you feel,” he moans out, desperate to hear your praise.

But words are hard to find in your state. The slow, lazy and downright sloppy grinding he’s doing is rubbing perfectly against a spot that has your brain almost leaking out of your ears. And the sounds he is letting out are only fueling the coil that’s growing tighter and tighter in your lower belly.

One of your hands is in his hair, fingers threading through his messy blonde locks while the other is raking down his back, nails leaving bright red marks that have him whimper out, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“So good, Jake, you make me feel so fucking good,” you manage to get out, words slurring with the soft but deep pleasure you’re experiencing.

You feel his dick twitch inside of you at your words, his hips stuttering slightly in their lazy roll. His head dips down, mouth attaching to one of your nipples, his tongue swirls around it as a guttural groan vibrates in his throat.

“Shit, Jake…” you softly cry out, arching into him, chasing the wet heat of his mouth.

“‘M not gonna last, sweetheart,” he warns, lips moving against your now puffy nipple.

His eyes are half closed, he looks so vulnerable, so strangely submissive in that instant and the knowledge that it’s your body, you, who has him like that sends you over the edge. It’s not a mind blowing orgasm, not the tsunami you are used to with Jake, but it’s nonetheless intense. Soft waves of pleasure roll off you, akin to the rhythm of Jake’s hips grinding into yours.

The way your pussy helplessly clenches around him seems to be his breaking point.

“Oh fuck,” his voice reaches a surprisingly high pitch as his body stills, muscles locking up, taken hostage by the pleasure overflowing his body.

His orgasm only prolongs yours as you feel his cock desperately twitch inside of you, painting your insides white. The feeling of his warm release has you fluttering around him and he lets out a little pitiful whine from the overstimulation.

Jake’s breath is heavy when he finally comes back down, his cum slowly leaking out of you, forming a white ring at the base of his cock, where he is still comfortably seated inside of you. He leaves open mouthed kisses along your throat, his eyes almost completely closed now as he looks up at you, his orgasm having completely drained him.

“I love you so much.”

Author’s note : it is my strongest belief that Jake is LOUD in bed, and I will stand by it.

Benny is a lovely man. You understand why he’s Dean’s friend. They’re both ooze the same kind of confidence. The same strange combination of laziness and sheer dedication to everything in the world.

“Look at you.” Benny drawls when he shakes your hand. “Dean downplayed your beauty, my lady.”

You smile. It’s just nice to think Dean would talk about you at all. “He downplayed yours as well.”

Benny laughs, and Dean clears his throat behind you.

“Alright, that’s enough hand shaking. You’re gonna pull each other’s freakin’ arms off or something.”

He pulls you back, and Benny’s eyes gleam.

“I was just gettin’ to know her, Dean, no need to start barking.”

“I do not bark-“

“Yes, you do.” You giggle. “You pant, too. And wag your tail when I give you head pats.”

Benny smirks. “He’s such a good boy, isn’t he.”

You hum an agreement, still smiling, and Dean narrows his eyes.

“Glad you two get along.” He grumbles. “C’mon, giggles. Sit down.”

You let him pull you across the bar—another place you could’ve said no—and Benny follows with an amused smirk.

“Have you trained him yet?” Benny teases once your in the booth. “He is a big fan of treats and… other rewards.”

Benny wiggles his brows, and you flush furiously.

“Benny.” Dean uses his deeper, rougher voice. The one that means he’s serious about something.

He’s only used it on you once. When you walked home through the southside after a hookup at midnight, and he barked that you damn near gave him a heart attack. Ordered you to never do it again. You’ve never been afraid of him, but that had been the closest.

Less fear of him, though. More for him. It had been like he was opening up his chest and demanding you see how much you’d freaked him out by doing that.

Maybe he’s never used the voice on you, then. There’s no raw vulnerability, when he snaps at Benny.

And Benny doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. Not in the way you’d been guilty for days over scaring him.

“Sorry, brother. Just givin’ the lady some ideas-“

“She doesn’t need your ideas.”

“They’d be rather helpful-“

“No.” Dean looks at you, and you could swear his eyes soften in a second. “Tell him about work. And the purple dog.”

Your lips twitch. “It was a dinosaur.”

“Right.” He gives Benny a dramatic, obvious look. “It was a dinosaur.”

You stomp on his foot. He makes a big show of being wounded, and that was another spot where you could’ve said no to him.

But you couldn’t. You’re not sure you know how.

“Dean is very fond of you.” Benny hums when Dean goes to get drinks. “I understand why.”

“I- huh?”

“You are quite charming.”

“Uh- Thanks?” You swallow. “You too?”

Benny nods, watching you strangely. Like he’s trying to find something you’ve hidden from his sight.

“You are close. With him.”

“Uh, yeah. We live together?”

“Hm. That you do.”

You didn’t know Dean enjoyed the company of men who speak in riddles. You’re seconds from demanding just one straight word when Dean gets back with the drinks.

“You wanna split fries with me, sweetheart?” He asks, looking directly at you. Like Benny isn’t there at all.

And this would be a very good time to practice saying no. It’s something small. Inconsequential.

But you also know Dean sometimes doesn’t get a chance to eat at work. And that he won’t add something to the tab unless you’re sharing with him.

“Yes, please.” You smile, and Dean grins back.  

God. You’re horrible at this.

It’s not like you’re bad at saying no in general. You go out with Charlie a week later, and run into one of the dads from work. He’s single. Cute. Insists on buying you a drink with no expectations, and is rather charming. His son is a delight in class, and he’s humble about it.

“Sorry if this is too forwards.” He says at the end of the night, while you wait for Charlie to come around with the car. “And I was serious when I said no expectations, but- You’re beautiful. And I had a great time tonight. Would you want to go on a real date sometime?”

God. You wish you could.

But it wouldn’t be fair. Not to yourself, or to this lovely man who would just end up with his heart broken.

In another life, you dream you say yes. That he takes you out, and you’ve already forgotten about Dean by the end of the night.

But in real life, you’re already comparing them. You’ve been shivering in the cold for a few minutes now, and Dean would’ve given you his coat. In the bar you’d slipped, and Dean would’ve caught you.

The halo of the streetlights doesn’t make this man look like an angel.

It just makes him look like more of a man.

“I’m not allowed to date parents.” You say apologetically, and he laughs it off.

“Well, maybe when Finn is in first grade then.”

You smile, and don’t say a word. It’s a real rule.

You would’ve broken it for Dean.

“I need a favor.”

You look up from your cereal the next morning, 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, the longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”

He just stares. “Uh-“

“Come on.” 

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 backfire. 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. 

You’re supposed to say no. Say no. Say no. Say no. Say-

But he said please.

“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins. 

You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing.

It made Dean smile.

✦Chapter Eight✦

✦End note: they're both too down bad someones gotta do something ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

you rise from the edge of the bed so fast that the open lore book in your lap slides onto the carpet. “where is he?”

sam closes the door carefully. his eyes find yours and then move away again, fixing on the ugly motel wallpaper over your shoulder as if the answer might be easier to say if he doesn’t have to watch it reach you.

“sam.”

“his heart was damaged.” his voice sounds thin, worn down to something you barely recognize. “the shock messed with it. the doctors said there’s not much they can do.”

you stare at him.

the heater rattles beneath the window. rain taps against the glass in an uneven rhythm, and somewhere in the room, the television keeps playing an infomercial on mute. some man smiles too brightly while holding up a kitchen knife that can apparently cut through a soda can. normal, stupid things still happening while your best friend is lying in a hospital bed with a failing heart.

“what does that mean?” you ask, even though you already know. you need sam to say something else. you need him to correct himself.

his mouth tightens. “he has a few weeks. maybe less.”

you shake your head before he finishes. “no.”

“i know.”

“no, sam.”

“i know.”

your chest hurts so suddenly that you press a hand against it, an instinctive, useless motion. dean’s heart is failing. yours is fine. yours is beating hard enough to make you dizzy, furious with the unfairness of it.

you look down at the scattered books across the carpet and the half-empty coffee cups crowding the table. “then we find something.”

sam nods immediately.

that’s how the next two days disappear.

you call every hunter who owes you a favor and a few who absolutely do not. sam turns the room into a mess of medical articles, folklore texts, and handwritten notes, his laptop glowing against his face through the night. you track down rumors about healers, witches, crossroads demons, anything that might carry even the slightest possibility of keeping dean alive, and every dead end lands harder than the last.

you barely sleep. barely eat. when sam finally drops half a sandwich beside your elbow, you leave it untouched.

dean calls twice from the hospital.

the first time, he complains about the food and asks whether you’re touching his tapes without permission. the second time, he catches the strain in your voice and goes quiet for half a second too long.

“hey,” he says, softer. “i’m not dead yet.”

“don’t say that.”

“what? it’s technically good news.”

“dean.”

he clears his throat. “get some sleep, sweetheart.”

you almost tell him you love him then. the words rise quickly, terrifyingly easy after years of swallowing them down whenever he leans his shoulder into yours during a late-night movie or hands you the first cup of coffee without asking how you take it. you think of saying it and immediately picture the silence afterward. the weight it would place in his hands when he’s already carrying too much. so you don’t.

“you first,” you say.

when the motel door opens on the second evening, you’re bent over a book with your cheek pressed into one fist, reading the same paragraph for the fifth time and understanding none of it.

then someone stumbles against the doorframe.

“i’m not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.”

you stop breathing.

dean stands there, pale beneath the freckles, one hand braced against the frame while the other grips a paper bag of vending-machine snacks like he went out for groceries instead of escaping medical supervision with a heart that could give out at any moment. his smile is crooked and exhausted, but it’s there.

you cross the room before you decide to.

“are you out of your mind?” you snap, hitting his arm with the flat of your hand.

dean winces. the sound is small. almost nothing.

it guts you. your anger collapses fast, and your hand hovers over the place you struck, useless and horrified. “oh my god. i’m sorry. dean, i’m—”

“easy,” he murmurs.

you touch him then, carefully, both hands sliding around him as if he might break beneath the pressure. he doesn’t hesitate a second before folding into you, heavy and warm and real, his chin settling near your temple. you want to cradle him against your chest. you want to hold him so tightly that death cannot find the space to get between you. instead, you keep your arms gentle and bury your face against his hoodie, breathing in cold air, hospital smell, and the faint familiar trace of his aftershave.

“you idiot,” you whisper, voice breaking. “you absolute idiot.”

“yeah,” he says, but his arms tighten around you.

behind him, sam is still standing by the door, staring at his brother with red-rimmed eyes and an expression so tired it hurts to look at. dean glances over his shoulder and gives him a small nod, almost apologetic. sam swallows hard and turns back toward the books.

you stay where you are.

dean’s heartbeat is there beneath your ear. unsteady, too fast, but there. each one feels borrowed. each one feels like something you should thank him for even though none of this is his fault.

“you scared me,” you admit quietly.

his hand moves once over your back, rough palm dragging between your shoulder blades. “i know.”

there are a hundred things sitting behind your teeth. don’t leave me. i don’t know how to do this without you. i have loved you for so long that it has started to feel like a bad habit i don’t know how to quit.

you say none of them. dean doesn’t either. he just holds you in the middle of the wrecked motel room while the rain keeps falling outside, his heart beating badly against your cheek, and you try not to count how many he still has left.

And you know what ? You are absolutely right anon, like spot on.

Jake is loud and a huge reason for this is because he likes and wants to be. Likes for his partners to be fully aware of his pleasure.

Bradley ? I truly think a huge part of it is unintentional. Like that man couldn’t keep his sounds for himself even if he tried to.

AND YES, you are right on the money, that man is a grunter through and through. I can’t stop imagining him just draped on top of you, his huge body almost covering yours entirely. His head either in the crook of your neck, mouth almost right by yours ears or facing you head on, his hazel eyes diving into yours with a passion and desire that almost makes you shy away. AND THE SOUNDS ??? GOD HIS SOUNDS.

They are these deep, masculine grunts that rumble in his chest. They sound strained, like being forced out of him, like the pleasure you’re giving him is almost just too much to handle. He would sound almost pained if the context wasn’t making it clear he was drowning into the depths of pleasure.

And yes, through groans and grunts, he’ll occasionally let out these breathy sighs, surprisingly soft like, a strange contrast from his usual grunting, but not an unwelcome one. Sometimes he’ll get so engrossed in the way you feel he’ll just start rambling. Sometimes it’s incoherent, but when you can actually understand, you’ll hear broken praises about your body and how good you make him feel, how perfect and beautiful you are…

“Fuck, you feel so good… you’re perfect for me, sweetheart, perfect pussy, perfect fucking body….”

When he cums ? Literal music to your ears. Groans and grunts that truly sound like they are being forcefully dragged out of him.

Bradley sounds like a man and I absolutely love it.

“Oh, c’mon! You compared alloy rims to a hate crime.”

“They should be.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Does someone want to explain?”

“She suggested racing stripes!” Dean spits, lightly running a hand over Baby's hood.

"Did not! Gary did." You don't care that you sound like a petulant child.

Pitch louder and more aggravated, he throws his hands in the air, "W-well then the purple mica velvet whatever!"

"Hey, Velvet Purple is sleek and dark. It also looks awesome with that bit of shimmer added." Your level of snark rises to match his overblown outrage. "Would you prefer Envy Lime or Alta Orange?"

Before either of you can say more, Sam intervenes.

“Okay. I’m sorry I asked."

You hadn't realized it, but you and Dean have been shifting closer to each other with each heated exchange.

Moving to be a buffer between the two of you, Sam questions, "Who is Gary?"

"The mechanic!" Dean and you shout, each aggressively pointing toward the shop next door.

"She agreed," a finger jabbed in your direction again, "when he said I could make improvements to Baby!"

Sam raises an eyebrow, looking in your direction. Crossing your arms, your response is an eye roll and a huff.

Dean continues undeterred. "Said I should lower her suspension!" The icy glare is the last straw.

Angrily dropping your arms, you take a step forward, lean around Sam, and shout, "IT WAS A JOKE!" as Dean puffs his chest and sets his stance.

"SLANDER!" His fingers flex, and his jaw clenches tight enough to snap teeth. You have a fleeting thought that it's probably good that Gary isn't within striking distance right now.

"OK. Whoa!" Sam raises his hands to keep you separated while quickly looking around. "Let's, uh, let's go to the rooms before one of you commits a felony.”

Placing a hand on your back and one on Dean's shoulder, Sam practically shoves the two of you away from the entrance and down the covered walkway, apologizing as you pass an elderly couple staring from the doorway of their room.

When he stops at a door further down and pulls out a key, you spit. "I'm not sharing a room with him."

"Yeah, well, right back at ya!"

"Fine." Sam's pinched face and clipped tone leave no space for discussion. "But we're all three going in this room before someone calls the cops on us."

Neither you nor Dean moves, and Sam snaps. "NOW!"

Feeling slightly chastised, you stomp into the room, immediately taking up occupation on the bed closest to the door because you know that it's always the one Dean prefers, and watch through the doorway as they have one of their stupid silent conversations.

With an exaggerated eye roll, Dean finally trudges inside. Neither of you has time to react as Sam tosses the room key onto the table and orders, "Figure it out," slamming the door closed as he leaves.

Love Me Some Pie tag list:

@123passwort // @akshi8278 // @asgoodasdancingqueen // @calaofnoldor // @cleighwrites

@compresshischest09 // @deaneverafter // @deans-baby-momma // @deans-spinster-witch // @deanwanddamons

@globetrotter28 // @iamsapphine // @idreamofplaid // @impala-dreamer // @iprobablyshipit91

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@lyarr24 // @mimaria420 // @mrswhozeewhatsits // @musicissmylife // @mvdeanw

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@thinkinghardhardlythinking // @thoughts-and-funnies // @waynes-multiverse // @wayward-and-worn // @waywardbaby

The door clicked open softly, the smell of greasy fries sneaking in ahead of Sam. He was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand, a crinkled bag of burgers in the other, looking like the world’s most overqualified delivery guy.

Behind him, Lilah burst in like a firework and her arms full of a bouquet so big she could barely see over the top. “Daddy!”, she whisper-shouted, which defeated the purpose, but at least she tried.

Dean was in the armchair by the window, Henry cradled against his chest in a bee-print onesie you hadn’t even known existed. He looked tiny. Three weeks early had left him all delicate wrists and scrunched-up nose, but his little fists were pumping like he already had demands.

“Hey, Buzz”, Dean whispered back, his grin blooming despite the dark circles under his eyes. He nodded toward your sleeping form on the bed. “Shhh. Mommy’s out”.

Lilah tiptoed in dramatically. She stopped dead when she saw Henry. Her bouquet slipped dangerously sideways until Sam caught it, rolling his eyes fondly.

“He’s so small”, Lilah breathed, climbing up onto Dean’s knee without asking. Her little hand reached out, hovering, not quite daring to touch. “And he’s got bees!”. She giggled, pointing at the onesie.

Dean huffed, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Yeah, figured it was only right”. He shifted Henry carefully, angling him so Lilah could peek without squishing him. Henry squawked, tiny and impatient. Dean sighed, already reaching for the bottle he’d half-prepped on the side table. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, kid. Give your old man a second”. The baby squawked louder. Lilah gasped. “Daddy! He’s mad!”.

Sam set the flowers down on the counter with the food, shaking his head with a smile. “Guess impatience runs in the family”.

Dean muttered under his breath as he jiggled Henry gently, “Man’s three hours old and already yellin’ at me for bein’ too slow”.

Henry hiccupped, let out a high little cry, then latched onto the bottle the second Dean got it in place, still frowning even in his sleepiness.

Dean smirked, rocking him gently. “Attitude. Just like his uncle”.

Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a faint grin. But the longer he watched, the more his brows crept up. “You’re… actually feeding him”, Sam said, surprised.

Dean shot him a look, adjusting the bottle with care as Henry suckled noisily. “No, genius, I’m playin’ poker with him”.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean… you’ve got him swaddled right, you’re holding his head, the angle, hell, you look like you’ve done this before”.

Dean rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “The nurse showed me three times, Sammy. Three. I wasn’t about to screw it up in front of her and get that look”. He shifted Henry slightly, his palm cradling the tiny back of his son’s head, softer now. “Besides… not exactly rocket science”.

Henry let out a greedy little grunt, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers twitching like he was still arguing.

Sam grinned, unable to resist. “Still. Didn’t think I’d walk in and see my big brother like this”.

Dean glared at him, cheeks pinking as he instinctively slowed his rocking motion. “Shut up”.

Lilah giggled, leaning into Dean’s side and petting Henry’s blanket like it was a puppy. “Uncle Sam, Daddy’s the best bee daddy ever”.

Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, smile softening. “Yeah, Buzz. Looks like he is”.

Eventually you woke up slowly.

Dean caught your movement instantly. His eyes snapped up, that protective instinct kicking in before anything else, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened. “Hey”, he murmured.

Lilah bounced once, careful not to jostle Henry. “Mommy! Daddy’s feeding him all by himself! And Uncle Sam brought fries!”. She beamed like it was the best news in the world.

Your lips curved, even through the heaviness weighing down your limbs. “I see that”.

Lilah tugged on Dean´s sleeve. “Daddy”, she whispered. “Can I hold him now? Please? Please? I’m big enough. I’m five”.

Dean glanced at you, the kind of look that said you hearing this? before sighing like a man already defeated. “Buzz… you gotta sit real still, alright? No wiggling. No spinning. He’s not a doll”.

Lilah gasped. “I know that! He’s Henry!”.

Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his life these days. “Alright, Buzz. C’mere. Sit right there—”, he nodded toward the foot of your bed, tone all mock-sergeant—“and grab that pillow”.

Lilah scampered over and plopped herself down exactly where he told her, dragging the hospital pillow onto her lap like she was preparing for a mission. She looked up at Dean with the wide, serious eyes of someone about to be knighted. “Ready”, she whispered.

Dean’s mouth tugged into a grin he couldn’t fight. “Alright, big sis. Let’s do this”. He angled Henry carefully, cradling his tiny head with one big hand, and lowered him slowly onto the pillow in Lilah’s lap.

At the same time, you leaned back against the bedrail with your burger in one hand, fries in the other, and moaned around a mouthful. “Ohhh, Sammy, you’re a saint. Actual angel. Fries and a double cheeseburger? This is the real post-birth medicine”.

Sam smirked, flipping the top of the bag closed. “Glad to be useful”.

You swallowed down another bite and reached for a fry, your voice softer now, shy under the hum of machines and the quiet little family gathered around. “And… thanks for the flowers too, Sam”, you said, lifting your gaze to him with a small smile. “They’re beautiful”.

Sam ducked his head, ears tinged pink. “You deserve it”.

It hit you then how different this was. Lilah’s birth had been quiet and lonely, no one waiting outside, no warm food smuggled in, no laughter filling the air. Just you and a baby, scared. This time… this time you weren’t alone. And it felt like a weight had lifted you hadn’t even realized you were still carrying.

At the foot of the bed, Lilah leaned so close over Henry you were surprised her curls didn’t tickle his face. Her little hands stayed folded in her lap just like Dean had shown her, but her eyes were huge, drinking in every inch of her baby brother. “He’s moving!”, she squeaked suddenly, looking up at Dean. “Daddy, look—his hand, it moved!”.

Dean chuckled low, crouched beside her, one steady hand still hovering under the pillow. “He’s sayin’ hi”.

Lilah’s mouth dropped open in awe. “He’s sooooo small”, she whispered, her whole voice reverent. “I can be careful. I’ll always be careful”.

-

Four weeks later, the rhythms of your life had shifted into something you never quite believed you’d have: messy and loud, freaking exhausting, but steady. Dean was thriving. Daycare drop-offs? He handled them like a bro. He’d walk into Lilah’s classroom with her bee backpack slung over one broad shoulder, her little hand swinging from his, and somehow leave with half the staff giggling like teenagers. Lilah loved it. “Daddy’s the coolest”, she’d declare when you picked her up later, already covered in paint and glitter.

At home, Dean had claimed the laundry like it was a hunt. Sorting loads with military precision, even if he still occasionally shrank a sweater or dyed the socks pink. Dishes? Done. Counters? Wiped. Floors? Well, floors were negotiable, but damn it, he tried.

Cooking, though? That was another story. The first two times he’d attempted a “real” dinner, anything beyond pancakes or scrambled eggs, the smoke alarm went off so loud Henry startled awake and Lilah declared, very seriously, “Daddy’s banned from dinner forever”. Dean took it on the chin, grumbling about “ungrateful critics” while you rescued the kitchen. After that, he stuck to breakfast duty and left the rest to you.

But where he wasn’t perfect, he more than made up for it with the kids. Henry, barely a month old, was already used to Dean’s arms. He’d settle faster against his chest than anywhere else. You’d find them in the recliner, Dean humming under his breath, Henry’s tiny hand clutching his shirt in sleep. Lilah, meanwhile, had her dad wrapped around her finger. Swing pushes, coloring sessions, elaborate Lego castles, he was there for all of it.

And watching him? Watching Dean Winchester turn fatherhood into second nature? It was enough to make your chest ache.

-

Today, Henry had been fussing all morning, the kind of colicky cry that made your nerves hum. Dean had scooped him up, one arm cradling the tiny bundle against his shoulder, bouncing gently while muttering under his breath about “how come I can take down a nest of vamps but one ten-pounder’s got me sweatin’”.

Meanwhile, Lilah had turned the kitchen table into a war zone of glitter, glue and construction paper. She was determined to make “welcome home banners” for Henry—never mind that Henry had been home for five weeks already. When the glue bottle clogged, she squeezed harder until the lid popped clean off. A geyser of sticky paste shot across the table. “Daddy!”, she wailed, throwing her hands up, now sparkly to the elbows. “It exploded!”.

Dean adjusted Henry with one practiced motion, the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow, bottle balanced in the same hand, while reaching for paper towels with the other. “Alright, Buzz, don’t panic. Nobody move. This is a Code Glitter”.

Henry suckled noisily, oblivious. Dean dabbed at the glue, grabbed the glitter jar before it tipped further, and tossed a fresh towel across the table toward Lilah. “Wipe what you can, and for the love of God, don’t sneeze”. She giggled at his mock-serious tone, smearing glue across her cheek in the process.

By the time you walked in from swapping laundry, Dean looked like he’d been through a small war. Dean glanced up at you, hair mussed, chest rising like he’d just finished a hunt. “Don’t. Say. A word”.

-

Lilah stood in front of the mirror with her brand-new backpack. Bee-yellow with black stripes and almost as big as she was. Her curls were neatly braided (Dean’s work, of course; he was faster at it than you. Way faster), and she clutched Henry’s soft bee rattle like it was battle gear.

Henry babbled from his play mat, hands slapping at the toys, drool soaking his onesie. At eight months, he was sturdy and curious, already trying to pull himself upright on anything in reach, including Dean’s jeans when Dean crouched to tie Lilah’s sneakers.

“You sure about this, Buzz?”, Dean asked, his voice caught somewhere between proud and worried. “We don’t have to rush. School’ll still be there next year.”

Lilah rolled her eyes, the exact same way you did when Dean was being dramatic. “Daddy, I’m six soon. I have to go. I’m gonna learn to read big books and paint, and I already know my numbers”.

Dean’s mouth pulled into a smile that cracked at the edges. He tied the last knot and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Alright. But you better not forget about us little people when you’re famous”.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you helped her into her jacket. “You’re gonna do amazing, baby girl”.

The drive to school was quiet and heavy with anticipation. Lilah sat shotgun like always, her backpack buckled beside her, Henry gurgling in his car seat, kicking his feet.

When you pulled up to the school, the sidewalk buzzed with other kids and other parents. Lilah bounced in her seat, suddenly shy but determined.

“C’mon, Buzz”, Dean said gently, lifting her out. He crouched, adjusting her straps, brushing a curl out of her face. His voice cracked just slightly when he added, “Go show ‘em what a Winchester can do”.

She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. “I love you, Daddy”. Then she hugged you too, carefully kissed Henry’s forehead, and marched up the steps.

You and Dean stood there long after she vanished inside. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His eyes were damp, but his grin was boyish and so damn proud. “She’s really growing up”, Dean murmured, forehead resting against your temple. “And we… we made it here. All of us”.

And for the first time in years, you believed it.

-

It was late-August. Your hallway smelled like coffee and pancake syrup.

“Shoes!”, you called, tying your own laces by the door.

“I have shoes!”, Henry declared, skidding in socked feet around the corner. Six now, all big opinions, he wore a tiny flannel over a animal tee, his backpack already sticker-bombed with cars and a single, stubborn bee. He held up his sneakers triumphantly and then, because he was Henry, tried to put them on without sitting down.

Dean caught him mid-wobble by the back of the shirt. “Easy there, Hot Rod. Park it”. He dropped to a knee and laced Henry’s shoes. “You gonna show first grade who’s boss?”.

Henry grinned, missing-tooth wide. “Already am”.

“Attitude”, Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard it softened the whole line of his jaw. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Buzz? You almost ready?”.

Lilah stepped out of the hallway. Eleven: taller, wearing ripped jeans and bee pendant on her neck. Dean had braided her hair in two neat plaits that made her look like the exact midpoint between little-kid and almost-teen. She posed, deadpan. “Voted least likely to cry today”.

Dean pressed a hand to his heart. “Least likely to cry? You wound me, Buzz. After all I’ve done for you. Braids, rides, endless glue refills…”.

Lilah smirked, tugging her jacket straight. “Yeah, yeah. You’re slipping, old man”.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Old man?”. He shot you a quick glance. “Did you hear that? She called me old”.

You bit down on a grin. “Well… you did make that dad noise when you sat down last night”.

“Traitor”, Dean muttered, then turned back to his daughter, squinting in exaggerated menace. “Slipping, huh? You think just ‘cause you’re all middle-school fancy now, I can’t still—”. Before Lilah could react, Dean swooped forward, scooping her up around the waist. She squealed, kicking her sneakers in the air, but he had her hoisted effortlessly. With one practiced flip, he had her upside down, legs dangling, hair flying like a curtain of curls. “—do this?”, Dean finished, grinning ear to ear.

“Dad!”, she shrieked, laughing so hard her voice cracked. “Put me down! My jeans!”.

“You sure about that?”, Dean teased, walking in a slow circle. “’Cause I can keep this up all day. Gotta prove to you I’m not that old”.

“Mom!”, Lilah tried to appeal, upside-down face red with laughter. “He’s embarrassing me!”.

You leaned on the doorframe. “First day of school and already upside down. Pretty sure that’s a record”.

Dean patted her calf with mock solemnity. “Say ‘Dad’s not old’, and maybe I’ll let you down”.

“Never!”, Lilah yelled, still laughing, trying to twist herself right side up.

Dean just chuckled, tightening his arm around her middle like it was the easiest thing in the world to carry an almost-teenager. “Stubborn. Definitely my kid”.

He held her upside down a few more beats, her laughter shaking his shoulder. He grinned, but in his chest it twisted, because her laughter wasn’t the same high-pitched squeal it used to be. It was older now. Not the sound of a toddler or a four-year-old climbing into his lap with sticky fingers and curling up like a kitten.

“You’re heavy, you know that?”, he teased, spinning her carefully until her sneakers tapped the floor again.

Lilah staggered upright, cheeks flushed, hair half out of its braids. She swatted at his chest with one skinny arm. “You’re just weak”.

Dean caught her wrist, tugged her in, and kissed the top of her head before she could wriggle away. “Nah. I’m strong as hell. Just—”. He paused, swallowing something thick. “You’re not little anymore, Buzz”.

Her grin softened, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes in the way only an eleven-year-old could. “Duh, Dad. That’s how time works”.

Dean huffed a laugh, ruffling her hair even though he’d just braided it. “Smartass”.

But when she turned toward the mirror to fix her jacket, Dean’s smile slipped. He remembered nights on your couch, her tiny body stretched across his chest, her fists tucked under her chin, legs no longer than his forearm. He remembered her head fitting under his jaw, her weight a feather compared to the heaviness in his heart back then.

And now? Now she was almost as tall as his chest. Quick wit, her own world beginning to spin separate from his. He loved it, loved watching her grow into herself, but God, it pinched too.

“Hey”, Lilah said suddenly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “Don’t look all sad. I’m still your favorite bee, right?”.

Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Always, Buzz”.

She smiled, satisfied, before starting to bounce toward Henry. Dean reached out, hooked two fingers through the strap of Lilah’s backpack, and reeled her back in before she could escape down the hall.

“Dad!”, she squeaked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

He ignored her protest, wrapping both arms around her in one of those bear hugs that pinned her arms. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, breathing her in like he had when she was tiny, when her curls still smelled like baby shampoo and syrup.

“Daaad”, she complained again, though there was no real fight in it. “You’re crushing me!”.

“Good”, he muttered into her hair. “Keeps you from growing too fast”.

She rolled her eyes, but after a beat, she softened in his arms. She let her head tip against his chest, her hands tugging lightly at his shirt instead of wriggling free. Sassy, yes, but still sweet. Still his little girl.

“I’m not little anymore”, she reminded him gently, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. “Don’t matter, Buzz. You’ll always be my kid. My first bee”.

That earned him a small, real smile. She squeezed him once, quick but strong, before stepping back and shrugging her straps into place.

Dean’s hand lingered in the air a second after Lilah slipped out of his grasp, the absence of her weight hitting harder than he’d admit. He cleared his throat, blinking once, and turned toward Henry. The kid was already standing with his backpack zipped. There was no hesitation in his stance, no glance back for reassurance.

Where Lilah had always curled into Dean’s lap, Henry had been different from the start. He’d cry when he needed to, Dean had made damn sure both kids knew tears weren’t weakness, but even then, Henry cried like he had a point to prove. Quick, fiery bursts, then jaw set, fists balled, moving on before anyone could coddle him.

Dean saw so much of himself in the kid it hurt sometimes. That stubborn tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked over a room like he was cataloguing exits, the quiet determination that made him seem older than six. It wasn’t that Henry wasn’t soft, he could be, especially with you, and sometimes when Lilah coaxed him into her games, but his softness was earned, deliberate. He didn’t give it away easily.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Henry check his jacket pockets. “You good, Champ?”.

Henry gave him a thumbs-up, no hesitation. “Yeah. I’m gonna sit in the front row so the teacher knows I’m serious”.

Dean huffed a laugh. “That’s my boy”.

Lilah snorted, rolling her eyes but hiding her smile. “Of course you’re sitting in the front”.

“Where else am I supposed to sit?”, Henry shot back, all righteous indignation. “The back’s too far from the board”.

Dean grinned despite himself, heart squeezing tight. Lilah: soft edges, open heart, always reaching out. Henry: all Winchester grit, jaw set even when nobody asked it of him. Dean loved them both so fiercely it scared him, but in different ways. One reminded him what he’d almost lost. The other reminded him who he’d been and who he wanted to be better for.

A few minutes later, Dean pulled onto the road.

After a while, Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, glanced at the rearview, then at you. His grin tugged up slow, dangerous. “You know”, he drawled, “Buzz’s got middle school now. Champ’s already takin’ over first grade. Feels like I blinked and they stopped bein’ little. Might be time we—”. He lifted his brows, eyes twinkling. “—made ourselves another one”.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “Dean”.

Lilah snapped her head around, horrified. “Oh my God, Dad, ew! Don’t even say that! You’re ancient”. Dean barked a laugh, one hand thumping the wheel. “Ancient? That’s cold, Buzz”.

Henry, without looking up from tracing the stitching on his lunchbox, chimed in matter-of-factly: “Babies cry too much. Don’t do it”.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, shaking your head. “See? Even your son’s voting against you”.

Dean flicked a look at Henry in the mirror, mock-offended. “Traitor”. Then, softer, his hand reached over to squeeze your knee where it rested between the seats. “Don’t care how big they get, though. Always gonna be ours”.

Lilah slumped deeper into her seat with a dramatic groan. “Can you not be gross before school?”.

Dean chuckled while his gaze flicked to the mirror and caught your eyes and… winked—slow, deliberate and freaking shameless. Heat crawled up your neck instantly, and you had to look out the window before Lilah caught you turning red. Of course, she caught enough.

“Ew! Mom, are you blushing?!”, Lilah groaned, burying her face in her hands. “No. Nope. I don’t wanna know. I know how babies are made now and—ugh—I’m never forgiving health class”.

Dean nearly choked on his own laugh, coughing into his fist. “Health class beat me to it, huh?”.

Lilah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t. Don’t say another word. If you even think about talking about it, I’ll walk to school”.

Henry perked up in the backseat, curiosity written all over his little face. “What’s health class?”.

“Nothing!”, Lilah yelped, spinning back around so fast her braids slapped her shoulders. “It’s nothing, Henry. Don’t ask. Ever”.

Dean snorted so hard the wheel wobbled in his grip for a second but he recovered quickly with that boyish grin. “Relax, Buzz. I’m not gonna—”, He leaned back more. “I’m just sayin’, me and your mom… „.

“DAD!”, Lilah shrieked, smacking the dash with her palm. “Stop! Oh my God, stop! I’m getting out right now!”.

Henry cackled from beside you, no clue what he was laughing at but thrilled by the chaos. “Buzz is mad”, he sing-songed.

Dean chuckled, but his smirk softened as he peeked back at Lilah, who had now yanked her jacket over her head like a makeshift shield. “Alright, alright. I’ll cool it”. He paused just long enough to make it suspicious. “But, you know, you’re gettin’ older. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have that talk”.

Lilah groaned dramatically, muffled by denim. “No. No talks. Ever”.

-

Two weeks later, the house felt too quiet.

Lilah was at Mia’s for a Friday-night sleepover with movies and nail polish, and the kind of giggle-storm that always ended with Sam texting you both “send help (kidding) (maybe)”. Henry had finally fallen asleep upstairs, warm and heavy with a little flu, the humidifier purring and the baby monitor whispering white noise through its tinny speaker on your dresser.

You were already in bed, propped on pillows, scrolling just to keep your eyes open. The bathroom door opened and Dean padded out in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. He let himself plop onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated groan, like he’d just hauled salt bags across three states. Then he flopped onto his back with all the theatrics of a man begging for attention. The mattress dipped, bouncing you a little.

You didn’t look up from your phone. Not once.

Dean cracked one eye at you, then huffed. “Seriously? My wife can’t even appreciate the effort? I showered”. He sniffed his shoulder pointedly. “Smell pretty damn good, if I say so myself”.

Still nothing.

“Unbelievable”, he went on, rolling onto his side to face you, towel gaping a little too conveniently. “I even shaved”.

That made you flick a glance up. His jaw was exactly as scruffy as it had been this morning. Your brows arched. “Uh-huh”.

Dean grinned. “Not here”.

Your phone slipped a little in your grip as you bit down hard on a laugh. He looked so goddamn pleased with himself, with his green eyes gleaming, waiting for you to take the bait. When he saw you fighting that laugh, he smirked and propped himself up on one elbow. The towel slid a dangerous inch lower, his voice dropping into that husky, drawling tone you remembered from years ago. The one that used to make your knees weak back when you were too young to know what the hell to do with it. “Y’know…”, he murmured, tracing one finger lazily up your shin, under the blanket, “all those years ago, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me either. Don’t think I didn’t notice”.

You tried to scoff, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

Dean leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Hell, I remember you lookin’ at me like I was already in your bed—”, his grin widened“—and we both know what happened when I finally got you there”.

Your breath hitched despite yourself.

He chuckled, low and satisfied, nipping at your earlobe before dragging his lips down your throat. “You were so sweet, so easy to ruin… And damn if you didn’t make me work to keep up after. I swear, you were tryin’ to kill me”. His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and.. so heavy. “Still are”.

“Dean—”.

He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze. “Don´t Dean me like that. I put two kids in you, and I’m not done yet”.

Your pulse jumped.

He grinned and kissed the corner of your mouth before whispering against your lips, “Now, tell me again you don’t wanna find out how smooth I shaved”.

You tipped your head back against the pillow, glaring at him even as your lips twitched. “You’re insufferable”.

Dean grinned wider, his hand inching higher under the blanket. “Insufferable? Please. You were climbing me like a tree when you were barely legal. I’ve still got the scratch marks”.

You smacked his chest lightly, but he just caught your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his warm skin. His heart thundered beneath your hand. “C’mon”, he drawled, his lips brushing down your throat again. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember the way I used to make you cry for it. Beggin’ me. Neighbors probably thought I was killin’ you”. He chuckled. “Turns out I was just teachin’ you how good it could feel”.

You sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled like he’d won. “Still teachin’ you, baby. And you still can’t keep quiet”.

Aaand… you broke. You always did with him. Your phone slid to the side, forgotten, as you grabbed the knot of his towel and yanked. It fell open and Dean’s smug laugh turned into a groan as you wrapped your hand around him. “Geez, sweetheart—”. His hips bucked into your palm before he caught himself, biting back a curse. “Fuck, I missed your hands on me”.

You smirked, kissing down his chest, and he tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you, half desperate, half reverent. “Yeah—yeah, that’s it. Damn, you’re gonna kill me tonight”.

The towel hit the floor. Dean hauled you under him, mouth hot and messy against yours, grinding into you through your thin sleep shorts. His cock pressed hard and insistent against you, making you gasp into his kiss.

“Tell me you want it”, he rasped. “Tell me you want me to put another one in you”.

Your answer was a broken moan, your hips arching into him, and that was all the permission Dean Winchester ever needed.

But when he hovered over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing down your side, from your ribs to your hip, his grin softened. His eyes roaming your face like he couldn’t quite believe he still got to be here, with you, after everything. “You know”, he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw, “I could’ve had a lot of lives. None of ‘em would’ve been worth a damn if I didn’t end up right here”.

You swallowed, your fingers curling in his wet hair. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I let you in my bed”.

He chuckled before pressing his mouth to your collarbone. “You were way too good for me back then. Still are”. His lips trailed lower, lingering at the top of your breasts. “Guess I just got lucky”.

You shook your head at him, shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Shut up”, you whispered, and leaned up to catch his lips before he could say something else that would make your heart ache in that helpless way.

Dean kissed you back without hurry, like he had all the time in the world. His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing behind your ear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin faded into something softer, something that lived only in the lines around his eyes.

“Not gonna shut up”, he said quietly. “Not about this”. He shifted so his forehead rested against yours. “I ain’t ever been good at the whole ‘big speech’ thing”, he murmured. “But I’ve spent most of my life running head-first into stuff that didn’t matter near as much as I thought it did. This—”, he gave a small, crooked nod toward you, the bed, the closed door, the whole life the two of you had built—“this is the best damn thing I’ve ever been part of. You. The kids. I love you, and I’m not gonna stop sayin’ it just ’cause I sound like a sap”.

Your eyes stung, but you laughed anyway, brushing your nose against his. “You really do talk too much”.

“Yeah”, he said with a huff of a laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Lucky for you, I mean every word”.

"I know", you whispered, the sound catching against his mouth as you kissed him again. “But stop talking for now”, you whispered, “and help me make another one”.

Dean’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, warm against your skin. He brushed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time. “Yes, ma’am”.

———————————

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

-

dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.

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

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

“yep.”

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

“probably.”

“great. very rural.”

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

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

“no,” you say.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“my face is handsome and innocent.”

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

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

you stare at him.

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

“i’m not calling you honey.”

“baby?”

“absolutely not.”

“snookums?”

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

“hot. committed to the role already.”

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

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

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

you blink. anniversary.

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

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

dean’s eyes flick down to yours.

the mechanic clears his throat.

you win.

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

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

“you’re quiet,” you comment.

he hums, “thinking.”

“dangerous.”

“about us.”

your heart trips.

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

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

“and yet, you married me.”

“fake married.”

“vows are vows.”

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

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

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

“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”

he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.

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

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

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

you elbow him. “dean.”

“what? communication is important.”

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

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

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

“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”

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

you burn the scarecrow together.

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

the town is quiet now.

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

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

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

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

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

Seven months later, the quiet still felt borrowed. But it had held.

You and Ben lived in a small town outside Oklahoma where the roads ran flat and long under a wide white sky, where people still waved from pickups and left pies cooling on windowsills and minded their own business with the kind of stubborn politeness that passed for mercy. Vought barely existed there except as a name some folks had maybe heard once on a television they didn’t trust much anyway. Supes were city nonsense. News was what happened to other people. So you got your quiet.

A rented little house with a porch. A kitchen with too much morning light. A bedroom where the dresser drawers stuck in damp weather. A church three streets over with white clapboard siding and a bell that sounded thinner than the one you remembered from home, but near enough.

You and Ben had built a routine because routine was safer than promises. Coffee. Groceries. Laundry. He fixed things badly at first and better after you made him do them twice. You learned which modern food brands were edible and which ones tasted like punishment. He drove into town for hardware and came back with tools, soap, canned peaches, and once—absurdly—a bouquet of grocery-store carnations he shoved at you like he was handing over ammunition.

You had not let him kiss you much. Not really. A few quiet ones. Careful ones. Mostly when emotion got too large for words and both of you were tired enough not to fight it. Touch had been slower still. A hand at your back crossing a street. His palm hovering at your elbow when the steps iced over. Fingers brushing yours over a grocery list.

Sex was nowhere near the table. He knew better than to push, though that didn’t stop him from trying his luck now and then in that shameless, infuriating way of his. He was trying, though. God, he was trying. With all the charm he’d still somehow kept. With all the rough-edged patience he’d had to teach himself. With all the, "But I’m your husband", he could pack into one glance, one muttered comment, one hand lingering a second too long at the small of your back before he made himself step away.

And every Saturday for the past seven months, Soldier Boy had gone to church.

Because you had insisted.

“You need to wash yourself clean”, you had told him the first week, standing in the kitchen with your arms folded while he stared at you like you’d announced he was joining a convent.

He had barked out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I don’t think a Baptist church in Oklahoma has enough holy water for me”.

“It isn’t funny”.

“No Baby”, he’d said, still grinning a little. “No, it really isn’t”.

Then he went anyway.

The first time, half the congregation had turned to look because even in a town that didn’t care much about the outside world, Ben looked like trouble in a dress shirt . Broad shoulders, hard face and too much confidence even when he was trying to sit still. He had looked personally offended by the hymnal and deeply suspicious of the potluck sign-up sheet. But he went. Sat beside you in polished shoes he hated and listened to the pastor talk about repentance while his jaw worked like he wanted to argue with God directly.

Now it was habit.

This morning, sunlight striped the bedroom floor through the curtains while you got dressed. The air already held the dry warmth of early day. You slipped into your long soft satin skirt, the pale cream one that moved quietly around your legs when you walked. Then you buttoned your blouse and tucked it in with careful fingers, smoothing the fabric at your waist the way you always did. Old school, Ben had called it once, half-teasing and half-awed, watching you pin your hair back at the vanity like the whole century ought to slow down and take notes.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed in dark slacks, bare-chested still, because he had not yet bothered to pull on his shirt. One elbow rested on his knee. He had been pretending to lace one shoe for the last minute and a half, but his hands had gone still. He was just watching you.

You caught his gaze in the vanity mirror. “What”.

Ben blinked once, as if remembering his own face. “Nothing”.

“Benjamin”.

That made one corner of his mouth twitch. “You want the truth?”.

“I assume I’ll regret it”.

His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. Not vulgar for once, not even really hungry, though that lived under his skin often enough. Something softer and fuller. The kind of look that made you feel seen in places you weren’t sure you wanted seen.

“You look beautiful”, he said. The words came plain. No clever line. No grin built around them. Just the truth, and somehow that made them land harder.

You looked back at yourself in the mirror instead of at him. The blouse was modest. The skirt fell nearly to your ankles. Your hair was pinned simply, the way the older women in town wore theirs, though yours always came out a little softer around the face no matter how neat you tried to make it. “It’s for church”, you said.

“As if that changes anything”.

You almost smiled.

From the bed, he exhaled and finally bent to finish with his shoe. “You know”, he muttered, “this has gotta be some kind of crazy ass joke”.

You reached for your earrings. “What is”.

“Me”. He tugged the lace tighter than necessary. “Sitting in a bedroom in Oklahoma on a Sunday morning—”.

“Saturday”.

He pointed at you without looking up. “That too. Getting ready for church while my wife looks like…”. He stopped, then glanced up with that familiar rough heat in his eyes. “Like that”.

You put one earring in and gave him a warning look through the mirror. “Behave”.

“I am behaving”.

“That was not behaving”.

“That was admiration”.

“That was trouble”.

His mouth twitched again. “Yeah. Maybe”.

You turned from the vanity to reach for your cardigan, and the movement made the satin shift around your legs with a soft brush. Ben’s eyes dropped to the sound. He looked for one second like a man remembering far too much all at once. Then he checked himself.

That part still struck you sometimes. The stopping. The fact that he could now. The visible act of reining himself in not because he feared your anger, but because he had learned, finally learned, that wanting something did not entitle him to reach.

He stood to pull on his shirt. White, clean, sleeves rolled once before he shoved his arms through. On anyone else the motion would have been ordinary. On Ben, even dressing looked faintly combative. Buttons did not deserve that much force, but he gave it to them anyway. When he was halfway done, he looked at you again and said, quieter now, “You sure I’m not gonna burn alive in there one of these days?”.

You slid on your cardigan and picked a speck of lint from the cuff. “One can hope”.

That got a real laugh out of him. Then, because he was still Ben and because every so often sincerity came out of him before he could catch it, he added, “I go because you ask”.

You looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed with his shirt open at the collar. “I know”, you said. His expression shifted a little. “And because I like sitting next to you while you sing”.

The room went still for a beat. You hadn’t expected that. Maybe he hadn’t either.

“You sing loud”, he added, with a shrug that tried and failed to make it casual. “Not good. Just loud”.

You stared at him. Then you picked up the nearest hairbrush and threatened to throw it.

He held both hands up at once, laughing properly now. “All right, all right. Beautiful and loud”.

“Awful man”.

“Your husband”.

That could have irritated you. Some days it still did. But this morning the words landed softer than they once would have.

You adjusted his tie when he couldn’t get the knot right. Neither of you commented on the intimacy of that.

Your fingers worked at the silk while he stood very still above you, looking not at the tie but at your face. You could feel his gaze there. “Don’t”, you murmured without looking up.

“Can’t help it”.

“Yes, you can”.

“Not this one”.

You tightened the knot a touch more than strictly necessary. He made a face. “Cruel”.

You smoothed the tie flat against his shirtfront. “Clean enough for church”.

Ben looked down at where your hands rested for the briefest second against his chest, then back to your face. Something warm and almost wondering moved through his expression.

You stepped back before it could become too much. He let you. Then he reached for your coat from the chair and held it open for you without a word. Small things like that had become the shape of this new life. Not declarations. Not grand speeches. Just a thousand ordinary gestures done a little more carefully than before.

You slid your arms into the coat. He settled it over your shoulders without touching more than he had to. When you turned toward the door, he caught your wrist lightly and you looked up.

His fingers loosened at once, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours in that old restless way of his, hope and apology and want all mixed together. “Can I kiss you before church”, he asked, “or is that sacrilegious?”.

You shouldn’t have laughed. You did anyway. And it surprised both of you.

Then, because he had earned at least this much, you tipped your face up. Ben kissed you softly. Just once. Brief and careful. His hand never left your wrist. His mouth was warm and familiar and still capable of stirring old grief and newer tenderness in the same breath. When he pulled back, he looked steadier somehow. Less haunted for the moment. “There”, he said quietly.

You smoothed your skirt once, though it didn’t need smoothing. “Try not to fight with the pastor today”.

“No promises”.

“Benjamin”.

He sighed like the burden of righteousness had once again fallen unfairly upon him. “Fine. I’ll behave”.

You gave him a look. He reached for the front door before you could say anything else, opened it, and stood aside for you to step out into the Oklahoma morning first.

-

Over the next few weeks, you started fitting into the town a little better. Not into the century. That still felt unlikely. But the town, yes.

You learned which grocery store carried decent flour, which older lady at church made a pie crust worth respecting, and which roads Ben should avoid if he didn’t want to get trapped behind tractors for twenty minutes and come home muttering about “agricultural tyranny”.

You also learned, unfortunately, that the world had invented something called smart TVs.

Which was how, on a Tuesday afternoon, you walked back into the living room carrying folded laundry and found Ben sprawled on the sofa, one arm slung over the back, watching the sort of thing that made you drop a dishtowel in pure outrage.

“Benjamin”.

He jerked like he’d been shot. Not because he was ashamed, exactly. More because your voice had hit that sharp note he had learned to fear. He grabbed for the remote. The television went black.

You stood there with a pillowcase over one arm and stared at him.

His expression shifted through guilt, annoyance, and the faintest trace of a grin he was trying very hard not to let happen. “What", he said, too casually.

You pointed at the television. “In my living room?”.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s our living room”.

“That makes it worse”.

Ben rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sweetheart, I was alone”.

“You were not alone. The Lord was here”.

That finished him. He bent forward with a laugh he tried and failed to hide in his fist, and you marched across the room and smacked the back of his shoulder with the pillowcase. “This is not funny”.

“It is a little funny”.

“You need help”.

“I’m aware”.

You stood over him in full offended-wife splendor, cardigan buttoned, hair pinned up, and gave him a lecture so pointed that by the time you were done he had actually muttered, “Yes, ma’am”, just to get you to stop.

You did not stop.

But later that night, when you found the television parental controls mysteriously switched on and Ben acting like it had happened by divine intervention, you had to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.

Another day, you discovered TikTok. This happened by accident, which somehow made it worse. A woman from church had said, “Oh, honey, you should look up recipes on there” and you had nodded politely, only to discover three hours later that modern people apparently took cooking instructions from dancing girls, shirtless men, and women narrating casseroles in voices too cheerful to trust.

You were scandalized. You were also fascinated.

So the next morning you announced, with great dignity, that you were making “that baked feta pasta everybody seems possessed by”.

Ben looked up from the newspaper. “The what”.

“Don’t mock. It has millions of views”.

He lowered the paper slowly. “You know what, that sentence alone tells me this century was a mistake”. Still, he hovered in the kitchen doorway while you worked, arms crossed, watching you treat the whole absurd thing with way too much seriousness. Cherry tomatoes. Olive oil. A block of feta you regarded with suspicion. Pasta boiled properly because no internet person was going to tell you how to salt water.

When it came out of the oven and you stirred it all together, Ben leaned over the pot, sniffed once, and said, “That actually smells pretty good”.

You gave him a smug look. “I know”.

He took one bite that evening, chewed, and pointed his fork at you. “Don’t get cocky”.

“You ate half the pan”.

Also, your mouth had grown back. Just in little flashes. A comment under your breath. A look. A soft answer with enough edge tucked into it to make him blink, then grin despite himself. Ben had started to live for those moments in a way he would never have admitted plainly. You could tell. Especially when you caught him off guard.

One Saturday after church, while he was trying and failing to fix the porch step without swearing in front of Mrs. Tallou next door, you stood in the doorway and said, “You know, for a man who spent years being called a hero, you are surprisingly bad with a hammer”.

Ben looked up from where he was crouched with the toolbox at his feet. Mrs. Tallou covered a laugh with one gloved hand.

“You trying to embarrass me in front of the neighbors?”.

You folded your arms. “No. I think you managed that on your own”.

He stared at you for one beat, then laughed hard enough he had to sit back on his heels.

That night, he kissed you in the kitchen while the dishwater cooled in the sink and murmured against your mouth, “You’re getting brave”. You had looked up at him and answered, very softly, “Maybe I’m just remembering myself”. That had shut him up in the best possible way.

You baked more too. Partly because it calmed you. Partly because baking still made the house smell like something stable and decent and yours. Partly because in a world that had become almost too strange to hold in your head all at once, flour and butter and sugar still obeyed.

You made banana bread from another TikTok recipe and declared it “acceptable, though overpraised”. You made cinnamon rolls one rainy afternoon that had Ben standing in the kitchen pretending not to hover while they cooled. You learned that modern ovens ran hot and modern measuring cups were somehow more annoying than old ones.

And then one day, without telling him why, you made his favorite cake from the fifties. Yellow cake. Chocolate frosting. A simple one. The one he had once loved so much he used to eat ate night in the dark kitchen while you were asleep. The one you’d made for his birthday the year before Vought gave him Compound V, when he’d come into the kitchen behind you in his work shirt, stolen a fingerful of frosting, and kissed your temple while you pretended to be annoyed.

He came in from the yard that afternoon smelling like cut grass and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. For a second he only stood there. Then he looked at the cake. At you. Back to the cake. “No”, he said quietly.

You looked up from the counter. “No what”.

“That’s not fair”. His voice had gone rough in a way that had nothing to do with humor.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel. “Do you want a slice or not?”.

Ben crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sunlight on his skin and the faint soap from his shower that morning. “You remember that?”.

“Yes”.

Something moved over his face too quickly to name.

When you cut him a piece, his hand brushed yours taking the plate. He looked down at it for a second like he was afraid of what it might do to him. Then he took one bite. Closed his eyes. And had to set the fork down before he said, very low, “Jesus”.

You smiled a little. “Still good?”.

He looked at you over the plate, eyes too bright for something as ordinary as cake. “Yeah”, he said. “Still good”.

It was a few nights after that when he asked about the baby. The question came out of nowhere and yet, somehow, not out of nowhere at all.

You were in bed with a book open and unread in your lap. Ben sat on the edge of the mattress. He said your name first. Just your name. You looked up.

“I saw it in the file”, he said.

Your chest tightened before he even finished.

“The medical records”.

You closed the book carefully and set it aside. Your fingers stayed resting on the cover for a second longer than necessary. “I didn’t know for sure”, you said after a moment. “Not really”. Ben didn’t move. “I thought maybe”, you went on quietly. “I’d been late. Tired. But then… then it happened”.

He stared at the floorboards. You looked down at your own hands in the blanket.

“For over two years before that, it never worked”. Your voice thinned around the old shame, still somehow alive enough to sting. “I used to cry in the bathroom so you wouldn’t hear me. I felt like…”. You let out a small breath. “Like a terrible wife”.

Ben’s head came up so fast it almost startled you. “No”. The word came sharp. Immediate. You looked at him. “No”, he said again, softer now but no less certain. His jaw flexed once. “That was never on you”.

The old grief shifted inside you, surprised to find itself contradicted so forcefully after all these years. You looked down. “I know that now”, you murmured. “Mostly”.

For a few seconds neither of you spoke. Then Ben rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glanced at you sideways, and because he was still himself enough to reach for humor when the pain got too close, he said, “Well”. You blinked at him. He looked almost cautious now, which on Ben was a strange enough sight on its own. “I’m just saying”, he muttered, “if we ever wanted to… take another crack at it, I do still remember the basic mechanics”.

You stared at him. Then your cheeks turned hot all at once. “Benjamin”.

He held up both hands. “What? I’m trying to raise morale”.

“You are impossible”.

“Not impossible”. His mouth twitched. “Motivated”.

You pulled the blanket higher though it did absolutely nothing to hide your face. “That was indecent”.

“Probably”.

“You should be ashamed”.

“I usually am”, he said, and then, because he saw the way your mouth wanted to soften despite yourself, he added more gently, “I meant someday. If you ever wanted. No pressure”.

The room settled around that. Your face was still warm. Your heart too. Because the truth was, for all your modesty and all the hurt still sitting between you, you had missed him. Not just the idea of him. Not just having a husband in the house or another body in the bed. Him close. His weight of attention. His mouth at your temple. His hand at the small of your back. The private softness that had once belonged only to the two of you.

You looked at him for a long moment. Then you said, quietly, “You talk too much”. That made him grin.

But only a few nights later, it happened.

You had been lying awake listening to him breathe. You turned toward him first. His head shifted on the pillow, eyes finding you in the dim. “You all right?”, he asked, voice rough with sleep.

You nodded once. Then, because the words felt old and tender and humiliating and true all at once, you whispered, “I want my husband again”.

He went completely still.

Your hand found his wrist over the blanket. Warm skin. Steady pulse. “And I want”, you said, softer now, “to be your wife again”.

Ben made the smallest sound in his throat. He turned onto his side slowly, like any sudden movement might scare the moment away. Even then he didn’t touch you yet. “Yeah?”, he asked.

You looked at his face, half-shadowed on the pillow beside yours, and saw how hard he was trying not to rush even this. “Yes”, you whispered.

His hand came to your cheek. When you leaned into it, his eyes closed for one beat, like that small permission had hit him harder than anything else. Then he kissed you. Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to relearn you right. Your hand slid up into his hair. He shuddered at that, the reaction so immediate and honest it made your own eyes sting.

When his hand moved to your waist, it stayed light until you pulled him closer. When his mouth found your throat, it was with reverence instead of hunger first. When the old want came into him stronger, sharper, he held it back with visible effort until you asked for more in your soft, shy way that had always undone him worse than anything bold ever could.

It was not the same as before. It could never be. It was gentler. Sadder. More careful. Full of pauses and quiet checks and his voice rough in the dark asking, “Like this?” and “Feels good?” as though he needed every answer from your own mouth before he trusted himself to keep going.

And when you finally let yourself have him again, it was not because you had forgotten anything. It was because, for the first time in a very long time, he was loving you like your heart and body were both things worth protecting.

By the time it was over, you were utterly spent. You lay half across him with your cheek on his warm chest, one leg tangled weakly with his under the sheets, the summer-dark room smelling like cotton, skin, and the open window where the night air still moved the curtains in slow, lazy breaths. Ben’s heart beat strong and steady under your ear. Sweat cooled along your spine. Every muscle in your body felt loose and heavy, the kind of deep exhaustion that only came after being held too close for too long in the best and worst ways.

He had not stopped after the first time. Or the second.

By the end of it, more than an hour had slipped by in pieces too soft and blurred to count properly, and now you could barely lift your head. Your fingers rested uselessly against his chest. Even your scolding energy had mostly gone thin. Mostly.

Ben, unfortunately, looked far too pleased with himself. His hand moved lazily up and down your back, broad and warm, while the other rested at your waist beneath the sheet. Every now and then his fingers flexed there like he still couldn’t quite believe you were really in his arms letting him hold you like this.

Then, in that low, rough voice that always sounded like trouble when it dropped into a tease, he said, “You alive there, sweetheart?”.

You made a faint, exhausted noise against his skin. He chuckled under you. “Thought I might’ve fucked you tired”.

You lifted your head just enough to give him a glare. It was not your strongest glare. You knew that. He knew it too. That only made his mouth twitch.

“Don’t you start”, you murmured, voice breathy and ruined with tiredness.

“There it is". His grin turned lazy and shameless. “That face”.

You narrowed your eyes. “What face”.

“That offended little look you get when I say something, in your words, filthy”. His thumb brushed once at your side, absent and warm. “Cute as hell”.

Your cheeks heated at once. “Benjamin”.

The satisfaction on his face was immediate. He loved this. You could tell he loved this. Not just teasing you, but specifically getting you just scandalized enough to lecture him. Over the past months it had become one of his favorite games and he played it with the delighted patience of a man who had discovered a private treasure.

“You hear your voice when you scold me?”, he asked, entirely too smug. “All soft and breathy”.

You tried to push yourself up straighter and failed halfway, your arm giving out and dropping you right back onto his chest. Ben laughed outright then. Not cruelly. Warmly.

“You’re impossible”, you muttered.

“And you married me anyway”.

“I was young”.

“You still like me”.

That earned him another look, weaker than before but no less sincere. Ben only smirked and brushed your hair back from your face. His touch gentled almost immediately under the teasing. That was the way of him now more often than not, mouth shameless, hands careful. “Go on”, he said. “Tell me I’m indecent”.

“You are indecent”.

“Mm-hm”.

“And vulgar”.

“Sure”.

“And entirely too full of yourself”.

That actually made him grin. “There she is”.

You tried to stay stern. You really did. But exhaustion and warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek made it difficult to hold onto proper outrage for long. Your eyelids had gone heavy again. The room had softened at the edges. His hand kept moving in that slow rhythm over your back, making it even harder to remember why you were meant to be offended.

Ben noticed the exact moment your body started melting back into him. His voice changed with it, dropping lower, softer. “Tired?”.

You let out a tiny hum that was probably yes. He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. “Yeah. Thought so”.

-

Over the next few months, Ben stopped pretending he could keep his hands to himself. And you stopped pretending you wanted him to. It was small and constant. His palm on your lower back when you passed him in the kitchen, his mouth finding the back of your neck while you stirred a pot, his fingers sliding into your hand like he owned the right to comfort now and wasn’t wasting it. He was still cocky about it too, because of course he was.

You’d be rolling dough, flour on your cheek, and he’d lean in and murmur something filthy-soft in your ear just to watch you freeze, scandalized. Then you’d swat him with the dish towel and hiss, “Benjamin”, and he’d grin like that was his favorite hymn.

He stayed gentle with you. Always checking without making a big show of it, always in control in a way he hadn’t been decades ago. But he was still so… him. All muscle and heat, that masculine smell of soap and sweat and sun, shoulders filling doorways, voice so deep when he was amused. It made it easy to be soft again. Easy to be your feminine self, not because he demanded it, but because he made room for it like it was precious.

Some mornings you didn’t even make it to coffee before he’d catch you around the waist, pull you back against him, and mutter, “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart”, like you were the problem. And you’d roll your eyes and say, “Then go be strong somewhere else”. He never did.

He took you shopping in the next town over like it was a mission.

He was weirdly into checking the modern world’s lingerie while you stood in front of a rack of ripped jeans looking like you might faint. That made his mouth twitch. “Try ‘em on”.

You did, because he was your husband and because, annoyingly, the jeans fit. You came out of the dressing room stiff as a board, tugging the hem of the too-short shirt downward.

Ben leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah”, he said, smug. “You look hot”.

You narrowed your eyes. “I look like I’m auditioning for sin”.

“Same thing”.

You threw the hanger at him. He caught it and laughed like he’d won.

Then you found a little 50s-style dress with soft fabric, modest neckline and a nipped waist. You stepped out and immediately felt like yourself again.

Ben stopped talking. For a beat, he just looked at you like the air had changed. Then he cleared his throat and said, rougher, “That one”.

You tilted your head. “You like it?”.

He blinked like you’d asked whether he liked oxygen. “Yeah, I like it. Christ”.

He bought it without checking the price, then acted annoyed about the whole thing in the parking lot because being openly tender still embarrassed him.

He learned to do small domestic things without acting like they were beneath him. He replaced a broken hinge. He even installed a smoke detector and complained the entire time.

“Why’s it gotta beep.”

“So we don’t die.”

“I’m not dyin’.”

“I am.”

He stared at you. Then he installed two.

At night, he’d pull you into his lap on the couch like it was casual, like it was nothing, like his hands hadn’t once been the reason you feared beds. He’d watch whatever you put on. Old movies, sermons or the news he pretended not to care about, and he’d keep one hand on your thigh under a blanket with his thumb moving slow over your skin.

And when you scolded him for the way his mouth worked, for the way he teased, for the way he’d whisper something indecent at the worst times, he’d grin and say, “You’re cute when you’re mad”.

“I am not cute”.

“You’re fucking adorable”.

“You need prayer”.

“I need you”.

That shut you up every time, because it sounded too honest to fight.

Then days were passing. You were tired in a different way. Hungry, but picky. Your temper a little shorter. Your body softer around the edges.

One morning you were folding laundry and Ben leaned in the doorway watching you like he was doing math. “You’re late”, he said.

You blinked. “Late for what”.

He stared at you like you were joking. “Your period”.

Heat rushed to your face. “Benjamin”.

“What? You are”.

“That is not your business".

He walked over and took the calendar off the kitchen wall with one finger like it had personally offended him. Flipped the page. Counted silently. Then he looked at you, brows lifted, mouth already twisting into that smug, dirty humor. “Sweetheart”, he drawled, “you are so bad at that simple women stuff”.

You grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him. “Stop talking”.

He caught your wrist gently and his eyes went bright in a way you recognized instantly. Not fear, not even shock. Something that looked suspiciously like excitement, filtered through Ben’s ego like everything else. “We’re goin’ to the store”, he said.

You frowned. “For what”.

He smirked. “For the little stick that tells you whether you made me a baby”.

Your mouth fell open.

At the pharmacy he bought two tests. Back home, he hovered so hard you finally snapped, “Do you want to come in with me too?”.

Ben leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m your husband”.

“You are not watching me take a test”.

He looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t gonna watch”.

“You’re literally standing guard”.

He shrugged. “Habit.”

You shut the door in his face. From behind it, you heard him mutter, “If it’s positive, I’m naming it John Wayne”.

“You are not!”. A pause. Then, quieter: “Okay. Maybe we talk about it".

When you finally opened the door, he tried to look casual and failed completely. His eyes went straight to your hands. You held up the test with a palm that had started shaking. Ben went still. Then his face changed. “Yeah?”, he whispered.

You nodded once, breath catching.

Ben exhaled hard through his nose like he’d been punched, then stepped forward and stopped himself halfway, hands flexing at his sides. “You okay?”, he asked, too careful for a man like him.

You swallowed. “I think so”.

He nodded, eyes bright, and tried to make his mouth work around something cocky. Something dirty. Something that wouldn’t show how much it meant. What came out instead was, “Holy shit”. Then he cleared his throat and recovered just enough to add, “Guess I’m still good at my part”.

You smacked his arm. He laughed and finally, finally, he reached for you. Slow. Asking with his body first. When you didn’t pull away, his arms came around you like he’d been holding his breath for months. “I got you”, he murmured into your hair.

-

The morning you told the pastor, the sun came up clean and gold over the little town like it didn’t know anything about the years you’d lost.

You sat on the porch step afterward with a glass of water sweating in your hand, watching dust drift down the road behind an early truck. Ben paced the yard, then stopped and pretended he wasn’t pacing by “checking” the fence post for absolutely no reason. He’d been doing that a lot since the test. Hovering, without admitting it. Like if he kept moving, the joy couldn’t turn into fear.

You watched him for a moment. “Ben”, you called.

He stopped instantly. Looked at you like you’d snapped a leash. “What”.

“You’re wearing a hole in the grass”.

He blinked. Then that crooked little grin tried to show up and couldn’t quite find its place. “Habit”.

“You’re allowed to sit”.

He hesitated, then came over and dropped down beside you with a heavy exhale, shoulder brushing yours. His knee bumped yours and stayed touching, as if he’d decided he didn’t want any space left between you today.

You held your water with both hands, staring out at the quiet street. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Ben said, rough and oddly careful, “You want tea?”. You almost smiled. It was such an ordinary question. The kind of question a husband asked in the morning in a small house on a quiet street. The kind of question you’d once answered without thinking. “Yes”, you said softly. “Please”.

Ben nodded like he could do that at least. Like tea was something he could make right when so much else had been ruined. He stood to go inside, then paused and looked down at you. His eyes moved to your hand. To your wedding ring. To his ring on his own finger. He reached out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted, and tucked one loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles barely grazed your cheek. “Still can’t believe you’re here”, he murmured.

You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. “Neither can I”.

He huffed a breath through his nose and left his hand there for a second longer than necessary. Then he went inside.

You listened to him in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, the old kettle filling, the low curse when he bumped his hip on the counter because he still hadn’t learned that small houses didn’t move out of the way for big men.

The sound settled something in you. It reminded you, painfully and sweetly, of another small house. Another quiet street. Another kitchen where you used to sit with a mending basket at your feet and listen for footsteps that didn’t come.

Back then, you had waited in silence. Now, you didn’t have to.

Ben came back out with two mugs. He’d even put a spoonful of sugar in yours the way you liked without asking. That made your chest ache in a small, secret way you didn’t name.

He sat beside you again and handed you the mug carefully, then stared out at the street.

After a minute he said, “You scared?”.

You glanced at him. He didn’t look at you when he asked it. He was looking past the fence line, past the mailbox, out at nothing. The question sounded like it had cost him.

You blew gently on the tea. “Yes”.

Ben nodded once. Like he had expected that. Then he finally looked at you. His eyes were too honest for his own comfort. “Me too”, he admitted.

You shifted your mug to one hand and reached for his other on the porch step. His hand was warm, callused and heavy. He stiffened for half a second, then let your fingers lace with his like he’d been waiting for permission.

“You know”, you said softly, “in the beginning… I used to sit and sew and listen for you”.

Ben’s mouth tightened. “I know”.

“I stayed up because I thought one day you’d walk through the door and be him again”.

Ben’s gaze dropped to your joined hands. For a moment you saw the old shame try to rise. The old instinct to get mean or dismissive to escape it. But he didn’t. He stayed. You watched the choice happen in his face, and it made something in you loosen, just a little.

“I’m… sorry”, he said, quiet as breath.

You didn’t answer with forgiveness. But you squeezed his hand. Ben’s thumb moved across your knuckles.

“You still gonna make me go to church every Saturday?”, he asked.

You tilted your head. “Yes”.

He sighed like a man enduring terrible hardship. “Unbelievable”.

“You need it”.

“You need it too”, he grumbled, then added, quieter, “I’ll go”.

You smiled into your mug. "I know".

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 AND I may have a surprise for you 🙈

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