A.M. Jackson

The twenty-four-hour grocery store passed in a blur. Whiskey. Steaks. A bag of salad you both knew Dean wasn’t going to touch. Mundane items. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He stayed a step behind you. He was close enough to guard, far enough not to touch.

Back in the Impala, instead of taking the turn toward the bunker, he stayed on the highway a little longer. Then he signaled and pulled off into a rest area. You noticed, but you held your tongue. You’d learned when Dean went quiet like this, it was smarter to wait.

The place was secluded. Empty. The kind of place that probably saw families and tour buses during the day, but now it was nothing but asphalt and trees. Dark, tall woods on all sides, the area overwhelmed with pine and rot. One flickering streetlight overhead, throwing long, warped shadows across the lot.

He drove past the first few spots and parked at the far edge, directly beneath a security camera mounted on a utility pole. A little black dome. Unblinking. He killed the engine.

The silence rushed in all at once.

“What are—” you started. Your voice carrying too loud. You were going to ask why he’d pulled over. You didn’t get the chance.

The second you turned toward him, he was already moving. Dean slammed into you, pinning you against the passenger door. No warning. No space. His mouth crashed into yours. Not a kiss, not really. All teeth and pressure. His hand locked on your jaw, forcing your face up. Forcing you to look at him.

Rage. That was your first thought. Pure Winchester finally snapping loose. “You think I’m deaf?!” he growled, the words vibrating through your chest.

The strength to push him away vanished the moment he asked. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. You tried to look away instead. “Wh-what are you talking about?” The denial came out thin. You heard it. So did he.

“Shower,” he corrected, thumb dragging hard along your jaw. Nothing gentle about his touch. You clenched your teeth.

One word. That's all it took.

You braced for it. The blowup. The accusation. The moment he asked what you’d done. But it didn’t come.

What you felt instead was the hard line of his cock pressed tight against your stomach, his jeans the only thing between you.

Oh. This wasn’t just anger. 

Heat rushed to your face first. Sharp. Humiliating. Your stomach dropped. He’d heard the shower. Every wet sound, every ragged breath you’d surrendered. He knew exactly how Jensen had tasted you, how he'd used you, and he’d been on the other side of the door for every second of it. Of course he knew.

"Look at me when you lie."

No more pretending.

The spell answered before you could. Embarrassment twisted fast into something hotter, meaner. You tried to shut it down. Your body didn’t listen. Magic never did. You forced yourself to breathe. To think.

Your eyes slid past him, catching the security camera. “Dean,” you breathed. A warning. “The camera...”

He followed your gaze. A slow grin crept across his mouth. It wasn't amusement. It was satisfaction. “I know,” he whispered. The look in his eyes told you the camera wasn’t a problem. It was leverage.

“You like being watched, Pet?” His hand, already on your jaw, tightened. You tried to turn away again, but this time, he wouldn't let you. 

His thumb dug into the soft space beneath your chin, forcing your face to him. He held you there until your eyes fixed on the utility pole. On the dark, unblinking lens fixed at the top. He made sure you were looking. “Good," he rasped. "Let 'em watch.”

Before you could answer, his hand slid up your thigh. No hesitation. He grabbed your skirt and hauled it up hard, bunching the fabric at your hips, his fingers finding the damp lace as though he'd expected it.

He didn’t waste time with your underwear. He hooked his fingers into the lace and tore it aside. He didn’t just want you exposed. He wanted it gone. No buffer left between you and him.

The sound of fabric ripping startled you for a split second. He had never done this before. Not once.

Your body didn’t let the thought linger. The pull came back hard.

“Dean, stop,” you whispered, catching his wrist. Your fingers closed around him, but not to move him. Not really. It was a warning. A dare. You knew it the second you did it. The risk of it, how badly it could blow back on you, only made it harder to pull away. “Not here,” you whispered. “Not like this. Please...”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he murmured, thumb circling your clit. You couldn't help yourself. Your hips rolled. You liked it. 

"I heard you," he went on. 

"Every sound." Your breath shuddered. He hadn’t just heard you. He’d listened to every second of it.

"While he fucked you and used you." Another beat. Sharper. 

"While he had my face and didn’t earn it."

And God help you, you wanted him to keep talking. Wanted him to tell you exactly what he’d heard. Wanted the shame dragged out into the open in his voice. The idea of Dean standing on the other side of that door, listening while you unraveled with another man, should’ve made you sick. Instead, it left you drenched and desperate.

Dean didn’t know that part. He probably thought it was guilt.

It was.

Just...not only that.

Before you could answer, he was already lowering himself. Too close. His breath brushed your inner thigh. He didn’t hurry. He took his time, watching you the whole time, tracking the exact second you’d crack. He could feel the heat coming off you, smell the need clinging to your skin. He pushed your legs wider, unapologetic, his broad shoulders wedging you against the door. Then his mouth followed, tracing a slow, wet trail.

Your back arched on instinct. You bit down hard on your lip, refusing to give him the sound he was clearly hunting for.

It held. Barely.

The noise slipped anyway.

Dean lifted his head and smiled. Not cocky. Not playful. This was darker. Meaner.

"Huh,” he breathed. “Was this how he tasted you?" Another flick from his tongue. Everything you’d been holding back went up at once. 

"Uh-huh." A thin and breathless response slipped out of you. You couldn’t focus anymore. Your breath left you in a broken rush, vision blurring at the edges as your body tipped forward into it. Your back twisted, helpless. 

“So that’s it,” he murmured, mouth brushing your inner thigh, followed by a kiss. “That’s the fantasy.” His thumb dragged slow against your clit, not giving you enough. Never enough. “Same face. Same voice. A matched set.”

The accusation hit hard. You wanted to deny it. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. But your body had already answered for you.

He laughed softly, his wet lips brushing yours. "Thought so, Pet." He didn’t wait. He leaned in and bit your inner thigh. Just enough to mark you without breaking skin. You moaned. “Should’ve known one of me wasn’t enough for you...

"I stood there," he muttered against your wet skin, his breath hot. You shivered. "Listened to you beg for it. Listened to him call you a 'good girl'..." His hands tightened on your thigh.

Then his mouth was on your pussy again, faster this time, rougher, like he was trying to drag every sound out of you and take over the memory of you and Jensen. 

The sound that left you was low and continuous, a moan you couldn’t seem to stop. Your head lolled back against the window, jaw slack, useless. A thin line of wetness gathered at the corner of your mouth because you’d forgotten how to swallow. How to breathe. How to be anything but a mess for him.

He pushed two fingers inside you in one rough move.

“Is this how he did it?” he growled against your skin, voice muffled and vibrating right through you. “Hm? Did he hit this spot?”

He curled his fingers, finding that deep place that made your toes curl.

A jagged, choked-off scream tore out of you. Your fingers clawed at the leather seat as your hips bucked helplessly against him.

“Or was he too busy playing pretend?”

Your thoughts scattered. Adrenaline flooded through you. Every word landed exactly where he meant it to, stripping away what little pride you had left.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. Your body was already giving him everything your mouth wouldn’t.

He worked your clit harder, rougher, dragging sounds out of you that filled the cramped space of the Impala. The leather creaked beneath your hands. Your knees shook. Your composure cracked.

“You’re so damn wet for me.” His voice rough against your skin. “Listen to that. You hear yourself?”

You hated how much that affected you. You reached down, fingers fumbling against him like you meant to push him away. You didn’t.

“Dean…” you gasped. “Please...no...”

He looked up just enough for you to see the damage that did. His mouth curved, dark and satisfied.

“You sure?” he rasped. “Cause right now, your body's calling you a liar.”

Then he leaned in harder, dragging another broken sound out of you like he’d been waiting for the excuse. He let the sound linger between you before pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild.

“You like knowing they could see, don’t you?” he rasped.

Your heart raced, and he felt it. His mouth curved, but there was nothing amused in it.

“He didn’t make you sound like this.” A beat. Lower. Rougher. “Yeah. Didn't think so.”

You couldn’t answer. Not with words. Your body was already falling apart under his mouth, under his hands, chasing the edge he kept dragging closer. But it wasn’t enough anymore. You didn’t just want release. You wanted him. All of him.

So you shifted back, palms sliding over the dash and the seat, not far enough to get away. Just enough to make him follow. To make him prove he would.

“Dean, please—” you moaned. Too breathless. 

He reacted fast, hands catching your waist and dragging you back against him. His face hovered inches from yours, his breath warm and uneven against your mouth. For one second, his gaze searched yours. You didn’t look away.

“Don’t bullshit me,” he growled. “You want to run, princess? Then run like you mean it.”

He didn’t waste another second. His door opened, cold night air rushing into the hot, musky car. Then his hands were on you, pulling you across the seat. Your feet barely touched the gravel before you took a half-step back. His grip tightened hard enough to pull a sharp yelp from you. Then he turned you toward the Impala, slamming you forward until your stomach met the hood.

The metal was warm from the long drive, heat bleeding through your clothes. You gasped, and Dean pressed in behind you, his weight keeping you there without crushing you.

“Look at it, Pet,” he rasped against your ear. His hand caught your jaw, tilting your face toward the little black dome on the pole. "That's better."

His hand moved lower, hiking your skirt at your waist again, and the cold air hit everywhere he’d left you exposed.

“You’re still a mess for me,” he muttered. “Even out here. Even after him.” His mouth brushed your ear. “Tell me he didn’t get this far.”

You tried to squeeze your legs shut, a last-ditch effort to keep some part of yourself private in the middle of the dark parking lot. It’s useless. Dean just grunts, his heavy thigh wedging between yours and forcing you back open against the warm metal. He’s much stronger, and he used his weight to crush you down until you’re pinned flat.

He leaned over you, breath hot against your ear. "I wouldn't, if I were you..."

“Wait—” you gasped. “Not out here.” Your pulse was out of control now. The rest area. The camera. The open dark around you. This was insane.

Seriously? On the hood of the car? In public? Has he completely lost his damn mind?

He loomed over you. The sound he made was more threat than question.

“Wait? Thought you didn’t like it cramped,” he murmured. “Let’s give camera guy a better view.”

Something twisted inside you. It wasn't about nerves. You were turned on. Hard. Of course that was his answer. He was taking back what he thought he’d lost to Jensen, and he didn't care who saw him do it.

The way he pressed you into the hood. The outdoors. The idea that someone or something might be watching. It made your skin feel too alive.

And still not enough.

You clenched your hands against the Impala. “You’re out of your mind,” you fought back, jaw clenched. But you didn't move. You stayed exactly where he put you.

He didn’t wait for your permission. He reached between your legs and drove his fingers inside you. Sudden. Rough. Another scream tore out of you, the sound echoing off the asphalt. 

This should’ve been where you stopped playing. Where you told him no for real. You knew he would listen. That was the dangerous part.

Instead, your pride betrayed you. His fingers curled in slowly, twisting against that one spot deep inside you that he knew better than you did. Than Jensen. This was him reminding you that he knew your body better than anyone. That he could break you whenever he wanted.

You were getting lightheaded, breath coming uneven, skin hot and overly aware. The sound of him working you closer. It was obscene. 

And still, you didn’t use the word that would make him stop.

“Yeah,” he grunted, his mouth brushing your ear. “Just like that… is my Pet ready?”

You swallowed hard. “Stop… calling me… pet,” you managed between broken breaths.

He caught it instantly. His arm came around you, firmly holding you still against the hood. You twisted your hips, testing him. His grip tightened quick.

His voice dropped, dark and close to your ear. “Careful, Pet. Keep talking like that, and you're gonna get exactly what you're asking for.”

You met his stare and smirked. “You gonna do something about it, Winchester?” you challenged him. “Or are you just here to hear yourself talk?”

His smirk vanished. He went very still. For a second, you thought you’d pushed too far.

Then he leaned in. There was no love in the way he spoke.

“Oh, I’m gonna do something, Pet. I’m gonna make damn sure you remember who you belong to.” The promise hung in the air until the silence felt like it might crush you.

Then he moved. His hand closed around your waist and turned you exactly where he wanted.

“Knees on the hood,” he ordered. Not a suggestion.

You intentionally hesitated, barely, and that was enough. His hand shot up fast, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He dug his thumb into the sensitive dip at the base of your skull. It wasn't about pain. A reminder on who exactly was in control.

“Now, Pet.” He didn't raise his voice. He watched you, sounded satisfied. The thrill hit you, sliding straight down your spine, and pooling between your legs. You didn’t wait for a second warning. You moved.

You could have blamed the spell. Maybe you would, later. It was easier than admitting this had lived under your skin long before the witch got her hands on you. The spell didn’t put this in your head. It didn’t invent the things you’d fantasized and shoved away because wanting them felt too bold, too dirty, too much.

Fear, want, shame...all of it tangled together until you couldn’t tell where magic ended and you began. But your will wasn’t gone. Right now, it wanted Dean.

He didn’t move right away. He just stood there, waiting, watching you bent over the hood of the Impala. He let you sit in the silence and the heavy weight of his stare. You squirmed. You were completely exposed to the woods and the dark.

Bare. Aching. Helpless. 

A low sound left him. Approval. His hand came around your ass, his palm rough as he began to slowly knead the flesh. He wasn't rushing; he was paying attention to every reaction you failed to hide.

“Damn.” His voice was dark and possessive. “Look at you, Pet.”

He took his time. Dipped low, close enough that you felt his breath before you understood what he was doing. Wet. Warm. Intentional. His mouth dragged over you, tasting you, slow enough to make your knees weaken. He didn’t use his hands. Not yet. Just his mouth, spreading you open, leaving you exposed and shaking in the night air.

The sounds tore out of you. You didn’t bother trying to stop them anymore. Your hips jerked on instinct, body tipping past restraint. He was relearning you. Making sure you felt it. Making sure you heard every second of it. Every lick. Every breath. Every filthy sound he pulled out of you.

This wasn’t about speed. It was about control. The second you gave him even the hint of pulling away, his hands closed firmly around your thighs. He stayed there, between your legs, long enough for them to start shaking, for the edge to get so close it burned. He held you there, letting you feel the friction, then he pulled back. Slow. Not clean. Like stopping took effort.

You were left bent over the hood, gasping, muscles trembling, need screaming under your skin.

“Don’t stop.” It was your turn to growl.

He laughed. “Impatient, Pet?” There was nothing gentle in the laugh. “You want it? Then beg.”

Thing was you don’t beg. It’s not who you were. The reflex was there. To just tell him to go to hell, to make him work harder, to keep that last scrap of pride between your teeth...but pride was getting harder to hold onto. Not because the spell forced it out of you. Because the spell made it easier to stop pretending you didn’t want this.

The sound that slipped free was small and broken. A whimper you barely recognized until it was already out. Need, stripped bare. No defense. "P-please..."

Dean heard every second of it.

“That’s a start.” A slow, satisfied grin cut across his face under the streetlight. 

You were so close it hurt. You were furious at yourself, yes, but not for wanting it. Furious at him for dragging the truth out of you.

And right now? Pride didn't matter nearly as much as getting what you needed. What you wanted.

"You're shaking so hard the car is moving, Pet," he said, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. "You wanna run? Try it. But careful, Pet. Keep pushing me, and this gets a whole lot rougher.”

You stayed slumped over the hood. You were a mess. Your hair stuck to your damp forehead, lips wet and swollen...you just couldn't find a rhythm.

He walked away, boots crunching over gravel. You didn’t move. Didn't want to.

Then came the heavy creak of the trunk opening. Whatever he grabbed from the back, it wasn’t going to help you keep what little control you had left.

You held your breath as the trunk slammed shut. The metallic bang echoed through the lot, sharp enough to make you flinch.

For half a second, you caught his face under the light. A wide, satisfied grin. Dangerous, even. It wasn’t playful. It was planning.

Dread and excitement tightened in your gut.

Gravel crunched again as he walked back. He didn't rush, letting you hear every heavy step until he stopped right behind you. He was close enough you felt his warmth against your thighs. Close enough that the fine hairs on your neck stood up.

“Had a surprise for you,” he mused, far too pleased with himself. He paused, letting the words sink in while you stood exposed in the cold air. 

“Was gonna wait ’til next week.” Another beat. “But I think now’s a real good time to open your gift.”

You didn’t have to see it to know.

The sound gave it away first, a low buzz cutting through the silent parking lot. You held your breath. Your body jerked on instinct. Too late. It touched you, just briefly, vibrating against your slick skin. It nearly knocked you off the hood.

“Jesus—” A rough, unfiltered sound tore out of you, and your body bucked. The sensation slammed straight through every defense you had, turning your legs weak and your grip useless.

The world disappeared. Noise. Vibration. Pressure. Nothing else. A raw scream ripped out of you. The force of it knocked the breath from you. You shifted like you might slide off the hood, but Dean caught your hips and held you there. Exactly where you needed him to.

“Dean. Stop, please.” The words shredded out of you on a breath you didn’t have to spare. Not because it didn’t feel good. Because it was too much. You’d never needed a shortcut like this before. Not with him. And now your body was tipping, seconds from coming. Right here. Out in the open. No hiding it.

It stopped. You slumped against the metal, lungs burning as you breathed in. The aftershock lingered deep in your muscles. You blinked, disoriented, when his grip loosened and the sound cut out. He didn't say a word. He just held you there for a second, letting you feel him there while the cold night air hit your skin.

“On your back,” he said, almost gentle. You took your time obeying, lungs still trying to catch up. The hood was warm against your skin. Your head was spinning. You couldn’t read him. Was this it?

He didn't give you a chance to figure it out. The second you settled, he leaned in, his mouth crashing into yours before you could even brace yourself, stealing the questions right off your lips.

He hesitated when he felt the dampness on your skin. Not the mess between your legs, but higher. On your face. He lifted himself off you at once, finally hearing the way your breath was shaking. A way you hadn’t even noticed yet.

“Hey,” he said, quieter than he’d been all night. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping it clean. 

You blinked up at him, startled by the tenderness more than the tear itself. Of all things, that had done it. Not the camera. Not the cold. Not him dragging every ugly little truth out of you. Just him stopping. Just him noticing.

You breathed out through your nose, trying to steady yourself. Then again, slower this time. His eyes stayed on yours, narrowed with something that wasn’t anger anymore. Concern.

“You okay?” he asked. Not a challenge. A real question.

"Huh?" You caught the look on his face and immediately understood. “Yeah...”

His brow furrowed, searching your face. “I’m not stopping,” he rasped, the sound barely a breath against your lips. “But I need to know you’re here. With me.” And if you didn’t, you knew he’d stop. No hesitation.

You held his gaze long enough for him to believe you. Then your mouth curved.

“I’m here,” you admitted softly. Then slyly added, “so don’t make them wait for the big finale.”

The surprise on his face lasted half a second. Then it vanished. He didn't waste time. He kissed you hard, taking your answer seriously. Like he was done holding back.

You hooked your legs over his shoulders, surprising him all over again, drawing him in as close as you could get. His breath caught, but only for a second. Then his hands braced on the hood on either side of you, caging you in as he leaned down. 

You didn’t even realize his jeans were already open until he settled against your slick cunt and the hard length of his cock dragged against you. Your lips curved, slow and pleased, like some part of you had been waiting for this all night.

The buzz returned. He didn’t touch you with it this time. He put it in your hand. “Your call, sweetheart,” he said against your mouth. You bit his lower lip and took the choice for yourself.

The silicone tip barely grazed you before a broken sound tore through the quiet. Your head snapped back, focus blowing apart as the vibration hit and his cock filled you at the same time. Hard. Unforgiving. Ripping you apart. No space. No warning. Too much, all at once. 

He didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, buried deep, watching you, waiting it out.

Then he moved, every thrust slow and heavy. Grinding into you in time with the vibration shaking through your hand. The car shifted beneath you, metal groaning, and you couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and the next started.

“Look at me,” he grunted. 

It took effort, but you did it. You met his eyes. The need was written all over him now. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing just as hard. You gripped the toy tighter, the pressure building. Sharp. Unstoppable. You couldn’t get enough air. Knowing that there was nowhere to hide finished what little control you had left. 

You finally broke.

The sound that tore out of you didn’t feel human at all. Your body arched clean off the hood shaking, riding the orgasm.

"Fuck!" You’d never come like this before. Never this far gone. Never with him watching every second of it. And God help you, you loved it. Every bit of it. The weight of him over you. The way he kept pounding you, turning the orgasm into something sharp enough to hurt and good enough to chase. It was brutal. It was addictive. It broke over you again and again, violent and sweet, until you couldn’t tell if you were begging him to stop or begging him not to.

Dean covered your mouth when the sound kept tearing out of you. Not to silence you. To keep himself from losing it. Hearing you come apart always unraveled him, and this time was worse. His lips pressed to the back of his own hand, breath hot against your skin.

“Shh, Princess. Please,” he grunted, voice strained. He was fighting it too. You felt it in the way his pace picked up, in the rough sounds he forced down with every drive of his hips. Dean didn’t lose control easily.

You felt every inch of him proving it.

“Dean—” you begged, the word breaking apart as your fingers clawed at his back. “I can’t—”

Another wave hit before you could finish. His cock drove deeper, harder, stealing the thought completely. The toy dragged over your clit again and again, merciless. Your body pressed into him, useless against it, your cunt clenching tight around him in violent, uncontrollable spasms.

The sound it tore from him was rough. Wrecked. Almost painful.

“Not yet,” you managed, the words shaking loose as another wave rolled through you. “Don’t you dare come, Winchester.”

The words surprised both of you.

He froze.

You felt the way his body went rigid, the way he locked himself down instead of driving forward. His breath stuttered once, sharp, then steadied.

“I didn’t tell you to stop fucking me.” You rocked against him just enough to make his control crack. A sound escaped him, half curse, half plea. Every muscle in his body screamed for release, and still he held himself back.

Right on the edge.

And he obeyed.

The realization hit harder than it should have. Dean Winchester, all discipline and control when it mattered, was waiting because you told him to.

You moved against him again, slow and deliberate, watching the strain carve itself across his face. You needed to see him unravel the way you had. Needed proof you could still pull him apart.

With a sharp curse, he ripped the vibrator away and flung it into the ground. It skidded somewhere into the dark. He didn’t want the toy anymore. Didn’t want anything between you and what you were doing to him. 

Both his hands closed around your wrists above your head, pinning you there, but it didn't feel like control this time. It felt like surrender.

He dropped his mouth to your ear, breath ragged. The sound that left him was a half plea, half warning, but he still didn’t take what you hadn’t given.

“Wanna come?” you asked, your own control slipping back into place.

He nodded against your neck, already undone. "Please..."

"Yeah? Then do it, Winchester," you whispered. "With me..."

The last of his control snapped.

He broke. No pacing now. No restraint. Just Dean, raw and desperate, fucking you like he could erase the last hour if he drove deep enough.

You lost count somewhere between thrusts. He made you come, again and again, until all you could do was hold on.

His hands, which had been punishing before, softened your shoulders, pulling you closer instead of holding you down. He wanted you. Needed you. His forehead dropped to yours, breath uneven, like he needed the contact as much as you did. His mouth found yours, not gentle exactly, but desperate. A kiss meant to keep you with him while he finished what he’d started.

He was close. You felt it in the way his body tensed, in the way he hesitated instead of letting go. You held him there, fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs still hooked over him, wanting to feel him give. Wanting to take from him the way he’d taken from you.

"Fuck!" He came hard, shuddering over you as he called out your name. He stayed pressed to you, pounding you still, coming inside you until there was nothing left in him to give.

This was Dean Winchester. Not the hunter. Not the mask. Yours.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, forehead dropped against your shoulder, both of you just breathing in the sudden stillness. Crickets. The streetlight’s buzz. The vibrator still humming somewhere on the gravel.

Your legs had all the strength of overcooked spaghetti. “You wrecked me, you son of a bitch,” you breathed, barely loud enough to be a sentence.

You felt more than heard his chuckle, vibrating through his chest and into you.

"That was the point, princess,” he murmured against your hair. He tapped your thigh, and you let your legs slide down from his shoulders, shaking. A moan escaped your lips as he pulled his cock out of you. He eased back, zipped his jeans like the two of you hadn't just defiled the hood of his car, and you stayed right where you were, sprawled across the warm metal, breath still nowhere near caught.

Your body ached in the best way, thighs trembling, skirt bunched high enough that you were probably lucky the rest area was empty.

He watched you for a second, unreadable in the flickering light. His tongue dragged slowly across his lower lip before he finally exhaled.

“C’mon,” he said, voice rough but stripped of its edge as he tugged your skirt back into place. Your underwear was a lost cause.

He slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you off the hood. He held you close, firm and careful. For a second, there was no spell, no camera, no audience. Just Dean holding you the way he always did when the world got too loud.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and breathed him in. Sweat. Leather. Dean. It slowly brought you down from the high, piece by piece, until your thoughts started fitting together again. 

Then your gaze drifted to the hood, and you winced. “I didn’t...did we scratch her?”

Dean followed your gaze, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Baby’s taken worse,” he said. “She’ll live.”

He set you gently into the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking under your weight, his movements steady despite everything that had just happened. He didn’t rush away. He stayed there, one hand braced on the door, eyes locked on yours. The hunger was still there. Probably always would be. But for now, it had quieted. 

He stepped back, retrieved the vibrator from the gravel, wiped it absently on his jeans, and tossed it onto the dash like it belonged there. Then, he caught your eye, and that wicked Winchester grin appeared.

It wasn't for them.

It was for you.

He slid back into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under him. He didn’t start the car right away. Just sat there, breath still a little uneven. A silence settled between you, and for once, neither of you rushed to break it.

Then you leaned over, body sore in all the right ways, and hooked a finger under his jaw, turning his face to yours. You kissed him slow then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Mine,” you said quietly, teeth catching his lower lip. No theatrics. Just fact. “Clear?”

The surprise on his face flashed quick and real. He hadn’t expected you to throw it back at him like that. Then that crooked and dangerous grin showed up. He leaned in until his mouth brushed yours. “Yeah,” he answered. “Crystal.”

He pulled back, dropped the car into gear, and the engine roared to life.

You smiled and curled into the passenger seat, satisfied.

“All right,” he added, tone casual again, but not fooled. “Let’s go home. Hollywood's probably wondering what's taking us so long.”

Rae

The van rocked gently as we headed home, soft rock mumbling from the radio. After a whole day running around with Dean and Garth, I was done. At thirty-two weeks, tired was my new normal. We’d spent the whole day playing house. We went shopping for cribs, bottles, blankets, all the little things that screamed a baby was actually coming. My head tipped against the cool window, the world outside smearing into green and gray.

Dean had the wheel, steady hands wrapped around it like he was pretending the van was Baby. He hated the thing, spent the morning grumbling about how a minivan was “an insult to mankind.” But that didn’t stop him from driving carefully. And Garth? Wedged in the back like a pack mule, humming off-key like he hadn’t just spent three hours wrestling strollers, car seats, and breast pumps.

There was still a mountain left to do, like paint swatches for the nursery, baby-proofing the bunker (good luck with that one, Dean), more doctor’s appointments, more checklists. But at least I wasn’t doing it alone. Everyone had been pitching in, even Gabby with her not-so-subtle drop-ins.

And Dean…well, he hadn’t left my side in twelve weeks. No surprise hunts. No vanishing acts. Just here. Always here. Sweet, yeah, but also kinda annoying. Everywhere I turned, he was there. That's why I no longer listen to audiobooks with my back facing the door. Learned that lesson.

But he’d become the ultimate "fixer," even if he still couldn't cook rice to save his life.

At this point, the baby basically ran the show. Everything ached, from my back down to my feet. Turns out pregnancy comes with DLC nobody asked for. Ever heard of round ligament pain or "lightning crotch"? Yeah, neither had I. Yet here I was, wearing a maternity belt every day and waddling like a penguin.

Heartburn’s a bitch, too. And somehow, the only thing that sounded good was diner food at two in the morning. The kind Dean swore fixed everything, and he wasn't wrong. I didn't even like greasy spoons before. Now? I'd sell my soul for a side of hashbrowns.

But if I was honest, it also scared me. The Dean I’d started to learn a few months ago wasn’t this man. He was a hunter, and from what Garth had told me, they didn't do this. They didn't stay, and they sure as hell didn't shop for strollers. Yet here he was, bending his whole life around me like he didn't know any other way to breathe.

Did it make me love our little peanut any less? Not a chance in hell. If anything, every ache, every kick, every time Dean’s face lit up when he felt movement, it just made me fall harder. For both of them. I just didn't know yet if I was watching him step up...or give up something he couldn't afford to lose.

A sharp twinge tugged at my left side. When I shifted my hand to rub it, the baby answered with a rolling kick. Dean’s free hand rested on his thigh, so I slid it over, guiding him to the spot. To anyone else, the constant "feel this" would’ve been annoying. But not him. Every time, he stopped cold, like the tiniest movement was enough for him to drop everything.

His thumb brushed slow circles, his shoulders easing. For a second the hunter face eased off. Then came that quiet smile, like he forgot how to be tough.

“Daddy’s hand is right here, peanut. Feel that?”

His hand twitched under mine. He swallowed hard, his ears going a little pink. He tried to play it cool, eyes fixed on the road, but that soft smile stayed anyway. Every kick wasn’t just movement to him; it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

“Whoa, easy there, slugger,” he muttered. “You're gonna break something in there before you even get out.” He looked from my stomach to my face, his green eyes warm.

I shot him a look, one brow climbing. “Break something? What? Am I incubating a wrecking ball, Papi?" His smile only grew.

From the back seat, Garth piped in. “Kid's a ballerina. No. Tap dancer. That's the vibe.”

Dean groaned. "Garth…”

“What?” Garth grinned. “Every great hunter needs a hobby. Why not jazz hands?”

I chuckled, my hand smoothing over my stomach. “Just picture it, peanut,” I whispered. “Daddy sitting in a dance studio full of moms, waiting for you to finish practice.”

The word still tripped him up. 'Daddy.' I couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or secretly loving it. Maybe both.

“Oh yeah,” Garth drawled. “Just you wait. Your daddy’s gonna be layin’ that Winchester charm on thick when you’re older. We saw him with those checkout ladies today, didn’t we? Total chick magnet.”

Dean groaned, his ears turning a deeper shade of red. “Dude… just shut up.”

Flashback - Babies ‘R’ Us

Babies “R” Expensive. That’s what the store should’ve been called. Bright lights, pastel walls, price tags that made my head spin. Pink everywhere. Plush toys with blank little button eyes. A wall of pacifiers that made me wonder how any baby ever survived. Overwhelming? Yeah. But in a good way.

Dean looked like he’d just been dropped into a Care Bears-themed version of hell. Completely lost. I was already biting back a laugh when two employees in matching purple polos zeroed in, all smiles and perkiness.

One of them, blonde ponytail, maybe my age? She smiled way too big at him. “First time, huh?”

And of course, the patented Winchester smirk appeared. “That obvious?”

I rolled my eyes. Not jealousy. Nah, not exactly. But he caught it, anyway. His eyes met mine, amused, knowing. I see you, Rae.

I shot back a look of my own. Whatever.

The twenty-something year old giggled. And I mean giggled. Too flirtatious for a store full of diapers. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you. I mean—uh, of you both.”

I glanced at Dean, already bracing for the charm. The harmless flirt he didn't even think about anymore. It never came. Instead, he reached for me. His large, warm hand slipping into mine, fitting perfectly, fingers lacing without hesitation. Then he bent just enough to brush a kiss against the top of my head, like it was something we’d done a thousand times before.

Hand-holding and a kiss? Seriously. I shouldn’t have been blushing. I definitely shouldn’t have been thrown off by it. But...dammit, Dean.

“Appreciate the offer,” he said smoothly. “But I think I’ve got my hands full with my wife. You’ll be my first call if we need backup.” His hand tightened around mine.

Wife. There it was again. Too easy. Too natural. Slid off his tongue like it belonged there.

Me? It still didn’t sit right. No matter how many times he said it. Maybe one day it would. Someday.

---

Strollers. Rows and rows of them. Monster trucks for babies. I swear some of them had more features than the Impala. Cup holders, suspension, tires thick enough to survive potholes, gravel, and whatever nightmare scenario Dean had already imagined.

He circled one with the same focus he gave weapons. Spun the wheel. Checked the frame. Muttered something about maneuverability.

“Sir,” I said flatly. “It’s a stroller. For a baby. Not a tank.”

“If we gotta move fast,” he replied, dead serious, “you’ll thank me for the swivel wheels.”

Oh, my God. He was actually weighing the options, like this was life or death instead of strollers. Trying to pick the one that would keep our kid safest. He was already being more of a parent than I felt like I was. I turned away, pretending to study the wall of car seats so I didn’t have to admit it.

As I wandered toward the heavy-duty bases, my hand brushed against a display box. I stopped when I saw it. A tiny, soft-white onesie sitting on top of a car seat, clearly abandoned by some other shopper who had changed their mind. I reached out, my fingers grazing the fabric. It was barely bigger than my hand.

And out of nowhere, thoughts of Michael crashed through me. The future I’d once planned. The one I lost. It suddenly became harder to breathe.

My hand had flown to my mouth, pressing hard like I could keep the sob trapped in my chest. Not now, Reima. Not with your husb—Not with Dean by your side...

Then there was a hand at my back. Warm. Steady. Broad enough to cover half my spine. Dean. He didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word. He just stepped into my space and held me. I leaned in, my head against his chest.

My jaw clenched until it ached. I clung to his shirt, bunching the heavy fabric in my hand, hanging onto him. There were no words between us. Just his palm moving up and down my back, like he knew exactly where to put pressure.

After a few breaths, the shaking eased. Not because I talked myself down. Because he was right here, and my body finally believed it.

Just as I started to look up, ready to offer a trembling thank you, his entire body went still. His voice came out flat, horrified, and loud enough to turn heads. “What the hell are those?!”

I pulled my face away from him, already bracing for whatever nonsense had triggered that tone. And sure enough there was Garth, walking toward us, arms stacked high with boxes.

Not one.

Not two.

But three. He looked like he’d just hit the jackpot at a county fair.

Dean’s face was priceless. Wide eyes. Ears flaming red. I snorted. I couldn't help it. “It’s exactly what it looks like, hon---er, Dean.”

At first, I thought he heard me because he didn't say a word. He blinked, staring at the boxes. “You mean…” He hesitated, then jabbed a finger at one like it was cursed. “…that thing milks you?!”

For a split second, I was a little disappointed. But when I saw the horror on his face and heard what he said, it took me out. I laughed so hard my stomach tightened and I had to brace a hand over the bump. "Stop! Both of you. I'm gonna pee myself!"

He was so damn pure sometimes. Garth nearly dropped one of the pumps, wheezing. “Dude, you should see the travel versions!”

“Okay, laugh it up, you two,” Dean muttered, face still red. "Yeah, yeah. Real funny." He shot us a look, shaking his head. “Glad you’re both gettin’ a kick outta this.”

Back in the van

I couldn’t stop replaying Dean’s face. Thank God for these two, because without them, the day would’ve crushed me. Still, I was going to have to figure those pumps out on my own. No way Dean was surviving the first time one of them actually starts doing what it's supposed to do.

The bickering started up again, this time about setting up the car seat in the Impala. 

"It's not going in Baby," Dean snapped.

"Dude, it's literally built for cars," Garth argued from the back.

I was too wiped out to weigh in, but yeah...nope. That thing wasn't going anywhere near the Impala. Not happening. I didn't even lift my head. "I swear to God if y'all start drilling into the Impala, I'm naming the kid 'Mazda'."

We had forty-five minutes left, and sleep was winning. It crept in slow, heavy, pulling me under piece by piece. The last thing I felt was Dean’s warm, steady hand resting on my stomach.

The last thing I thought of was Michael. The park. The day before he deployed.

And then the van was gone.

Michael and Rae

The cool breeze touched my face, carrying the sharp scent of freshly cut grass. I was lying on a gray blanket, the fabric soft and shaggy under my palms. Overhead, the sky was so blue it almost hurt to look at. Somewhere nearby, I could hear the river and children laughing. I pushed myself up slowly, confused. I hadn’t been here in years. Not since…

"Hey, darlin'..."

The voice. I turned, slowly, my chest already aching. Michael. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Just him. Crewcut neat. Hazel eyes still captivating. That crooked smile that used to feel like home. And his cologne, sandalwood, cinnamon, and leather warmed by his skin, still clung to him like the years had never happened.

“Michael,” I finally breathed. Saying his name hurt. I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. When I opened them, he was still standing there.

I didn’t think. I just threw myself into his arms, clutching him. My whole body shook as sobs ripped out of me. Ugly. Raw. The kind that tears straight through you.

"Why're you cryin', darlin'?" he asked, his thumb, warm and real, brushing my tears away.

All those nights I’d dreamed of this, one more day, one more conversation, but now that he was here, it wasn’t relief. It was agony. Nine months into his deployment, he’d been gone. No goodbye. No funeral I was allowed to go to. His family made sure of that. Just silence. Just absence.

“Why didn’t you come back?” I choked, shoving at his chest. “You promised! You said you’d come back!”

He caught my wrists, gentle, and dropped his chin. Michael didn’t do that. Not ever. He was a Marine to the bone, the kind of man who stood his ground no matter what. Seeing him do it now wrecked me.

“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm sorry. That wasn’t the plan.”

That hit harder than I was ready for. The life I’d wanted years ago had all been with him. The rings, the kids, the home. Hearing him say it now was tearing me apart. My hand drifted to my stomach on instinct. His eyes followed.

The truth was right here, impossible to ignore: I was building the family Michael had wanted with me… but with someone else.

My mouth opened, then closed. I shook my head, looking away. “It’s not simple.”

His face crumpled. "Not simple?! Reima, you're carrying his child. You're living with him. Looks simple from where I'm standing. So tell me what I'm missing."

He said my name the way only he ever had. Reima. It burned.

Something in me snapped. "Because you’ve been gone, Michael!" My voice cracked on his name. "You have no idea what I went through since you left! What it took to keep breathing after you didn't come home." I turned away, needing air. Needing distance. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“Reima.” His voice hardened, harder than he probably meant. “So that’s it?" A beat, like he regretted it even as he said it. "I die, and you move on. And he just...gets everything I didn't?!” His eyes dropped to my stomach again.

"Tell me he's not just filling the space I left."

The slap landed before I could stop it. “How dare you?” My voice broke. “Is that really what you think of me?”

Regret hit him instantly. His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just…” He stopped. Looked at me like he already knew the answer and still needed to hear it. “Help me out, darlin'. Why Dean?”

“Because he’s here,” I said, my voice shaking. “Because he came back. And then he stayed.”

The words were out before I realized I’d said them. And then quieter, "And... he loves me."

The truth hit hard. Terrifying. Real.

He bowed his head and for a second, I thought he might argue. Thought he might fight for what we used to be. But when he looked back up, his eyes were sad, not angry. “Then…choose him, darlin',” he said quietly. “Don’t make him pay for me.”

He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “I love you, Reima...” he whispered. "Always."

“I love you, too,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Always. And thank you…for letting me say goodbye.”

And then he was gone. The warmth, the weight of him, the scent I'd memorized...it vanished like smoke. One second he was holding me. The next, nothing. 

I folded in on myself, holding on tight. A broken, ugly sound tore out of me, too loud for this quiet place.

The next breath smelled of stale air. The van swayed. The radio mumbled. Dean’s hand was still on my stomach.

And I was still reaching for a man who wasn’t there.

Dean & Garth

In the passenger seat, Rae was finally out, his jacket draped over her. He didn’t move his hand from her stomach. Warm weight under his palm. A steady rise and fall. Right here, right now, it settled something in him.

“It’s just me and you, buddy,” he murmured. “Your mama’s sleepin’.”

The word still felt clumsy, the same way it still threw him off when Rae called him daddy. He almost wished he hadn’t said it, until the baby kicked against his hand.

Dean chuckled. “Okay. I hear you.”

“So,” Garth drawled from the back, “when you gonna do it?”

Dean’s eyes stayed on the road. “Do what?”

“You know. Ring. Wedding. The whole nine yards.”

He snorted. “It’s covered. Legal. On paper.”

“Paper ain’t the same as a promise,” Garth shot back, unusually serious. “You think she wants to tell your kid his parents got hitched by a hacker in a bar?”

Dean’s thumb brushed over the plain white-gold band where his hand rested on the wheel before he realized he was doing it.

Garth’s voice dropped. “And that ain’t helping either. Wearing that other fella’s ring.”

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel. He didn’t answer. Garth already knew the whole story.

Silence settled until Garth tried again. Softer, this time. “So… you gonna name the kid after you? Dean Jr.? John, after your old man? Or, hear me out...Garth Winchester. Little G. He’d be the fifth.”

“Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna saddle my kid with Garth Winchester. That’s child abuse.”

The joke died fast. Dean flinched at his father’s name. John. Motel rooms. Orders. Cold coffee. His kid was never gonna grow up like that. Ever.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not John.”

He hesitated. Another name surfaced, one that felt strange on his tongue, like it had been buried for years. “Sam,” he finally said. “Or… Sammy, maybe. Samuel for a boy. Samiera for a girl.”

Garth gave the names some thought. "Sam Winchester," he repeated out loud. He grinned. "I like it."

Dean did too, and that was the problem. The name landed heavier than it should’ve. For a split second, he almost looked over his shoulder, like someone had said it before. No one had. Then it was gone.

Maybe he could do it. Be a dad. Maybe there’d be a life waiting for them after Azazel. Hell, maybe he could even quit hunt---

The thought didn’t get to finish.

A scream ripped through the van, snapping both men straight into hunter mode. It wasn’t an attack. It was Rae.

Dean didn't have time to think. He hit the brakes hard, not a full stop, but enough to drag their speed down fast. Horns blared behind him, but he didn't care. The tires screamed as he forced the wheel right, eyes snapping between the road and her.

"Rae---!"

She bolted upright. Eyes wide. Glassy. Staring through the windshield. 

He kept his voice steady by sheer force, one hand locked on the wheel. His other hand shot out, catching her shoulder and pressing her back against the seat. He didn’t know what was coming. He just knew something was wrong.

“Reima. Wake up.”

“Wait! Don’t leave!” she cried, clawing for the door handle, eyes fixed on something only she could see. “Michael!” The name tore out of her.

“Shit!" he snapped. "Garth!” He forced the van onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires.

Garth was already moving. He lunged forward, arms locking around her from behind, hauling her back against the seat. “Easy, Rae." To Dean, "I've got her.”

Dean twisted toward her as far as the console allowed, his hands framing her face. “Reima. Look at me. You’re in the van. You’re with me. Whatever you’re seein', it ain’t here.”

For a second, her eyes found his. Then they slipped past him again, and her hands pushed at his wrists like he was keeping her from Michael. Her sob tore loose, painful and broken.

“No! Let me go,” she sobbed. “Please, let me go.”

Dean’s chest caved in. She wasn’t with him. Not really. She was somewhere else, reaching for a dead man, and all he could do was hold on while it tore through her.

He had no idea how to bring her back.

One second she was there, screaming, fighting him, trying to get out of the cramped van. The next, his hands closed on empty air.

His jacket was the only thing left in the passenger seat, still warm from her body, slumped where she should’ve been. The seatbelt, still buckled, hung limp against the fabric. Garth was frozen behind him, arms wrapped around nothing, his face pale and horrified.

Her perfume was gone. So was the sound of her breathing. All that remained was the low, mindless hum of the radio and the ticking of the cooling engine.

“Dean?” Garth’s voice was a ragged whisper.

But Dean didn’t answer.

The van didn’t smell like exhaust or old upholstery anymore. It smelled like melted chocolate and malted nougat. A signature Dean knew too well. A calling card.

His fingers were still curved in the shape of her jaw, cupped around the space where she’d been a second ago. The feel of her tear-soaked face still burned in his palms.

He had just said the name Sam. He had just thought about home.

Rae: 28 weeks + 4 days (1:30 PM)

(Dean’s POV)

I knew the look.

I’d seen it a thousand times on a thousand different faces: witnesses, victims, monsters. It was the look of someone with a secret.

I found her sitting in her old bedroom. It threw me for a second. She hadn’t been in here for months, not since she started sleeping in my room. She was curled up in the armchair, feet propped up on the edge of the unmade bed, pretending to fold a mountain of our laundry. But she wasn’t folding. She was holding one of my heavy work socks in a death grip, staring blankly at the wall, her face flushed a deep, suspicious pink.

She was wearing her headphones. The big noise-canceling ones I got her so she could sleep through Garth’s snoring.

I stopped in the doorway, narrowing my eyes.

She bit her lip. Hard. Then she let out a shaky little breath and fanned her face with my sock.

What the hell?

My first thought, naturally, was threat. Was she in pain? Was something wrong with the baby? But she didn't look pained. She looked...flustered.

My second thought was suspicion. Who was she talking to?

I walked in, making my steps heavy enough to register. She didn’t hear me. She was gone. She squeezed her eyes shut, a small, giddy smile playing on her lips, and, I kid you not, she giggled. A breathless, girlish sound I hadn’t heard… well, in a long time.

I stopped right beside her chair.

“Rae.”

Nothing.

I waved a hand in front of her face.

She jumped a mile, ripping the headphones off so fast they clattered onto the table. She scrambled for her phone, locking the screen like she was hiding state secrets.

“Dean!” Her voice was an octave too high. Her cheeks were blazing. “Jeez! You scared me.”

“I walked loud,” I defended, crossing my arms. I nodded at the phone she was guarding. “Who were you talking to?”

“No one.”

“You were smiling.”

“I was… listening to a podcast.”

“A podcast," I repeated, not buying it for a second.

“Yeah. Parenting,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “The… stages of… labor.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And that made you giggle and fan yourself with my sock?”

She looked down at the sock in her hand, then dropped it like it burned her. Nervous laughter. "It’s scary stuff, Dean. Cervix dilation. Terrifying.”

“Uh-huh.” I took a step closer, leaning my hip against the table. I knew a bluff when I saw one. “So if I put those headphones on, I’m gonna hear a doctor talking about contractions?”

I leaned back, a smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. I had her cornered, and we both knew it.

"What else do you think you're gonna hear?" she asked, trying to sound defiant, but that blush was still creeping up her neck.

"I don't know," I said, letting my voice drop a notch. "Maybe some Enya? Or one of those 'calming waves' tracks you like that sounds like a leaky faucet."

My eyes dropped to the phone she was still holding too tight.

"But you don't usually look like you're about to burst into flames when you're listening to a doctor talk about all that...biology crap," I pointed out. I reached out, my fingers hovering just an inch away from the headphones sitting on the table. "I’m curious. I like to stay informed. Might be tips in there for the guy who's gonna be stuck holding your hand."

I looked her right in the eye, a challenge written all over my face. "Hand 'em over, Rae. Let's hear about these 'stages.'"

She swallowed hard, looking between me and her headphones. “Ideally, you wouldn’t put them on at all. Because of boundaries. And---and hygiene.”

“Rae.”

“Dean.”

She was stalling. I moved fast. Before she could grab them, I snapped the headphones off the table and brought one cup to my ear, pressing play on the side.

“Dean, no!” she shrieked, lunging for me. I held her off with one hand, keeping her at arm's length while I listened. I was expecting a doctor droning on about labor, or maybe some sappy chick-flick soundtrack.

What I got was a deep, gravelly British accent that sounded like it belonged to a man wearing nothing but bad intentions.

“…I will not yield, you naughty girl. Not until I have tasted every inch of your defiance and heard you beg for the mercy…”

My brain stalled. A sound of rustling silk came through the speaker. A heavy, cinematic groan.

“'You made me look for fifteen minutes. That’s fifteen apologies. And I want them clear.' He doesn't wait for the first one. He drops to his knees on the cold floor, his large hands hooking under your thighs and pulling you flush against his face...”

I slowly lowered the headphones. The sound of his wet tongue, messy and loud, continued into the quiet room.

I looked at her. She had buried her face in her hands. Her ears were bright red.

“The stages of labor, huh?” I drawled.

She made a muffled noise into her palms.

“Sounded educational,” I continued. I could feel a grin spreading across my face that I couldn't control. It was too good. “Yeah. Learned plenty. Mostly about ‘defiance’ and...‘tasting.’”

She dropped her hands, glaring at me, though the blush hadn’t faded one bit. “Shut up. It’s a book. It’s literature.”

“It’s porn,” I corrected. “Audio porn. With a guy who sounds like he eats cigarettes for breakfast.”

“He’s a Duke!” she snapped, defensive now. “A cursed Duke.”

“Of course he is.” I snatched her phone. She’d locked it, thinking she was safe, but the title was scrolling right there on the screen in big, bold letters. “Fifteen Apologies?”

I shifted the phone higher, just out of her reach as she scrambled for it.

"Don't fucking judge me!" she snapped, her face practically glowing. She lunged again, but I moved the phone behind my back, watching her get all worked up. "I'm pregnant, bored... and the hormones. I-I needed a release... a relief."

She stopped, breathing hard, her eyes flashing with embarrassment and genuine frustration. "Just because I'm pregnant doesn't mean I'm dead inside."

The grin I’d been wearing didn’t just slip; it vanished.

The humor in the room went with it. A release. Simple word. Coming from her, right then, it felt like I’d missed something obvious. I’d spent every night for months lying two feet away from her, staring at the ceiling and counting her breaths, doing everything in my power not to push. I thought I was being the "good guy," giving her space to grieve, space to breathe, space to just... be.

But seeing her standing there, defending some gravel-voiced Brit because she was looking for a "release" she didn't think she could get from me? That stung...bad.

I let the phone drop onto the unmade bed behind me. I didn't care about the Duke anymore.

"A release," I repeated. My voice had lost the teasing edge; it was low now, rough.

I stepped into her space, closing the gap before she could get a grip. It forced her back, her knees hit the edge of the armchair and she sat down hard. 

I didn't stop. I kept coming until I was looming over her, planting my hands on the armrests on either side of her. I had her pinned. I wasn't touching her, but I was close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin and the way she held her breath.

"You think I don't know that, Rae?" I looked her dead in the eye, my face inches from hers. I could see the flecks of color in her eyes. "You think I haven't noticed?"

My gaze dropped to her mouth for a second before meeting her eyes again. My voice softened, the rough edge sliding into something quieter. Something honest. "You don't have to look for it in a pair of headphones. You don't have to hide from me."

I leaned down until our faces were inches apart. “You don’t need some damn Duke for that.”

I waited. I could see the conflict written all over her face. The embarrassment still there, but something else sparking underneath it. Something that didn't have anything to do with some audio-book Duke.

"Say the word," I whispered, "and I'll back off."

I held perfectly still. Made her choose. Her fingers curled around my bicep tight. I leaned in just a fraction more, testing how far she'd let me.

I brushed my nose against hers, slow, waiting. She didn't look away. For a second, I thought she might actually lean in. Her hand slid higher, up my shoulder, and she gave the smallest tug. Barely an inch. An answer. The fire from the argument was gone, replaced by something raw. I watched her bottom lip tremble, just a little. 

“Why listen to a recording,” I whispered, dragging my lips along her jawline, “when you've got me?”

I pressed a kiss to that one spot just below her ear. It was a gamble. A specific memory I’d been hauling around, and she shivered so hard I felt it on my lips.

She let out a small, ragged sound and her head thudded back against the cushion. For a second, she was actually here. I could feel the heat coming off her and that pull that had been driving me into a wall since August. I could feel her shaky breath against my neck, and the way her fingers dug into me like she was trying to stop herself.

I didn't give myself time to overthink it. I moved in to kiss her for real—

She pressed her back into the chair, shrinking away. Her eyes dropped to my chest, tracing the buttons on my flannel because she couldn't meet my gaze anymore. She shook her head, a single, slow movement and a stray tear finally spilled over, tracking down her cheek.

“Dean… I…” She swallowed hard, her voice breaking. “I can’t.”

I froze. I was still hovering over her, still close enough to smell her, but the wall was back up. Her hand tightened on my arm. It wasn't to pull me in, but to give me a gentle, desperate push.

I backed off. I didn't make a scene about it. I just straightened up and took two steps back, putting the space back between us again. It felt cold. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears caught in her lashes. She looked like it hurt.

“I can’t,” she whispered again. “Dean, I can’t.”

It wasn't "don't." It wasn't "no." It was can’t. Like there was a physical weight on her chest keeping her pinned to that chair.

“Okay,” I managed. My voice sounded like I’d been swallowing glass. “Okay, Rae.”

She finally opened her eyes, and the guilt in them was enough to gut a man.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just...it’s too...”

“Hey.” I reached out, my hand moving on instinct to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My thumb grazed her cheek for a split second, feeling the dampness of that tear, before I forced myself to pull away. I shoved my hands into my pockets so I wouldn't reach for her again.

“Don’t,” I said, giving my head a sharp shake. I rubbed the back of my neck, looking at anything in the room that wasn't her face. “You don’t have to be sorry. Not for that.”

I meant it. Didn't mean it didn't suck. I glanced at the phone on the bed where I’d dropped it. The Duke was still there, paused in the middle of his Fifteen whatever. Safe.

I forced a crooked half-smile. Probably looked like a grimace, but I tried.

“You stick with your Duke,” I said, trying to find that lighter tone again, even if it was a lie. “Seems like a safe bet. He can’t screw this up.”

I stepped back toward the hall before my mouth could get ahead of my brain and say something I’d regret. I needed to get out of that room before the smell of her perfume made me do something stupid.

“I’ll be in the garage,” I announced, not looking back. “If you… need anything.”

I heard the rustle of the bedsheets as she reached for her phone.

“Dean?”

I paused at the door, my hand on the frame. “Yeah?”

“He doesn’t talk back as much as you do...At least I can hit 'pause' on him when he starts getting arrogant.” I could hear the shaky laugh in her voice, the one that told me she was trying to pull herself back together. To patch whatever the hell this was between us.

A grin hit my face anyway. “Yeah, well. He probably doesn’t fix cars either.”

I didn't wait for a comeback. I headed for the stairs, my boots heavy on the floorboards. The plan was simple: get to the garage, crack a beer, and stay elbow-deep in an engine block until my head stopped spinning.

By the time I hit the concrete, I was already trying to convince myself it didn't matter that some fake-ass Duke was getting more action than I was. But I’d seen it, felt it. The way she’d reached for me before she caught herself. The want was still there, buried under all that grief. I just had to be patient enough to wait her out.

(Rae's POV) 26 weeks + 3 days 2:07 AM

I told him I was hungry while I was still half-asleep.

It came out mumbled into his shoulder, somewhere between a yawn and a complaint. My hand was tucked under his shirt, palm warm against his side, and the bunker was quiet. Even the walls seemed to be resting.

“Dean.” I nudged him with my knee. “I’m hungry.”

He made a sound that might’ve been a word in another language, or maybe just a grunt of protest. One arm tightened around me instinctively, pulling me closer.

“Rae,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and gravel, “it’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.”

“You just ate.”

“That was hours ago,” I countered, lifting my head enough to find his face in our dimly lit room. “And it didn’t count.”

He cracked one eye open. Green. Skeptical. “Didn’t count how?”

I shrugged against the mattress. “Didn’t hit right.”

That forced both eyes open. He studied my face the way he always did now when I said things like that. Careful, alert, like he was trying to decide if this was a craving, a mood, or something he was about to have to deal with.

“What’re we talkin’?” Dragging a hand down his face to wake himself up. “Toast? Cereal? One of those weird yogurts you keep pretending you like?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Diner food.”

He blinked. “Like… diner diner?”

“Yes.”

“With pie?”

“Maybe.”

“With hashbrowns?”

“Definitely.”

He stared at the ceiling for a long second, then exhaled a breath so heavy it rattled his chest. “You know normal people sleep at this hour. What time is it anyway?”

He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand. One glance at the screen and he groaned. “Yeah. Still counts. Normal people are unconscious right now.”

“I’m growing a human,” I pointed out mildly. “That feels like an exception to the rules.”

He weighed the pros and cons of arguing versus sleeping versus eating. Finally he threw the covers back, defeated. “You’re lucky you're growing a human being.”

I smiled into the pillow.

Ten minutes later, we were pulling out of the garage. Dean had thrown on a cargo jacket, a red flannel over a black undershirt, while I wore a red knitted top, already happier just knowing Dean was taking "feed me" seriously.

The diner was exactly what you’d expect at two in the morning. Neon buzzing in the dark, windows fogged over by the cold, and the smell of grease and coffee and something sweet made my stomach perk up fast.

Dean slid into the back booth without even thinking about it. Wall to his back. Clear view of the door.

Patrice spotted us immediately. She was wiping down the counter, hair pulled back, eyes tired but softening as we approached. She grabbed two menus we didn’t need and walked over. “Well,” she greeted us, “if it isn’t my favorite pair of night owls. Late night again?”

“Early morning,” Dean corrected, smirking. He nodded toward me like that explained everything. "She's hungry."

Her eyes crinkled. “Say no more. I know that look. Baby wants what baby wants. Coffee?”

“Yes,” Dean answered quick.

“And you, honey?”

“Peppermint tea, please,” I added. “And pancakes.”

“And bacon,” Dean chimed in.

“And hashbrowns,” I finished.

The waitress laughed, her pen dancing over the pad. “And eggs?”

"Definitely!" We agreed in unison.

Patrice grinned, tucking the menus under her arm. "Anything else?"

"Ooh!” I sat up straighter. “A whole pie.”

Dean's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “A whole—”

“Apple pie,” I cut in. "Warm. Please and thank you."

Patrice didn't even blink. “Coming right up.”

I was all smiles. He waited until Patrice was out of earshot, one arm draped behind me. “You know I would’ve shared a slice.”

“I know,” I said, smoothing my palms over the curve of my stomach. “But I’m eating for two. And one of us is a Winchester.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from him, a rare, relaxed sound.

That’s also when the door swung open.

Four college students stumbled in, loud and buzzing with that "invincible" energy that comes from a few too many drinks. Two girls, two guys. They paused just inside the door like they’d expected applause.

They didn’t see me tucked in the corner. They saw Dean. Their voices dropped as they walked, but their whispers carried across the quiet room.

“Oh my God,” one of the girls started, clutching her friend's arm.

Followed by a breathless, “Holy shit.”

Then one of the guys, leaning in with zero subtlety, “Girl! Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm! Face card never declines.”

Dean didn’t react. Didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Just took a sip of his coffee like his life depended on ignoring them. But I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. That Winchester smirk appearing just a fraction. It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

The group slid into a booth a few tables away. Still in Patrice’s section, which meant they were well within earshot.

“I would absolutely let him ruin my life,” the first girl whispered with zero shame. She stared openly at Dean.

The other girl snorted. “Bathroom. Five minutes. That’s all I’m saying.”

I bit my lip from laughing, but it went down wrong and I ended up choking on it. Dean's attention snapped to me, his hand hovering near my shoulder to check on me.

"Wow," I mouthed, my eyes watering. "They're uh, very enthusiastic. Good for them." For a fleeting second, I remembered what it felt like to have a life where the stakes stayed small. Now I was twenty-three, pregnant, off-grid, and sitting in a diner because the baby wanted diner food like it was an order. 

And then... “Look at the jawline. Papi looks like he bites.” One of the guys chuckled, the sound echoing off the windows.

This time, Dean actually choked on his coffee.

The laugh bubbled over then; there was no containing it. I wheezed into my hand as Dean coughed, pounding his chest, his ears turning red. I reached over and patted his arm, still struggling to breathe. “You okay... Papi?”

He glared at me, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You're enjoying this way too much,” he muttered.

"I mean..." I tipped my head, eyes flicking to the table. "You're kinda proving their point."

He cut a glance at me, his eyes narrowing in a silent don't. I didn't flinch. I simply leaned into his space, my fingers giving his bicep a firm, appreciative squeeze, feeling the heavy muscle beneath the flannel.

“Must be the flannel,” I hummed, unable to keep the smugness out of my tone. “Or the lighting. Either way, you're giving...‘ruin my life' kinda vibe.”

"Rae..."

“Face card never declines,” I teased, mimicking the guy’s tone. I chuckled as his ears turned even redder. He was used to the occasional double-take from strangers, but the commentary was clearly a bridge too far.

Dean let out a defeated groan, sliding lower into the booth. "Shut up."

The food arrived with a satisfying clatter. Real food, the kind that made my shoulders drop just smelling it. He took a few bites before he spoke.

“So,” he started, casual in a way that absolutely was not casual. “I was thinkin’ about names.”

I paused mid-syrup pour. Slowly, I looked up at him. “You were?”

He shrugged, eyes fixed firmly on his plate. “Yeah. I mean...” He cleared his throat, stabbing a piece of bacon. “Not planning or anything. Just… thinkin’.”

This from the man who pretended baby books gave him hives.

“Okay,” I ventured carefully. “What kind of thinking?”

He glanced at me, then away again, trying to look anywhere but my face. “If it’s a boy.”

My heart was pounding. “Yeah?” I prompted.

“Samuel,” he rasped. Then, quieter, “Sam. Sammy.”

I didn’t interrupt him. Didn’t joke. Didn’t fill the space. I’d learned that with Dean, some things needed room to breathe.

He continued, voice steadier now that it was out. “I don’t know why. It just… feels right. Not fancy. Just...” He shrugged again. “Good.”

I took a slow sip of my peppermint tea to hide my trembling lips. “Sam Winchester,” I mused. “Has a nice ring to it.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well. Kid’s already doomed.”

“And if it’s a girl?” I asked.

That caught his attention. He looked up, brows lifting like he hadn’t expected me to ask that so easily.

“Same idea,” he replied. “Just… adjusted.”

“Adjusted how?”

He hesitated. Just a beat. “Samiera." He watched my face. “Still Sam. But... it's got you in it, too.”

I sat in silence, replaying the sounds in my head. Sam. Reima. Samiera. I didn’t say anything right away. I couldn't. This wasn’t him joking. Or deflecting. This was him thinking ahead. Choosing something. Letting himself want it. Suddenly, it felt bigger.

“Dean,” I whispered finally.

He tensed, misinterpreting the silence. “You don’t gotta like it. Just throwin’ it out there.”

I pressed my fingers to his lips before he could say anything else. “I do like it,” I breathed. “A lot.” His shoulders eased a little.

“I was thinking maybe something with an ‘L,’” I admitted. “Or an ‘M.’ But… Samuel and Samiera?" I managed a watery smile. "They're pretty beautiful, Dean...”

I stared down at the table, but the tears escaped anyway.

“Hey,” he said immediately, a flash of panic crossing his face. “Hey. No, no. I didn’t mean...”

I shook my head quickly, swiping at my cheeks. “No. Don’t.” I laughed weakly through it. “These are… good tears.”

He froze, unsure, like he didn’t quite trust that.

“Seriously.” I insisted. “You gave it some thought. Those were not names just pulled out of thin air. Both names are perfect.”

He smiled then. Just a small, real one, like he was surprised to be allowed to have this. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I promised.

As the words left my mouth, I felt a steady shift in my stomach. I inhaled slowly, hand flattening there without thinking. Dean noticed immediately, his hand settled over mine.

“You alright?”

I nodded, smiling through it. “Yeah. I think our kid's just agreeing with you.”

Patrice chose that exact moment to arrive with a whole apple pie and two forks. She slowed, glancing from Dean to me, catching the wetness on my cheeks. Whatever she saw there, she kept to herself, setting the pie down with a knowing nod. “On the house.”

Dean stared at it. Then at her. “You sure?”

She glanced at me, then at my stomach. “Positive.” Without another word, she walked away.

He didn't reach for the pie. He kept his eyes on me. “We good?”

I nodded, drying my face. “Yeah.”

He didn't move. He studied me for a long second, searching for cracks. “You sure?”

I hated that I’d worried him, especially today of all days. I reached out, squeezing his hand where it rested on the table. “Dean. I’m good. That was just...” I gestured vaguely. “Hormones. Feelings. You.”

He let out a short breath, the tension disappearing. He flipped his hand to lace our fingers together, squeezed once, then let go.

“Okay,” he murmured. Only then did he pick up his fork, leaning in to claim his first bite.

I caught his wrist. “Wait.”

He froze. Fork hovering midair. “Wait? Why?”

“Just wait.” I turned slightly, my hand sliding into the inner pocket of his jacket.

He frowned, watching my hand disappear into the lining. “What are you doing?" Then, automatically, "Frisking me? Easy, tiger. We're in public.”

I rolled my eyes. “Relax, Winchester. I'm looking for something.” My fingers brushed against the worn lining until I felt the small wax sticks I’d slipped in there just before we left.

“Found ‘em.” I pulled out two birthday candles. It was a ‘3’ and a ‘1’.

He stared at them. Then at me. “Rae.”

I grinned. “Do you have a lighter?”

He didn’t move. He was still staring at the candles, trying to connect the dots. “Rae.” Slower this time. A little suspicious. But he reached into his jeans pocket anyway and handed me his silver Zippo.

“Why do you have candles?” he asked.

“Because,” I replied, snapping the lighter open. Clink. The flame sparked to life, warm and orange in the dim diner light. I stuck the ‘3’ and the ‘1’ into the center of the pie. “It’s January 24th, Dean Winchester.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. Like the date didn’t mean anything to him. Then, slowly, it dawned on him. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“Oh,” he said softly.

I lit the second wick and sat back. “Yeah. Oh.”

“Happy Birthday, old man.”

For a moment, he didn’t do anything. Just stared at the pie. The candles. Then he huffed and leaned back in the booth. “You know,” he said slowly, “most people get cake.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I didn’t put candles in a cheeseburger.”

That earned me a smile. Barely there. He picked up his fork, spun it once between his fingers, then set it back down. “I haven’t done this in a while,” he admitted.

“Birthdays?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Like… actually doing something about them.”

I covered his hand with mine. He didn't pull away; he just squeezed my fingers.

“Guess I’m thirty-one now,” he said.

“Thirty-one,” I confirmed. “Still a papi.” I winked.

He rolled his eyes, but his expression softened, the joke failing to hide the emotion in his eyes. He leaned in and kissed me, tasting of coffee and warmth. When he pulled back, he didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

"Make a wish," I whispered.

He looked at me, then let his gaze fall to my stomach. "Already got it," he murmured. And with one sharp breath, he blew out the candles.

He pulled the wax numbers out and set them on a napkin like they were fragile. He didn't rush. He cut the pie, serving me first, always first, before taking a slice for himself. He took a bite and closed his eyes, a low, appreciative sound escaping him.

He shook his head, a smile finally breaking through. He looked younger somehow. He nudged my plate closer. “You eatin’?”

I nodded. He went back to his pie. And I just watched him, thinking about all the years nobody lit candles for him, and I made a silent vow: I’m not letting that happen ever again.

Patrice took the photo right before we left. 

I was putting on my coat when he stopped. He looked at the empty pie plate, then at me, then pulled his phone out. "Hey, Patrice," he called out, voice casual but eyes serious. "Mind taking one for the road?"

I stared at him. Dean Winchester asking for a photo was like a vampire asking for garlic. He ignored my look, handed over his phone, and pulled me flush against his side. He didn't make a face or look away. He wrapped an arm around me and leaned in close, his cheek pressing against my temple.

"Smile, Papi," I whispered.

Dean let out a harsh laugh, closing the distance. "Jensen? What the hell kind of a name is that? You lose a bet with your parents?" 

You saw the flash in Dean's eyes. It wasn't just pissed. Territorial. He hit his chest with his thumb. "Dean Winchester. Not the discount version."

"That's not possible," Jensen protested, then went off like a director's cut. How they "shot" a scene, how they "did" a djinn, blah blah blah. You and Dean traded a look, then stared at him. Great. He wasn't a monster. He was worse: unarmed and clueless. A civilian.

"You're an actor," you stated. "Of course you are. So our worst days are...episodes."

You almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was insane. Scars. Graves. Names you don't say out loud. Reduced to 'tune in next week.' Beside you, Dean went dead still. You could hear his molars grinding, a sound like gravel under boots. He looked ready to snap. If Jensen was any closer, Dean would've punched his own face clean off. 

"The script says-" Jensen tried.

"You think this is a script?" Dean's voice dropped, getting quiet in that way that meant things were about to get loud. He jabbed a finger into Jensen's chest. "This is my life, you knockoff son of a bitch." 

You moved, cutting between them before Dean decided to see if his double bled the same way a shifter did. You had a witch to find. This idiot wasn't the priority.

You pinched the bridge of your nose already feeling the headache coming on. "It's a dimensional spell," you said. Flat. Final.

"Dimensional?" Jensen blinked hard. "No. No, that's... what the hell are you talking about? Are you...are you high?"

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face like he could peel his own skin off. "This is-" He stopped, exhaled hard. "I'm gonna torch a witch," he said calmly. Way too calm.

Jensen looked from Dean to you, eyes wide. "A witch," he repeated, waiting for the punchline. Dean's face said there wasn't one.

You stepped in again before this turned into a full-blown disaster. "Okay, stop," you snapped. "You two can measure dick size later. Witch first."

"We go back to the bunker," you added, already reaching for Baby's keys. "We track Rowena. We make her undo it."

Dean tipped his head at Jensen. "We can't leave Captain Civilian here by himself. He'll get possessed by a lampshade."

It's never one problem at a time. You jabbed a finger at the actor. "You stay with us. Period."

Dean then decided to step in like he couldn't help himself. "And don't touch anything. Don't open doors. And for the love of God, don't read Latin out loud-" He paused, eyes narrowing. "Actually, don't read anything out loud."

Jensen swallowed and basically agreed. "Yep. Got it. No wandering. No reading."

"This is gonna be fun," you mumbled under you breath, tossing the keys at Dean. 

He just shook his head, caught his keys effortlessly, and walked off, like the actor was your problem.

Back at the bunker, you felt crowded. You sat between them at the table like that was going to keep the peace...until it didn't.

You were used to being looked at. Men look. Whatever. But this was different. Hyper-fixation. Every time you glanced up, green eyes were already on you. Sometimes both. Maybe you were imagining it. You weren't. You were three chairs apart. And then you weren't.

Dean leaned in, his arm brushing yours. And your focus slipped, just for a second. On the other side, Jensen crowded you close, knee to knee. Same face. Same smell. It was like a cover song that was technically perfect but missed the soul of the original. 

It messed with your head. Your body reacted like it didn’t care which one it was getting too close to, and the lack of control was infuriating.

You pushed back from the table before it got any worse. That’s when you saw the note in the margin of the grimoire. The ephemeral copy endures no longer than a single rotation of the earth. Twenty-four hours. A ticking clock. Good. Because you like problems with expiration dates.

Then you read the rest. The witch hadn't just screwed with dimensions. The grimoire flagged amorous enthrallment. Hunger illusions.

You didn’t look back at the page. You looked at them. Dean’s eyes were already on you. Jensen’s too. Tracking. Waiting. Every time you shifted, they adjusted without thinking. Their mouths slightly parted...Dean wetting his, Jensen biting down his lower lip until his canine left a mark.

Translation: she didn't just make a copy. The witch turned desire into a weapon and pointed it straight at you.

And you were sitting right between two loaded guns.

"Guys..." you started, trying to be calm. But it was useless. The way they were looking...they wanted flesh. The hunter in you knew the math. You were outmatched and out of time. You needed to move. Now.

You bolted for your room and slammed the door. Lock. Scanned the room for anything solid, anything you could swing. Not to kill them. Just to stop them.

Your hand closed around the bat by the bed. You gripped it hard, tested the weight with a quick swing.

Good enough.

"Twenty-four hours," you told yourself, forcing the words to stay steady. "Fine. Lock the door. Stay put. Ride it out."

Simple plan.

Which meant it was probably about to go to hell.

It took only but five minutes.

Footsteps in the hall coming straight for your door. You shifted your grip, knuckles whitening around the handle.

Then a voice on the other side. Familiar. Winchester-calm. He'd already decided. "I don't think that's an option, princess."

The lock turned slowly. That single metallic click told you everything. Master key.

Your plan died right there.

The tension in the room dialed to a hundred the second they stepped in. 

"Don't," you warned, planting your feet and bringing up the bat between you. "I mean it."

They both smiled. It wasn't a kind look.

You swung once, more warning than attack, and a hand shot out, caught the bat mid-air, and ripped it from your grip like nothing. It clattered across the room like trash.

All right then.

"Come on," you snapped. "You're stronger than this." They kept closing. You saw the gap by the door and took it.

You were one step from the door, and then you weren’t. Something hooked around your waist and yanked you back hard. You hit the mattress, driving the air from your lungs in a sharp gasp. Hands slammed down on your shoulders, pinning you like cuffs.

"GET OFF ME!" you snarled, thrashing against the weight. Without warning, a strip of fabric slid over your eyes. The knot cinched tight, and the world went black. Everything else got louder. Breath. Weight. Heat too close to count as coincidence. Your body picked a terrible time to have opinions.

You fought harder anyway, even though you knew you were done.

"Can’t you do something about her?!" one of them snapped above your head. Jensen. The voice was the giveaway.

Instead of shutting up, you snorted. "Dean? He won’t hurt me. He never does."

He straddled you then, his heavy weight settling over your abdomen. His thighs trapped your arms, pinning you to the sheets. Oh no. He crowded close, his mouth brushing your cheek, close enough that you felt the words as much as heard them.

"Keep running your mouth, pet."

His mouth hovered over yours. Close enough to feel, but not close enough to touch. "See what happens."

You didn't back down. You lifted your head, blind and straining against the hands pinning you, trying to get back at him. Bite him. Anything to cause damage. He just pulled back an inch, and laughed under his breath.

Jensen swallowed hard. You felt him shift again, closer, heat bleeding off him. "Yeah," he murmured, almost breathless. "I don't think she believes you."

Your thoughts scattered. One Dean was already more than enough. Two had your instincts tripping over each other.

Jensen felt it. And instead of backing off, he pressed in.

"Easy," Dean warned. It wasn't for you. It was a command you give a dog that's about to break.

Jensen stilled. Not because he wanted to, but because he understood the hierarchy.

You thought you'd bought yourself a miracle as the room went quiet for a heartbeat. You dragged in a breath, trying to find your center. Then you heard the rasp of a zipper. Then yours.

Something was wrong. Your body wasn’t panicking anymore; it was syncing with theirs. You weren’t just angry; you were falling into step with them.

"Oh," you breathed, your whole body shaking. "Hime..." was the word you forced out.

Everything paused. A hand cupped your face. Lips brushed yours but didn't take. He was waiting. Dean knew the deal. Say it once, I'm in. Say it again, it's over.

"You sure?" he asked softly. 

You searched for a lie and found none. "Yes." You decided. Not the spell. You.

Jensen didn't wait for an invitation. He dropped to the floor to get at your jeans. He didn’t just pull. He yanked them down with your panties to your ankles in one violent motion, the rough scrape of denim followed by the shock of hands forcing your thighs apart. Fingers dug into your soft flesh, seeking heat, seeking wetness. He was starving. Before you could make a sound, Dean crashed his mouth onto yours, tongue wrestling, tasting you like you were the last drink of water in hell.

His tongue was heavy, wet, and sloppy inside your mouth, owning you, while Jensen went lower. You felt the slick of his mouth against your sensitive lips, his thumbs spreading you apart as his tongue found your clit and flicked it with a rhythm that made your hips thrash wild. His hands cupped and kneaded your ass, digging in to pin you to the mattress.

Dean pulled back with a low growl. He didn't bother with the hem of your tank top. He grabbed the fabric and ripped it down the middle. The sound of tearing cotton was sharp, leaving your chest bare to the cool air. You weren't wearing a bra and now you were on full display.

"That's my slut," Dean rasped, the words possessive, before his hot mouth latched onto your nipple. The double assault with Jensen devouring you below and Dean claiming you above, was too much. You arched your back, trapped between them and loving every second of it.

Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, Jensen proved you wrong. Two fingers shoved inside you, pushing past your dripping cunt, sliding deeper than you thought possible. You locked your thighs around his head, trapping him in. That didn't stop him at all. He worked harder, the wet, lapping noises echoing against the concrete floor. He wasn't gentle. He finger-fucked you in time with his tongue. Curling, hitting your G-spot until you were a mess, soaking his knuckles. And you didn't give a damn.

You always assumed Dean was the only one who could eat you like that. Wrong again. Jensen went down on you with a hunger that matched the original. He pulled back, his lips coated with your own juices. "Fuck. You taste good," he groaned, sliding his fingers deeper to stretch you. "And so fucking tight. You really are a slut, aren't you?"

You tried to answer, but your brain was gone. All you could manage was a broken whimper. Jensen had stopped, and you wanted him back. You want his tongue back on you, spreading you wide open.

Dean didn't like the silence. He nipped at your nipple sharp, getting you to refocus. "Tell him," Dean ordered against your skin, his voice rough. "Tell him you are my slut, princess. Or he's not going to make you come."

You whimpered. You were right on the edge. You wanted--no, you needed--Jensen's tongue and fingers fucking you until you came all over his face. You hesitated, your mouth opening and closing. Dean twisted your nipple. Hard.

A loud, gutted moan ripped out of you. The pain went straight to your head, straight to your cunt. "Yes," you choked, the words tumbling out. "I'm Dean's slut."

He withdrew just long enough for you to feel the space. Then he kissed you, rough, like he was proud of you.

"Hollywood," Dean called out, abruptly ending the kiss. You couldn't see him, but you felt a change.

Jensen paused, his hot breath spreading across your pussy lips as he answered. "What?"

"Don't make her come. You want something tighter?" You felt his rough fingertip playing with your lips. "Try her mouth. She won't disappoint."

A strained, needy groan left your mouth. "But you said-" Your hips arched more, chasing friction that was suddenly gone. Bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing. You were seconds away from crushing Jensen's skull between your thighs, and Dean just pulled the plug.

Winchester didn't wait for an answer. His thumb dragged your lower lip down, holding you open. You couldn't see anything, but the violent rasp of a zipper right in front of your face told you everything. You didn't just nod. You lunged forward, desperate to choke on him.

"Yes," you gasped against his thumb. "Do it."

"Uh-uh, pet." His tone shut you down cold. "Suck him dry. Let him come in your mouth. You hear me?" His order was clipped. Final.

"And... and I want you to swallow every last bit." A hard kiss. Then he pulled away. The mattress shifted again as his weight left your side.

"Get on your hands and knees."

Your body moved on autopilot, scrambling to obey. You flipped over, knees digging into the mattress. You couldn't see them, but you could feel their eyes on you. Watching you.

"Back it up," Dean growled. "Right here."

Strong hands clamped onto your waist, hauling you back until you hit solid muscle. You felt him then. His thick cock pressing right against you, just ready to ravish you.

"Please," you begged, abandoning all dignity. "Don't make me wait."

Then a mouth swallowed yours. Hands on your jaw gripping hard. Jensen. His mouth messy, his face smeared with what he'd just wrung out of you. When his tongue swept into your mouth, you tasted yourself, salt and musk and heat. It was filthy, but you loved it. You kissed him back, hungrily, reclaiming what is yours.

He shoved his fingers past your lips, forcing you to taste every drop as he ravaged your mouth. You clamped down, swirling your tongue, sucking yourself off his fingers. Jensen let out a strangled groan as he felt the suction. "Fuck," he breathed. "Winchester, you weren't kidding."

"Damn straight," Dean grunted. He didn't wait. He thrusted his hips forward, burying himself deep in one brutal motion. You gasped, and before you could recover, Jensen took the opening. He slammed his hard cock into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You gagged. Same size. Same weight. You were being stretched to the limit from both ends.

Whatever control you had fractured. You couldn't tell where one ended and the other started. Dean was fucking you the only way you wanted, brutal and hard. And Jensen? He wasn't just a copy. He was keeping pace. You wanted to see if you could break him the way you do with Dean. You tilted your head, letting the head of his cock graze the back of your teeth. A tease. That did it. Jensen bucked, a strangled noise tearing out of him. His hand tangled in your hair, gripping tight.

The noise triggered Dean. Smack. His hand landed hard on your ass. You leaned back into the sting, chasing the pain. A moan vibrated in your throat, humming against Jensen's cock. He shuddered violently at the sensation. "That's a good slut," Dean growled against your ear, his rhythm not falling for a second. "Break him."

"Slow down," Jensen gasped. His fingers tightened in your hair, trying to pull you back just an inch. "Christ, easy..."

You didn't listen. You belonged to Dean, and Dean said break him.

Your hand slid down Jensen's leg, fingers digging into his thigh to steady yourself. Whatever worked on Dean worked on the copy. You used the leverage to drive yourself deeper, finding the spots you knew made the real thing lose his mind. You knew his type. Hollywood polish on the outside, but everyone had a basement. You wanted to drag his out.

You tightened your mouth around him.

"Fuck you, Winchester," he choked out, his hips fucking your face. "Goddammit! Fuck!"

You felt Jensen start to spasm. You didn't let up. You lashed your tongue harder, faster. He panicked. His hand twisted in your hair, yanking back hard enough to bring tears to your eyes, thinking he could make you stop. Wrong. The pain just spiked the high. You hummed against him and sucked harder. He unraveled. With a broken, stripped groan, he flooded your mouth with salt and heat. You swallowed everything you could, choking it down while the rest spilled over your chin. You gagged, but you weren't about to waste a drop.

Before you could even think about pulling away, it was Dean's turn. He grabbed you by the hair, hard. The blindfold tore loose, slipping down your neck as you slammed against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you. He doesn’t give you a second to breathe. He shoved your hair off your neck, his teeth scraping over the skin before he bit down. Hard.

The pain hit straight between your legs. You went slack against him, eyes rolling back, completely blitzed. You were high on the bite, the sharp sting pushing you closer to the edge. He was marking you. Watching you break another man wearing his face had flipped a switch in him.

He never stopped driving into you, the rhythm desperate and heavy. You were dazed, your brain struggling to catch up between the taste of Jensen on your tongue and the feeling of Dean shredding you apart. Then his hand moved, sliding down your sensitive stomach, down between your legs to find your clit.

The scream ripped your throat raw. You scrambled forward, hips twisting, fighting for an inch of space. Bad move. Dean fed on the struggle. His arm locked around your waist like a steel bar, slamming you back against his chest.

"You okay?" he panted, the question sharp enough to cut through. You shook your head, dazed, desperate for the friction to come back. 

"Don't...stop." You scratched his arm. "Just...please." He didn't ask twice. His grip tightened into a vice. His hand snapped up to grab your breast, twisting hard enough to leave a mark.

"Atta girl," he rasped, into a dark growl. "I'm gonna ruin you...pet."

He looked over your shoulder at Jensen, who was still trying to catch his breath. "Kiss her," Dean ordered. "Don't keep her waiting."

Jensen's eyes pinned on you, watching the man he played on screen actually ruin you. You didn't give a damn about the optics. Right now, you were a slave to your body. To Dean.

"Quit stalling, Hollywood," Dean rumbled. He reached around, his fingers rolling your nipple slowly, making sure Jensen saw exactly how he owned you. "You see how she's shaking? She's wide open. Take her. Like you're starving."

Hollywood didn't wait. You felt the cold trail of his tongue drag from your stomach upward until his mouth latched onto your right breast. The room was nothing but noise. The wet slap of Dean's hips against you, the frantic friction of his thumb on your clit, and Jensen's mouth working your nipple.

You couldn't help but moan continuously as the release began building. Your breathing turned erratic, and you felt a desperate pull deep between your legs. "Not yet. Please," you begged internally, but your body was losing the fight. You enjoyed edging, and Dean knew it. But this time, he wasn't playing fair. He was fucking you like he was on a mission. You tried twisting away, trying to put a space between you, Jensen's hot mouth, Dean's heavy thumb, and hard cock. But every move ground you even deeper into the friction. It was too fast. It was hitting the sweet spot over and over again. You were about to break. You couldn't outrun it anymore. You couldn't even draw a breath.

Dean whimpering and moaning in your ear was the finish line. The sound of him hitting his own limit, mixed with the friction and the pressure, finally broke the dam. Your throat became raw as another scream tore out of you, your whole body trembling as you came. You reached back blindly, tangling your fingers in his hair to pull him closer. You searched for him until your mouths found each other, swallowing his raw grunts while he drove himself deep one last time. 

You screamed louder into his mouth as Jensen's teeth grazed your nipple making you cum again. You were pinned on your knees with no room to move. Dean suddenly broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to gasp for air as you felt the moment he lost it. His body tightening behind you. His grunts even louder. His fingers dug into your hips.

A muffled, broken moan escaped into the back of your neck before he bit down on your shoulder again, his whole body shuddering as he came inside you. The sharp sting of his bite sent you over the edge again. Harder, this time. Your body clenched itself dry around him while he buried his seed deep inside you, the rest spilling down your thigh.

After, you collapsed where you landed. Dean pulled you back against him, spooning you while he was still inside you. His cock slowly losing its size. Jensen was right there, facing you, watching the tremors still rolling through you. Three bodies, one mattress, and nothing in the room but rough breathing.

Jensen couldn’t keep still. His hand hovered near your hip, stopped short, flexed, pulled back. You feel his heat even without touching. He was restless, wound too tight, trying not to crowd you.

Dean moved first. He shifted behind you, his arm cinching tight around your waist to pull you flush against him. His heart was still beating heavy and fast against your back. You didn't fight it; you just held his arms tight, pinning them to your chest to let him know you were staying exactly where you were.

Jensen must’ve noticed. You feel him stay still beside you, the tension easing as his breathing slowed on purpose.

You stayed where you were, between them, letting the moment settle. "Twenty-four hours, huh?" you said at last, eyes closed.

The discount version of Dean slightly moved beside you, close enough that you had to open your eyes again. The spell hadn’t burned out. Just gone quiet. He leaned in slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.

You didn't.

His mouth met yours. No rush. No grab. A soft kiss.

"Careful, Hollywood," Dean growled, his mouth finding the back of your neck in a kiss that made it clear he wasn't about to be outdone.

Your body, which should've been settling down, kicked back to attention.

(Rae's POV)

October 20

12 weeks + 5 days

The Bunker was silent. Bobby and Ellen were out on a supply run, Garth was deep in the archives, and Gabriel hasn't been back since she left a week ago. That left Dean.

And Dean was supposed to be gone. I hadn’t seen the Impala outside, and the kitchen was empty...so yeah, I assumed he was gone.

I shimmied into my favorite boot cut jeans, grabbed my purse, and headed for the garage. I just needed four hours. Four hours to feel like a human being again instead of a hormonal vessel for a miracle. A Winchester. My skin felt tight, my morning sickness had finally ebbed into a dull, manageable ache, and the "hair situation" was reaching critical mass.

I reached the garage floor, humming a little tune, and stopped dead.

Baby. And sticking out from under the chassis was a pair of dirty boots and a set of very familiar legs. I didn’t realize he’d pulled the Impala into the garage…

Crap.

"Going somewhere?" The voice was muffled by the undercarriage, followed by the rhythmic clink-clink of a wrench.

Double crap. I sighed, leaning against the cold concrete wall. "I thought you were out."

He slid out from under the car on his creeper, wiping grease off his forehead with a rag that was more oil than cloth. He squinted at me, his gaze dropping to my purse and then back to my face. The white gold ring on his left hand caught the work light, a reminder of the "deal" we’d made a week ago.

"Rules are rules, Rae. No solo trips. You want out? You get a chaperone."

“The rules you and Gabriel decided for me,” I mumbled under my breath, thinking I was quiet enough to get away with it.

“What was that?”

I ignored him, blowing a sharp, frustrated breath out through my nose. "Winchester, seriously. It's a spa. It's the most low-threat environment on the planet. The most dangerous thing in there is a lukewarm herbal tea."

He stood up, popping his back. I saw his jaw tighten for a split second at the name, a flash of annoyance he quickly smoothed over with that usual stubborn mask. "Don't care. Demons love cute little safe places. Less attention. Easier to shank somebody." He started reaching for his flannel. "Five minutes. Then we go."

I didn't move. I had to stop this. I needed to make this so unappealing that he’d practically shove me out the door alone.

"Come on," I said, my voice dropping into that clinical, 'too-much-information' tone. "I'm going for a wax."

He didn't blink. "So? People wax cars all the time."

"I’m not a car, Winchester. I’m getting waxed…” Oh, Lord. We’re going there. “Specifically my downstairs. I look like a 1970s shag carpet. I’m about to let a woman named Svetlana put hot wax on my most sensitive bits and then yank all of it by the root while I scream into a pillow. There will be sweating. There will be cursing. There will be extremely unholy positions where I’m holding my knees to my chin while a stranger judges my life choices.”

I leaned in, raising an eyebrow. "Do you really want to be the guy sitting in the waiting room while your 'wife' gets a Brazilian? Surrounded by Enya, eucalyptus, and women drinking herbal tea like this is normal?"

He stared at me for a long beat. I thought I had him. I saw the flash of horror in his eyes. Then his jaw set. He grabbed his keys.

"Svetlana, huh?" He shrugged, heading for the stairs to the showers. "Hope she's a professional. I'll meet you at the car in ten."

“But… Brazilian…”

He lifted a hand without looking back. “Ten minutes, Rae.”

I blinked after him, betrayed by my own plan. "Winchester!" Well, damn.

(Dean's POV) The Lotus & Leaf Day Spa

I’ve been in haunted asylums that felt less intimidating than this place.

The air smelled like a forest had exploded in a bottle of essential oils. Everything was white, the white rugs, white walls, white furniture. I felt like a giant grease stain just standing in the lobby.

The girl at the front desk looked at my leather jacket like it was a biohazard. "Can I... help you, sir?"

Yeah. Point me to the exit.

Rae stepped up. "He's with me. Just... find a corner to put him in where he won't break anything."

The girl led us back. She pointed me toward a "relaxation lounge" that had a fountain trickling water over rocks. It sounded like a leaky pipe. I sat down on a chair that was basically a glorified beanbag and watched Rae disappear behind a curtain with a woman who looked like she’d made grown men cry for a living.

The ring caught the lobby lights and my hand felt heavier. Didn’t matter that I’d flashed it at the nurse at the clinic. It still felt fake on my finger.

"Enjoy the wax," I called out. Rae flipped me off over her shoulder.

Ten minutes in, a woman in a lab coat approached me with a tray of tiny cups. "Cucumber and mint infusion?"

"You got a beer?"

She didn't even blink. "We have chamomile."

"I'll pass."

I tried to look busy with my phone, but the music was getting to me. It was just... pan flutes. Constant, airy pan flutes. It was like being stuck inside a Hallmark card.

Svetlana’s voice carried right through the door. “So… handsome man in lobby? Boyfriend?”

I stiffened.

“Nyet?” She was amused. “Your husband then." A little laugh.

”Okay. You move fast."

I leaned a fraction closer. Still couldn't make out Rae. Just the damn flutes. Svetlana though? She was practically filling in the silence like she got paid by the syllable.

Svetlana laughed. “He is pretty. Congratulations.”

Then I heard it. Through the heavy door.

RIIIIIP.

"OH SWEET MOTHER OF—"

Rae’s voice. High, sharp, and cut off abruptly.

I was on my feet in a second, hand reaching for the small of my back before I remembered where I was. I took a step toward the door, but a tiny tech in white stepped in my way.

"She is fine, sir. She's just getting a Brazilian."

Jesus. That's what Brazilian means?! "Sounded like the Inquisition," I muttered, sitting back down. My ears were burning.

I’d seen shapeshifters, but the idea of Rae in there getting her skin ripped off for looks made me feel a little sick to my stomach.

"How long since last wax?" Svetlana's voice floated out again.

"Three months?! Okay. Butterfly legs." 

I suddenly understood why hunters drank.

Forty minutes. That’s how long I sat there, staring at that stupid fountain and listening to the sound of Rae's dignity being ripped out by the root. I’ve stared down Alastair in the Pit. No problem at all. But sitting in a room full of women with cucumbers on their eyes while she got waxed? Special kind of hell.

(Rae's POV)

“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” Svetlana announced, escorting me back to the lobby like I wasn’t walking bowlegged against my will.

Why, oh why do I do this to myself? I moved like a newborn giraffe, but I swear I felt ten pounds lighter. Ninety years older, too. Svetlana was a genius, even if she was a sadist. 

She waved toward the lounge. “Happy hunting, husband!” She said, loud enough for the whole lobby. Including Dean. 

I closed my eyes. “God, kill me.”

I found Dean in the lounge. For half a second, he had that stupid Winchester almost-smirk, like he was about to say something smart. Then his green eyes landed on mine.

Whatever he saw on my face, probably mortified, raw, or begging 'please don't,' killed it. He just gave Svetlana a single polite nod. And when I got closer, his eyes did a quick sweep from head to toe, checking for blood. 

"You still got all your skin?"

"Most of it," I responded, because if I didn’t joke I was gonna scream. “Now. Mani-pedi. Come on.”

His head snapped as I steered him toward the nail station. "Aw, c'mon! Seriously? You're still not done?!"

The nail area was a row of giant, plush thrones with footbaths bubbling at the bottom. The tech pointed, and I sank into mine with a sigh as warm, bubbly water hit my aching feet.

Dean stood awkwardly by the chair.

"Sit," I told him, pointing to the empty throne next to me.

He frowned. "No way. I'm standing guard."

"Winchester, you're a six-foot-tall man in a leather jacket hovering over a pregnant woman in a nail salon. You're not guarding me; you're terrifying the locals. Park it. Relax. Please."

He held my gaze for a second then glanced at the other chair. "I'll sit over there."

"No." I tipped my chin toward the one beside me with the footbath already running and a 'reserved' sign. "I called ahead."

His eyes narrowed. "You what?"

"Yup. You wanted to take me, so...enjoy, Winchester." I smiled sweetly. "And you're lucky you didn't get waxed. Svetlana does men, too."

His mouth tightened, face full-on betrayed. "Haha. Funny." He grumbled but lowered himself into the chair. 

"Congrats. You're housebroken," I said. He huffed through his nose, shaking his head like I was the reason God invented suffering.

A young girl, maybe twenty, approached him timidly. "Would you like the 'Sports Recovery' salts blend, sir?"

Dean looked at me. I gave him a sweet, challenging smile.

"Fine," he snapped at the girl. "But no colors. And don't mess with the cuticles."

He was absolutely getting his cuticles touched. He just hadn’t accepted his fate yet.

(Dean's POV)

I’m gonna kill Gabriel. I’m gonna kill her. Slow.

My boots were off. My feet were in a tub of blue water like I’d gotten kidnapped by a Smurf. Some twenty-year-old was scrubbing my heel with something that looked like it belonged in a tackle box.

And I hated, truly, really hated how good it felt.

I tipped my head back anyway, staring at the ceiling and trying to salvage what was left of my dignity while Rae giggled beside me.

"Admit it," she whispered. "You like the bubbles."

“I like…" The words caught for a second. "That you’re steadier today. It’s… good.” I shot her a look. "Even if you are mouthy."

She flashed me a quick smile. Her smile. Then she stuck her tongue out at me. "Pot, meet Kettle. But you're purring, Winchester."

I gave her a flat look. “I am not purring.”

“Uh-huh. And I was born yesterday.”

“I’m… ” I shifted in the chair, betrayed by how good it felt. “I'm takin' five. Don’t make a thing out of it.”

“Too late," she said, sounding way too smug. "It’s a thing.”

She laughed, her hand reaching over the armrest for my hand. Then stopped. Just… hovered there like she thought better of it. Her eyes went distant for a second. I’d seen that look before. Grief. The kind that doesn’t let go. When she finally touched me, it was gentle, like she was making a deal with herself. I stayed still. Let her set the rules.

She leaned in, her voice dropping so the nail techs couldn't hear. "Thanks for coming...Dean," she said softly. "Even if you did have to hear me almost die...courtesy of Svetlana."

Dean. Not Winchester. It shouldn’t have mattered. It did.

I squeezed her hand, then let my thumb slide once over her knuckles like I hadn’t meant to.

I cleared my throat and put the grit back where it belonged. “I’m just sayin’…next time, you're doin’ the Svetlana Experience in a soundproof room. Nobody has any business hearin’ ‘three months?!’ and ‘butterfly your legs’ before noon.”

Rae's eyes went wide. "Oh, my God! Kill me!"

"Yeah. Exactly."

She sank lower in the chair, covered her face, and bumped my shin under the armrest. Then I saw her eyes, bright and mortified, and I dialed it back.

“Alright,” I muttered, squeezing her hand again. “I’m done. I’m done.”

I glanced at my feet being buffed to a shine I haven’t seen since Baby rolled off the line. And with that stupid music and the lavender trying to crawl into my lungs, it hit me: I’d do this a thousand times if it meant she kept lookin’ a little more like herself.

"Just don't tell Garth or Bobby," I mumbled.

"I'll do my best," she whispered with a wink. Too pleased with herself.

​​​​​​​August 7

7:30 AM

I woke up to the sound of a drill sergeant shouting from downstairs.

“Girl, you better haul ass!”

My eyes cracked open. Sunlight was cutting through the blinds, way too damn bright. I reached for the warm body that should have been next to me.

Empty.

I shoved myself up on one elbow, blinking the grit out of my eyes. The room was a disaster zone. Clothes everywhere. Books knocked over. Wrappers on the rug.

Yeah. That tracks.

Rae was across the room, kneeling on the floor, picking up her scattered clothes. She tugged on a hoodie, hair messy, moving fast like she was already late for something.

I watched her for a second, just enjoying the view. She was muttering to herself, something about a laptop, moving with a frantic, nervous energy.

Then she reached for her jeans.

She wriggled into the tight, washed-out denim, but as she yanked them up her hips, she froze. Her head dipped, a small, involuntary moan slipping past her lips. A whimper.

Oh.

I knew that sound. I’d spent the last eight hours wringing it out of her.

She whipped her head around, eyes wide, checking to see if I was awake. I played possum, dropping back against the pillow and keeping my breathing even, my eyes barely cracked. She relaxed when she thought I was out cold.

Good.

She went back to packing, tiptoeing around like a cartoon burglar.

Downstairs, the drill sergeant yelled again. “Seriously, Rae!”

Rae flinched. She snatched up her bag, cramming whatever she could grab into it blindly, then turned for the door.

Not happening.

I was out of bed before I thought about it. Silent. Quick. I crossed the room in two strides, coming up behind her just as she reached for the knob.

I caught her scent fast. It was clean and unfamiliar, something I’d never run into before. And it was twisted together with the darker, muskier smell of sex. My smell on her skin. It pissed me off how much it got to me.

“Heading out without a kiss?” I murmured, pitching my voice low, right against the shell of her ear.

Just like that. She went weak, her bag hitting the floor with a thud. I caught her by the waist, spinning her around and backing her up until she hit the dresser. The cheap wood groaned, but I didn't care.

She looked up at me, pupils blown wide. Hungry. “I…” Whatever she tried to say didn’t make it.

I didn’t give her a chance to recover. I kissed her, crushing her protest, pressing her back against the furniture until there was zero space left between us. She tasted like toothpaste and trouble I wasn't done with yet. Her hands fumbled, then gripped my waist, pulling me closer.

She wanted this. To hell with the schedule.

My hands slid down, past the hem of her hoodie, finding the waistband of her jeans. I dipped my fingers inside, expecting cotton or lace.

Skin. Just bare, hot skin. I pulled back an inch, grinning against her mouth. “No underwear?”

She flushed, trying to look anywhere but at me. “Stop.” It was a weak protest. A lie. “I’ll be late for class.”

“Tell your professor it’s time well spent,” I growled, dragging my lips down her jaw.

She pressed into me, done fighting it. That was all it took. I was hard again, stupidly hard. Like I hadn’t already gotten off more than twice. I worked the button of her jeans, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet room.

I shoved the hoodie up. No bra. I dipped my head, taking her into my mouth, and she made this wrecked sound. Not sexy. Not showy. Just real.

She arched off the dresser, holding me there like she didn’t know what else to do with herself.

I wasn't even close to done. I had one hand down her jeans, and she was soaking wet. I was ready to ruin her morning completely when the door banged open.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

The mood died instantly.

Rae froze, turning to look at the door like a deer in headlights. I didn't move. I kept one arm braced against the dresser, blocking Rae from view, though I slowly pulled my mouth away from her skin.

I turned my head.

Standing in the doorway was a woman with a long braid and a killer glare. She took one look at Rae, flustered, half-naked. Then at me, completely naked, not even trying to care.

“My name is Heidi,” she announced, ice cold.

Rae looked like she wanted to phase through the floorboards. I just straightened up, shielding her as she frantically tugged her hoodie down. I didn't bother covering myself. If Heidi wanted to look, that was her problem.

She cocked a brow, staring me down. “That right there, with her titty in your mouth is Reima Marie Park-Gibbs. You are?”

I held her gaze. Didn't like her tone. Didn't like the interruption.

“Dean Winchester.” I said it like a challenge. Because it was.

Rae made a small, mortified noise behind me.

Heidi looked me up and down, unimpressed by the nudity or the name. “Winchester, huh? Hm. Figures. Usually your type skips the names and heads straight to the zipper. Or is my girl here just special?”

I felt a flash of irritation. “Do you make it a habit of interrupting people, Mother Superior?”

I turned back to Rae. She looked gutted. Small. I hated that look on her.

I slowly pulled my hand from inside her pants. I brought my fingers to my lips and licked them, never breaking Rae’s gaze just to make a point.

The sharp inhale from the doorway told me it landed.

I leaned in anyway, pressed a quick, firm kiss to Rae’s mouth. “You okay?” I murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.

For half a second, she kissed me back. Not soft. Not needy. Sharp. Intentional. It was hot and sloppy, her tongue pushing past my teeth to taste herself on me, claiming like she was taking something back.

Then she pulled away. She didn’t answer.

Her eyes weren’t on me anymore. They slid past my shoulder, past the room, already somewhere else. Already leaving.

Heidi snapped, looking like she wanted to bleach her eyes. “Zip it up, cowboy! She’s got lecture in twenty and this city’s rush hour eats small cars alive. Never mind that tank you parked outside.”

Rae flinched. She looked at me for once eyes wide, panicked, ashamed. Then she was gone.

I listened to her footsteps fade down the stairs, the back door slamming shut a few seconds later.

I stood there for a moment in the sudden silence of the bedroom. The air still smelled like sex. The condom wrappers were still on the floor. But whatever had been there vanished.

I looked at Heidi.

She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You gonna put pants on, or do I need to get the hose?”

I snorted, turning to grab my jeans from the floor. “You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”

“I’m her best friend,” she said, voice losing some of the edge but none of the steel. “And she doesn't do this. Which means I’m the one who’s gonna have to pick up the pieces when you roll out of town.”

She didn't wait for a response. She turned and stormed out after Rae. "Get dressed and get out, Winchester," she threw over her shoulder. "And lock the door behind you."

I watched her go, then grabbed my jeans. I buttoned my fly, jaw tight. I wanted to tell them I wasn't rolling out. I wanted to say I’d be back tonight.

But I had a hunt in Nevada. I had Dad waiting for a call. I had the life.

I grabbed my leather jacket, tight in my hand.

As I turned to the door, something on the carpet caught my eye. A ring. Plain white gold. Simple. I picked it up and saw a tiny nick on the rim.

On impulse, I slid it onto my right ring finger. I didn't take it off. I told myself it was a keepsake. A souvenir from the girl who tasted like trouble. Truth was, I wasn’t ready to leave her behind.

I walked down the stairs and out the front door. The morning air was cool, biting. I climbed into the Impala, and Baby came alive under me like she’d been waiting.

I checked the rearview mirror as I pulled away. Two figures stood near the side gate, watching me go.

I forced my eyes back to the road.

Rae @ 23 weeks+2days

(Dean's POV)

Turns out, I could cook just fine in the bunker. I’d made burgers, chili, even pancakes. But trying to cook a meal meant to make a pregnant woman feel like she was loved? That was new territory. I stood in the kitchen staring at a pot of rice like it had personally insulted me.

“How hard can this be?” I muttered.

Rae was twenty-something weeks pregnant. Twenty-three, twenty-four, maybe. I was pretty sure, though she kept changing the math based on "fruit sizes" and she’d been craving rice nonstop. Not the boxed crap. Not instant. Real rice. The kind she grew up eating. The kind her adoptive dad made without measuring cups, without instructions, like it was muscle memory instead of food. She’d tried explaining it to me once, standing barefoot in the bunker kitchen, hands on her belly, saying things like "you just measure it with your heart."

Which was insane. Food is not psychic. Food is chemistry. So naturally, while she was napping, I decided I was gonna cook her dinner. I’d offered to grab takeout. Again. She’d smiled softly and patiently, the way she did when she didn’t want to hurt my feelings.

“I appreciate it,” she said. “But I kinda wanna eat at home tonight.”

That was it. That was my cue.

So here I was. No rice cooker. No clue. Just a pot, a bag of jasmine rice, and the confidence of a man who had killed monsters but had never once cooked an Asian meal without supervision.

I rinsed the rice like I’d seen her do. Or… tried to. The grains escaped down the drain like tiny traitors. Strike one.

I grabbed a pot. Medium-sized. Felt right. Strike two.

I poured rice in. No idea how much. Looked… reasonable. Then water. Rae said something about ratios once. Or was it the knuckle trick? Something about the water hitting the first joint of your finger? I looked at my finger. I looked at the pot. I decided science was a better bet and just guessed. I stirred it. A lot. Because sticking felt like a problem I could prevent. You can always boil off excess water, right? Wrong.

I cranked the stove too high because patience has never been my strong suit. Walked away for thirty seconds, probably longer now that I think about it, to chop vegetables I wasn’t even sure belonged in the same meal.

That’s when it happened. The pot started making a sound. Bubbling. Hissing. I turned just in time to see starchy foam crawling up the sides like it was alive. The lid rattled like a poltergeist was trying to break out.

“Son of a---! Okay,” I said, pointing at the pot. “You’re already testing me.”

I killed the heat and grabbed the pot. “Ow! Damn it!” I hissed, slamming it back down onto the burner as the metal seared my palm. Half the contents sloshed onto the floor. The kitchen smelled like boiled glue. The rice inside had somehow become both crunchy and mushy at the same time. It looked like rice but had the personality of paste.

I stared at it like I’d just lost a fight.

That’s when I heard her laugh. Soft at first. Then full-on. I turned around to see Rae leaning in the doorway, one hand on her belly, the other braced against the frame, eyes bright and amused as hell.

“Ooh. I felt that from here.” She crossed the kitchen, grabbing my wrist and pulling my hand under the faucet before I could protest. She kicked the cold water on.

“I leave you alone for ten minutes,” she said, eyeing the red skin. “And you commit a hate crime against rice.”

“I was trying,” I grunted, though the cold water felt like heaven.

She wore one of my sweatshirts, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back messy. Comfortable. Home. She took one look at the pot on the counter.

“Oh no.”

“I can fix it,” I said immediately. Too fast. Guilty.

She walked over to the stove and peered inside. I shut the faucet off, shook the water from my stinging hand, and joined her, bracing for the verdict. She looked up at me with that expression. The one that was half amused, half affectionate, and one hundred percent "you tried."

“Did you… stir it?”

“…Yeah?”

She winced. “You’re not supposed to.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Why does rice have rules?”

She laughed, soft and warm, and leaned her hip against the counter. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” I said. And I meant it. I shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “You’ve been carrying the hard part. Figured I could at least feed you without poisoning you.”

She studied me for a second, eyes softening. “You don’t have to be good at everything,” she murmured. “Just… here.”

Then she reached past me and grabbed a spoon. She scraped a bit of the non-burnt section off the top.

“Well,” she said, tasting it. Paused. Thought. “It’s… edible.”

That was not the compliment I’d hoped for.

“I’m ordering a rice cooker,” I said. “Tonight.”

She smiled. “You don’t have to.”

“I absolutely do. I'm getting the one that sings a song when it's done.”

She laughed again, then surprised me by stepping in close, arms sliding around my waist. I froze for half a second. Still not used to how easy this was now. Then I covered her hands with mine and leaned back against her.

Her forehead pressed into my back. She smelled like sleep and that perfume she wears, clean and cool. Nothing loud, nothing sharp. The kind of scent that made you breathe deeper without realizing it. Just...her.

“You didn’t hunt today,” she said quietly.

“Nope.”

“Or yesterday.”

“Still nope.”

She tilted her head back, looking up at me. “Or any day this week.”

I shrugged. “World didn’t end.”

“Yet,” she said, smirking.

I smiled despite myself. “I like being here.”

That got me another look. A real one. Searching.

“I know you’re not wired for this,” she said. “So… thank you.”

I swallowed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She squeezed my waist, then let go just enough for me to turn around. I leaned back against the counter, pulling her closer, hands settling easy at her hips so I could look at her properly. She nodded, like she believed me. Or maybe like she was choosing to.

The rice sat forgotten on the stove, cooling into something I didn’t want to think about.

Her hand slid, guiding mine to her stomach. Right on cue, the baby kicked, hard enough to make me suck in a breath.

“Easy, slugger,” I muttered.

Rae laughed. “He likes chaos.”

“Figures,” I said. “He’s mine.”

She leaned into me again, and for a second, the bunker didn’t feel like a tomb full of secrets and ghosts. It felt like a kitchen. A mess. A life.

“Next time,” she said, “we cook together.”

I kissed her hair. “Deal. But I’m still buying the rice cooker.”

She didn’t argue.

A/N 2:

She caught it instantly. “‘Usually?’”

“This—” His voice was gruff, defensive, and laced with uncertainty. He hated it. “This wasn’t normal. The meds always worked before. I’ve never…” He cut himself off, humiliation crawling. “…Not like last night.”

She didn't soften. “So that was your first true heat.”

Something in him snapped. His palm slammed against the wheel. “Don’t say it like that!”

She didn't flinch at his sudden outburst. Didn't even blink, but she did turn slowly. And what came out wasn't gentle. “Like what?”

That didn't scare him off. It lit the fuse even more, the hunter in him surfacing, meeting her head-on. “Like you're talking about the damn weather and not my life blowing up!”

For a moment, she studied him. Then she turned back to the windshield, her tone slipping right back into clinical. “Your suppressants didn’t just fail. It’s not about dosage anymore. And the way it hit you? Your Omega instincts are shifting, pulling harder. You don’t have to like it, but you can’t pretend it’s not happening.”

He ground his teeth. “Shifting. Great. Thanks for the diagnosis, Doc. Love being biology’s favorite science project. Like I didn't live through it.”

“Now that it’s happened once, it will happen again,” she said. “Stronger. You need to be ready.”

He let out a bitter huff of disbelief. “Keeps getting better and better. I’ll just block out three days in my calendar, hole up with Netflix and whiskey—”

“Dean.” Her tone sharpened. Not cruel. Not emotional. Just matter-of-fact. “Listen to me. When a heat hits, you’re exposed. You’re not a hunter, not sharp, not fast. Your Omega leaves you wide open. And if that happens in the wrong place, it won’t just take you down." She turned to him fully, amber eyes hard and unmoving. "It’ll take me down with you.”

The memory of the motel floor hit hard. The shaking. The begging. His fingers clamped in her shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. Shame crawled under his skin, his jaw locking until it ached.

She leaned in just enough that he could feel her, her voice unwavering. “I need you to hear me: pride won’t save you. Out there, heat makes you a target. And I can’t fight and protect you at the same time.”

Every word dug under his skin, cutting in ways she didn't even mean to. His hunter instincts rose, snarling at the idea of being anyone’s handicap. He wasn’t prey. He wasn't helpless. He’d bled, fought, and killed more monsters than she could count.

But the Omega in him writhed at the truth. It didn’t care about pride or history. It remembered the way his body had given up on him, remembered the way her scent had been the only thing keeping him tethered. That truth pressed down heavier than her words, heavier than his anger.

Finally, he muttered, rough: “All right! All right! Point made. Don’t expect me to make it easy next time.”

“I don’t expect easy.” Alex’s voice stayed cool. “I expect prepared.”

----

The rain thinned as they rounded a final bend. A ten-foot fence topped with razor wire cut through the forest. A heavy iron gate blocked the road, marked with the sigil of a crescent moon. Two guards waited in front, looking bored, posturing, already smelling trouble.

“Showtime,” she murmured.

Just like that, the heat between them shut off. The conversation, the edge in her voice, the flash of something almost human, it all vanished. She pulled herself back under control, power sliding into place around her like armor.

“This your idea of home?” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the gate. Hunters didn’t walk into compounds. Not willingly.

She didn’t answer. Which somehow made it worse. 

He eased the Impala to a stop. One guard swaggered forward, young and cocky, and absolutely dying to pick a fight. Looking down at the driver's window, sneer carved onto his face. “What’s your business here?” Then spit on the Impala, a fat glob landing on Baby's hood.

Dean’s jaw clenched. His hands wrapped around the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went bone white. “Classy," he bit out. "You always greet people by hocking a loogie on their ride?”

His hand was already moving toward the door handle, muscles tensing, ready to step out and educate this kid on basic manners. He didn’t get the chance. Alex’s authority rolled out in a crushing wave. The young guard froze mid-sneer, eyes wide, a whimper slipping out before he could drag it back.

Dean felt it too. The weight slammed into the Impala’s interior, thick and suffocating. His hunter instincts surged, fighting it, but his Omega folded automatically, curling his shoulders, settling him like a hand on the back of his neck. He locked his elbows, fingers digging into the wheel, leather creaking under his grip. Anger flared hot in his chest at how fast his body could betray him. At how fast she could flip that switch.

“Daryl, what’s the problem?” the second guard called as he jogged over. He slowed abruptly, shoulders hitching when he hit the invisible wall spilling out of the Impala. His eyes darted toward Alex like he’d just realized he’d stepped barefoot into a minefield.

“Artemis,” Daryl stammered. “I didn’t mean...please...”

Alex stepped out of the car gracefully like a predator getting ready to pounce. “Oh no? Then what was that? A welcome?” Her smile was sharp as glass. “Maybe you need another ‘lesson.’”

Daryl whimpered and flinched hard, his head dropping so fast his chin nearly hit his chest. “No, Artemis. Please. I’ve been good.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. She let the silence stretch instead, savoring the way he squirmed under her weight. She didn’t have to snarl or threaten. Her dominance did the talking, pressing him lower, forcing tremors through his frame, making him fold in on himself.

Once, she would've taken it further. Pushed until he broke. Until fear transformed into worship, until he begged to breathe her air, begged for her approval. And God help her, the part of her that remembered still liked the taste of authority like a boot on someone's throat.

A slow, deliberate smile spread across her face. Her amber eyes burned too bright, chilling and focused, the look of a predator enjoying the moment before the strike. The air shifted, her scent spiking hard enough to ripple through everything around her.

But she wasn’t that Alpha anymore. She let him sweat one breath longer, then nodded toward the gate. “Open it.”

They scrambled over each other to obey. Alex slid back into her seat. Dean snapped the moment the gate began to creak open. “Don’t do that. Don’t just...” he gestured vaguely at the air around them, “...whip out your Alpha whenever you feel like it.”

She tilted her head slowly. She didn’t argue. Didn’t apologize. The look unsettled him. It was too calm, too unreadable. It reminded him of Cass, moments when he tried to crack a joke and the angel just stared, like he was missing the part where he was supposed to react.

He dragged his eyes back to the road. “Next time, warn me before you turn the car into a damn pressure cooker…Artemis.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said coldly. No snarl, no raised voice. Just warning. “Ever. Just drive.”

Dean didn’t smile. That would’ve been suicidal. But something in his expression changed. A spark of satisfaction he didn’t bother to hide. He’d gotten under her skin, and they both knew it.

“Yeah,” he said, putting the Impala back into gear. “Got it.

Inside, though? He’d noticed all of it. Every crack, every reaction, every way she moved when she forgot to act human. And every way his own body answered her without his permission.

The gravel road wound deeper through the trees, the Impala’s tires crunching over wet stone. This wasn’t a cozy mountain retreat. It was a base. A compound. Log cabins and training grounds stretched across the clearing in a wide, organized sweep, circling a central lodge built from redwood trunks the size of towers.

Shapes moved between the trees. Too fast. Too quiet.

And everywhere? Eyes. Watching. Tracking. Predatory in a way no human should be.

His senses went to overdrive, his skin tingling. Hunter instinct screaming that he was surrounded by something that lived one step to the left of natural. They didn’t need guns. That almost made it worse. Guns he understood. Whatever this was? This was something else.

He pulled up in front of the main lodge. A man stood waiting on the porch steps, arms crossed over his chest. Built solid, posture sharp, expression hard and unyielding. Dean had seen soldiers look like that. And monsters.

“He's waiting,” the block of granite said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He didn't spare Dean a glance. His focus locked entirely on Alex, as if Dean didn’t even register as anything.

Alex inclined her head once. “Marcus.” The name was acknowledgment, but it was also for Dean’s benefit: introduction, warning, remember this one, all packed in a single word.

Then, lower, to Dean: “Stay close. And don’t say a word unless I tell you to.”

Dean shoved himself out of the driver’s seat, every muscle protesting. “Don’t worry,” he muttered, giving her a sideways look. “I’m just here to look pretty.”

He shot a glance at the massive lodge looming over them, then fell in step behind the two… whatever-they-were. Soldiers. Cultists. Something. His hunter instincts didn’t know which box to shove them into, only that none of the options were good.

Walking in silence, Dean was on edge. Marcus didn't just walk; he moved with the same eerie control Alex had. Something about him screamed wild and disciplined at the same time. He smelled like pine and cold mountain air. It was clean but heavy and pressed at Dean's senses in a way that had nothing to do with common sense.

Instinct, not logic, nudged him closer to Alex's right. Her scent, which was steadier and familiar now, settled something in his chest. He stuck a little closer than he meant to, his Omega leaning toward her Alpha before he could stop it.

Marcus led them through the heavy oak doors and into the heart of the den. “He stays here,” he commanded, gesturing for Dean to remain in the entryway.

“I don’t think so,” Alex snarled.

It was a warning from deep in her chest, unmistakably Alpha. She didn’t just speak; she pushed. Her scent intensified. It was intoxicating, suffocating all at once. It hit the walls, filled the corners, seeped into the air. The pressure grew heavy, forcing the Omega inside Dean to bow, lungs straining for air.

Amber eyes locked on Marcus, her smile was all teeth with no warmth...and predatory. “Where I go, he goes.” She sounded lethal. 

The next words came colder and sharper, her sadism slipping through like the flash of a fang. “Try to separate us. See how fast I break you.”

The room froze. Her authority wasn’t just protective; it was a challenge, daring Marcus to test her. Before he could respond, another voice entered the room. Calm. Heavy with presence. Threaded with something older and deeper than anything Dean had ever heard. A man stepped in from a side doorway, one large hand dropping onto Marcus’s shoulder.

"No one's taking him from you, Alexandria." Then his cool gray eyes slid to Dean, unfaltering and dissecting.

If Alex’s presence pressed, his crushed. The scent was overpowering of old leather, winter frost, and the immovable weight of command. And it hit Dean like a physical force. His knees wavered, breath ragged. He was drowning. His hand found the butt of the Colt, not to draw but to keep himself upright under the weight of the man in front of him.

The thin smile held no humanity. “I am Napoleon Phonophoros Donovan," he said. "The Alpha of the Crescent Moon pack.” He lifted a hand toward Alex, barely a gesture it was almost nothing, except it wasn't. It was claim, lineage, ownership, all without breaking eye contact with Dean.

“And this is my heir. Alexandria Rhodielle Donovan. Alpha Apparent. The Artemis." A beat, then his voice slipped into something almost casual. "And yes, hunter. Pack as in werewolves. Not the fairytale kind. The real kind.”

Dean tried not to react, but it was hard to lie to something that old. His gut twisted. Not just a pack. An empire. And Alex wasn't just a soldier; she was the heir.

Each word hit harder than the last, ringing like gunshots. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what they meant. Not metaphor. Not some backwater cult with matching jackets.

Real. Real power. Real hierarchy. Real monsters.

His hunter instincts kicked hard before his brain could catch up. Just one loud message: "You're outnumbered and outclassed, Winchester."

He didn't need to count the bodies to understand the power balance. This place didn’t run on laws or manners. It ran on dominance. 

And Alex? She wasn’t just some runaway with daddy issues. She was the damn crown princess of a monster empire. A pack of wolves.

The Artemis. His brain didn’t have a definition for it, but his body sure as hell did. His Omega folded like something ancient had just stepped into the room and spoken his name. Like every instinct he’d spent a lifetime burying suddenly snapped awake and whispered:

That’s her.

The tension in his jaw ached, forcing the reaction down. Forcing himself to breathe. To think. To stay human in a room where he suddenly wasn’t so sure the rules applied.

He cut his eyes toward Alex, his mouth twisting into a sharp, bitter line. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “Guess I missed the part where you told me I was signing up for the family reunion from hell.”

Alex didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge the jab or the accusation in it. “Let’s cut to the chase," she said defiantly, eyes fixed on Napoleon. "Why am I here, Alpha?”

Napoleon let out a hearty, booming laugh that was utterly out of place, it made the hair on Dean's arm stand up. There was nothing warm in it, just overconfidence. “Alexandria, please,” he said, his tone shifting on a dime from amused to icy. “Reel in your wolf."

A beat. His eyes daring. "Unless you’re challenging me.”

The room became even more unbearable, charged with ancient, immovable power that swallowed air. It wasn't dominance; it was decree, the kind of force that had been bending things into obedience.

Marcus, his second-in-command, went down hard. He was forced to his knees, spine bowing under the sheer pressure of his Alpha's will.

To Dean, it felt like someone had opened a vacuum above his head and sucked the oxygen out. Every Omega instinct he had was screaming at him to drop, to bare his throat, to make himself small and harmless. Survive first, everything else later.

But he was a Winchester. He didn't kneel. He locked his knees, grit his teeth until his jaw ached, and clung to the cold, hard weight of the Colt at his back.

Alex’s dominance had been heavy. It was the kind that crept and clung, like smoke filling a room. This? Napoleon’s power was a mountain collapsing, and it wanted to put them all in the ground.

But Alex didn’t bend.

She stepped forward, shoulders squared, planting herself between Dean and her father. Her own power surged, her scent rolling out like a shield, pushing back against the weight overpowering them.

The air eased just enough that Dean could drag in a ragged breath. A low growl rumbled in her chest, and in the dim light, he saw the tips of her fingers darkening, nails elongating into claws.

The sight should've terrified him, and it did. But the Omega in him didn’t care. His body recognized only one thing: Alex, small but blazing, standing against something powerful. Alex, his Alpha. His protector.

She stood fast. She wasn't moving. She was holding the line against her own father, and all he could do was watch.

She had to know what Napoleon could do, had to feel his power. That it could crush them both. But she didn't retreat. Every inch of her said she'd take the hit first if it came.

He could hear his own heartbeat jagged and uneven. She didn't look back, didn't check to see if he was standing or running. She just kept herself between them like the decision had already been made long before he stepped into this room.

For one terrifying second, he thought she was going to do it. Challenge her father. Right here. Over him.

Which was insane. And terrifying.

His stomach dropped. His Omega was begging him to bolt for the door while he could. But the stubborn and suicidal hunter in him, the Winchester part, rooted him to the floor. He couldn't look away from a standoff that felt seconds away from ripping the room in half.

“Napoleon. Alexandria. That is enough.”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. Calm. Firm.  Dissolving the overwhelming pressure in an instant.

Dean stumbled, dragging air into his chest like he’d been drowning. Alex held her ground a beat longer, eyes locked on her father, until the woman’s hand brushed her arm. Only then did she ease back.

A woman stepped forward, her presence warm enough to melt the last of the tension. She smelled of chamomile and honey, soft and grounding in a room full of fangs. Her eyes were kind, and when they landed on Dean, he felt seen in a way that had nothing to do with dominance. Where Napoleon’s gaze dissected, hers simply understood.

“Marcus," she said with a patient but adamant tone, "please see that lunch is prepared. Our guest must be hungry.” She then turned to Dean, her smile genuine, apologetic, and startingly human.

“Hello, dear. My name is Aurora. I am so sorry for my husband’s and daughter’s behavior. They can be… a handful.”

She slipped her hand lightly around his forearm, guiding him away from the two Alphas still locked in silent battle.

Dean’s whole body went rigid at Aurora’s touch. Not scared but startled. Too warm. Too gentle. Too Omega-calming in a way he didn’t appreciate. His Omega eased, but the hunter part in him still had a death grip on his gun, adrenaline still rushing.

“Come,” she said, warmth wrapped around every word, “let’s get you something to eat.”

He wasn't buying any of her hospitality, not completely, but the instinct she stirred in him was winning. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off his embarrassment. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

He turned to Alex before he could stop himself, but she wasn't looking at him. She was still locked in a stare-down with her father, her anger not fully gone.

Before leading him fully out, Aurora glanced over her shoulder at Napoleon and Alex. The look she gave them was unyielding and pointed but yet maternal. “And you two will behave.”