hannah

But they’ve been chatting for too long. He hasn’t approached anyone else - just beelined for her the second he spotted her. And he’s got that goddamn smirk on his face. You know it so well. You had seen him use it on so many girls over the years and it always puts a sick feeling in your stomach because you know what it means and how it ends. He’s never used it on you. He never even needed to - you are his without it.

She’s a bit more out-there than Dean’s usual type, but it had been so long since you had seen him try to pick someone up, you can hardly tell the difference between what is or is not his type anymore. And there aren’t many girls in this bar anyway. Besides you, who Dean has clearly decided that he’s not in the mood for tonight.

You fight the bile working its way up your stomach and look away. The daylight outside is murky and grey, rapidly dwindling into nightfall. You figure there’s about an hour or two before you can leave without it causing a scene. You’re just going to have to stick it out until then.

You try to busy yourself with watching the pool game in your corner of the bar, observing the smooth, level motions of the men clipping the cue balls into the corner pockets, listening to the clicking sound of the balls crashing against each other. There are a few people gathered around to watch, passing green bills between hands. One of the men - the one who seems to be doing most of the winning - is young and not bad looking. He looks over to you with smile very close to the one Dean is currently sporting when he makes twelve of the fifteen balls on the table, eyebrows raised.

You consider going up and talking to him briefly, just for something to do. Just to make an effort to seem okay. Then you think better of it and take a sip of your beer instead, fighting a wince at the taste.

Dean is still talking to the woman. She’s laughing now and it’s high and girlish. She’s slapping his chest, which means he probably gave her some risqué compliment that she’s pretending not to like. His grin widens when she does this, leaning closer. He knows he’s got her now, you think, and avert your gaze with a heavy feeling in your chest. You’d rather not witness this next part.

“Get you a drink?”

You blink, looking over to your right. It’s the pool player. His face is flushed from the exertion of the game, chalk caked on his face from applying it to the cue tip. He has a dark complexion with bright, alert eyes. He is even more handsome up close, with the light on his face.

“I got one,” you say, picking up your beer and tilting it up at him. He smile widens.

“One you actually like.”

You shrug, vaguely aware he’s probably trying to jostle you into a quickie in the bathroom stall or something but not really caring. The beer is shit.

He doesn’t ask you what you want, just makes his way up to the barman with casual swagger. He clearly knows the barman because he’s served quickly, exchanging a bill for two beers.

When he hands it over to you, you note that this one has clearly been refrigerated where your last one hadn’t. And it does actually taste better. You probably got whatever shit they usually serve non-locals. 

“Never seen you here before,” he says, not really looking at you. He’s looking at Dean who is still busy making eyes at the woman at the bar.

“Just passing through.”

“Where you headed?”

“Road trip. I’m with my two friends.”

He points the neck of his beer over in Dean’s direction. “That one of them?”

“Yeah.”

He nods thoughtfully and looks over to you now, still smiling handsomely. You’re not sure what to make of him. He reminds you of a hustler in one of those old movies you used to watch as a kid; suave, confident, charming. Not charming like Dean is, but still adequately so.

“Where’s the other one?”

Sam is working late at a library nearby. “Fuck knows.”

He throws his head back in a laugh at that. You wonder briefly if it’s exaggerated to get into your good graces but it makes you smile regardless.

“You came to visit at a weird time, y’know,” he says, relaxed grin fading just a little. “Got some weird shit going on.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nods gravely and waits for you to ask. You do. “What kinda weird shit?”

“Bunch of murders. Real nasty ones.”

You raise your eyebrows, letting your face fall into what you know to be your most startled, aghast expression. He still appears solemn, but you can tell by the way he turns fully towards you that he’s pleased he got some sort of reaction out of you at last.

“Do they know who did it?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re all dying the same way, slit throats in bed. Started happening so suddenly, they think it’s someone from out of town. Figure they must be sneaking in windows or something.” When he says this, his eyes move back to Dean inadvertently for just a split-second but you catch it. You grin.

“Well you don’t have to worry about Dean over there,” you say. “We just got here today. I can vouch for him.”

He seems embarrassed by this, smiling across at you sheepishly. “Wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”

You can’t help a laugh and it’s almost enough to forget about what Dean is doing. There is still a weight that feels like an anchor in your stomach, but you’ll think about it later. When you have five minutes alone in the shower, that’s when you’ll think it over and torture yourself with it until it loses some of its power over you. You’ll replay the memory over and over until the emotion is strangled out of it. For now, it’s enough for you to laugh with a handsome stranger and try to pretend that you still have some sort of dignity or self-sufficiency even though you know both were squandered the first day you set your sights on Dean. 

And you do laugh. He makes you laugh. You don’t even know his name and he doesn’t ask yours, but he’s funny and decent enough to talk to and doesn’t try to herd you over to the bathroom stall even after a good long while of talking.

“Buy you another?” 

You’re almost surprised to see your beer is gone. You hadn’t even fully realised you had been drinking it.

“Isn’t this my round?” You have no intention of buying him a beer, but you’re curious to see what he says. You’re playing with him a bit and you don’t feel great about it, but he seems like he can handle himself. You wonder if this is how Dean thinks about you.

Thankfully, he just holds up a big leather wallet to you, stuffed with chalk-stained dollar bills. He shakes it a little bit. “Made out good tonight. I can afford it.”

You’re about to make up some excuse, because you can see through the windows that the sky has gone from silvery to black and you feel you can safely make a break for it without causing any sort of scene - the motel is only across the road. But Dean is looming over you before you can get a word out.

You crane your neck, his green eyes meeting yours. His face seems to have no expression while he looks between you and your new friend. Nobody says anything for a while.

“We’re going,” he says, voice flat. 

You look back to the bar and can no longer see the blonde in the leopard print. There’s a burning in your chest and your throat at the idea that Dean most likely made a trip to the bathroom stall himself. She’s probably cleaning up in there at this moment, which is why Dean is trying to make a quick getaway.

A part of you would like to be petty and refuse to leave, but you can’t say you’re any more eager to see the blonde with her hair askew and deep satisfaction written into the lines of her face. Instead you turn back to the man and offer him an apologetic smile. He seems put out but not annoyed.

“You come back here tomorrow,” he says, smiling while you grab your coat. “That drink is yours.”

You don’t answer him. Dean grabs your hand as you walk out but you pull it away, pretending that you want to zip up your jacket. He gives you a weird look, but doesn't try to take it again.

You didn’t drive to the bar since it’s less than a five minute walk away from your motel, but you’re starting to really wish you did. Silence doesn’t feel as sharp when you’re in the car and the soft hum of the engine or the radio can drown out any awkwardness. You’re used to long stretches of silence in the car - it’s where you spend most of your time. 

There’s nothing to distract from the silence while you walk except the soft scratch of Dean’s boots on the gravel. You see him looking at you sideways every now and again but he’s trying to be sly about it so you’re giving no indication that you notice him. 

You do your best to show him that nothing is wrong, looking around you as if to pretend that you’re distracted and that’s why you’re not talking. You’ve always been the better pretender of the two of you, but you know you’re not quite playing this off right.

“Hear anything from Sam?” you say eventually, only because it is starting to feel like you’re about to explode or crumble apart in the silence. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s a scratch in his voice that he coughs out. “He’s gonna be there another while. Says he’s onto somethin’.”

Neither of you acknowledge that Sam is probably just doing this to give you both the space to have sex before he gets back. He does this often enough, because the alternative is much worse. 

“It’s still open at this time?” you ask instead. 

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

The idea of Sam alone in a locked library with only a flashlight sends something uncomfortable through your stomach but you swallow it. If you say anything to Dean, he will just tell you that you always get like this - that you worry too much. And you don’t want to hear that from him right now. You’re not sure you want to hear anything from him right now.

You feel very tired all of a sudden. The seconds and minutes pass obliquely and you feel almost nothing - no sort of passion, no desire, not even any pain - by the time you’re back in the corner of your motel room. It’s like this night never even existed. 

The wooden chair groans when you flop down into it. Dean looks at you hesitantly, one foot inside the bathroom and the other outside, as if he can’t decide whether to ask you to join him in the shower. Ultimately he decides against it. He shuts the door after him very quietly.

The feelings flood back to you, scratching at your brain like rats in walls once that door closes. You listen to the shower in a sort of hypnosis, playing back the image of Dean with that woman in the bar until you can no longer stand it. You had thought that maybe it would get less painful each time, but it doesn’t happen. It’s like watching a movie again and again. You always notice something you didn’t pick up on the first time. One time, it’s the way he leans in to speak close to her ear. Another time, it’s a slow wink. You’re not even sure how much of this really happened and how much you have made up in your head just to hurt yourself.

Dean ties his towel around his waist in the very specific way that makes you go crazy. You feel his eyes on you but he messes around with some clothes, pretending that he’s not waiting to see if you have a reaction. You slip into the bathroom behind him, saying nothing. When you get into the shower, you don’t even begin to wash with soap . You just stand still under the warm streams. 

You can’t say that you’re not a bit disgusted with him. Sure - you had always known that this was a possibility. It’s Dean. But you had thought he might at least have a conversation with you before doing something like that. Had the decency to break things off.

The worst part about this whole thing is probably admitting to yourself that there isn’t really anything to break off - at least not from his perspective. You had never had any sort of conversation about ‘exclusivity’ or ‘feelings’ or ‘what does this mean?’. And it’s not like that wasn’t something you were aware of but- fuck.

You had always suspected that it was nothing to him, but you couldn’t tell how much of it was grounded in reality and how much of it was your insecurity talking. 

Because Dean doesn't act like it’s nothing. You guys fuck dirty, but then he’ll lean over to kiss you even when he has you bent over, like he can’t think of anything worse than having his lips separated from yours for more than a minute. You sleep together and eat breakfast together and he has told you about all the worst parts of himself. He puts his chin on your shoulder and wraps his hands around your waist and gives Sam the middle finger when he rolls his eyes. Then he presses multiples small kisses to your cheek and around your face just to piss him off more. Your poor, mangled heart can’t be blamed for turning this into something it’s not.

No - the blame falls mostly on Dean for leading you astray. For making you so irrevocably happy that it has destroyed you.

You say ‘mostly’ only because you should know better. You know Dean inside out. All of his hard parts and soft parts and the things he won’t say, even to you. And you know that he’s touch starved and needy and desperate for someone to hold him and understand him, even if he would never say it to a soul. But you also know about his commitment issues. You know all about them. So you must have known, even just in the back of your mind, that Dean was using this thing between the two of you as an outlet for his emotional and sexual desires, without wanting any of the commitment.

You’re not sure if you even blame him. You are convenient and you love him - that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. Who better to meet those emotional needs? It might not have been very fair to you, but you think you will eventually come around in a way. He clearly needed you, and you gave him what he needed. Eventually you might even learn to be happy that you were able to give that to him for a time. But not right now.

Right now, you’re staggering into lunacy. Your body feels brittle and scorched from the water but you still take a few moments to get yourself together before you can force yourself to get out and dry yourself.

When you walk out of the bathroom in your pyjamas, steam billowing behind your back, Dean is passed out on one of the two motel beds, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The lights are off but you can see him in the broken, neon lights spilling through a broken slat in the blinds.

When Dean is asleep, he has this small wrinkle etched deep into his brow - like he’s working out some problem. It gives him a perpetually perplexed sleeping face. He’s not aware of it, though. Right now, his face is smoothed out. No wrinkle in sight. 

You hesitate for just a moment, balancing from one foot to another, before walking over to Sam’s bed and getting under the covers.

You think you hear a soft sigh from the other bed - barely there.

You wake up with Sam’s large body crammed against yours. He’s snoring softly while you blink the sleep from your eyes. You try to heave his uncomfortably warm body off yours without waking him up. 

Dean isn’t in his bed and you try not to wonder whether he slipped out in the middle of the night when you didn’t put out - maybe he went out to meet that blonde woman again.

Whatever. Not your problem anymore.

The thought barely scratches the surface of your brain when Dean walks in, mud and gasoline caked all over his clothes. He is flushed from exertion and little specks of dirt are caught in his hair. So - not back from a one night stand. He quirks an eyebrow at your current predicament, easy grin splitting over his face. 

“You need some help gettin’ out from under Goliath?”

His teasing irritates you a bit, but you know it’s just because it’s early, you haven’t fully woken up yet and your limbs are aching from sharing a single bed with Sam. You nod reluctantly and he saunters over, slapping Sam over the head. 

Sam cries out, grumbling in confusion before turning over.

“I was trying not to wake him up,” you say sternly.

“I didn’t,” he protests. “Look at him.”

Sam is indeed passed out on his side, gone to the world. He’s already drooling a bit onto the pillow.  You’re fighting a smile while you get up, but Dean blocks your vision before you can start for the shower. 

“Y’know, he’s out cold,” he says, eyebrows raised. All of the stunted awkwardness of last night is gone. A hand reaches out for you and you let it fall against your waist without moving. You can only partially blame it on the force of habit. He smells like bitter brown earth and his eyes are bright with the exercise.

“I can see that.”

“Probably wouldn’t even notice if I joined you in there.”

You’re battling shock. The grin you were wearing while watching Sam is frozen on your face. He can’t be serious. He’s propositioning you? After last night? 

Last night had been the worst case scenario you had pondered while going back and forth on whether sleeping with Dean would be a good idea when you first started doing whatever the hell you had been doing. Dean realising he couldn’t be with just one girl - or maybe just couldn't be with you - and ending things. 

What you hadn’t realised at the time is that something worse than the worst case scenario existed. Something much, much worse.

The real worst case scenario is that Dean realises he can’t be with just one girl and disrespects you enough to keep you around to fulfil his needs when it’s convenient, knowing fine well what you feel for him. And it had just come true.

You feel very sick all of a sudden, but not with nausea. You have been stabbed with a steel blade knife before - it feels quite like that. As if your insides are about to all come pouring out. You keep them in, try not to let them spill out in front of Dean.

“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling your smile waver. “You know Sam hates when we do that with him around.”

Dean frowns, that quizzical little line in between his brows forming again. It makes him look sleepy. “Never stopped you before. We can be quiet. Don’t even need to do nothin’.”

“You look like you need your own shower,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the dirt and oily stains on his clothes. “I’ll be quick.”

You step past him before he has time to react. 

The whole time you’re in the shower, you can almost hear him thinking about you. Himself and Sam exchange a few low words that you can’t make out over the steady stream of the shower, but you can tell he’s talking slower. 

He clearly has no idea what’s wrong with you or why you’re acting different. He doesn’t even know that him hooking up with someone else is a problem for you. Part of you almost feels bad for him, but that’s a dangerous line of thought. The second you start feeling bad for Dean is when you give in to him, because you’re no stronger than any other woman he shoots those pretty, pleading eyes at. And it’s usually fine because he never usually asks for something you’re not just as eager to give. But this time is different. He might not know it, but he’s asking you to sign yourself away this time. And that’s not something you can do. Not if you want to keep your friendship with Dean and your sanity intact.

Sam staggers into the bathroom when you come out in your towel and Dean pretends to busy himself with Sam’s notes while you dress yourself. That uneasy silence from last night is itching at you again, growing between you every second.

“Where were you this morning?” you ask eventually. Dean looks over to you and blinks. You have your jeans on, but have not yet put your top on. His gaze flicks over to your bra for just a second before looking away again.

“Went down to the boneyard at the other side of town before the sun came up.”

You figure Sam and Dean must have had some conversation you were not party to, because this is the first you are hearing about a cemetery. You frown but don’t comment on it.

“What now?”

“We gotta go across state. To another churchyard.”

“Why? You didn’t burn the bones already?”

He bites the side of his cheek, looking sideways at you with a sheepishness written all over his face. “I burned someone’s bones, yeah.”

Your mouth drops open and a startled laugh falls out before you can stop it. Dean grins guiltily. “You burned the wrong bones? You, like, dug up a grave and burned the wrong bones?”

“Not my fault, sweetheart. Blame Sammy,” he says, leaning back with his eyes closed, crossing his dirty boots over each other and propping them onto Sam’s bed. He will get an earful from Sam for that later.

“He gave you the details of some randomer’s grave?”

“Not some randomer. It was our guy alright, but our guy apparently isn’t the one whacking people. It’s his wife. And she’s buried across state.”

You’re fully dressed now and Dean is looking at you again out of the corner of his eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s really supposed to. You take a seat on his bed, facing him where he sits on Sam’s. “How did you work that one out so fast?”

He shoots you his best relaxed grin and you groan. You call it his stormcloud smile, because it always precedes something terrible. He reaches down to yank the collar of his t-shirt past his collarbones and you see a gory red line, thick with congealed blood. It’s not fatal but it looks damn painful. “Crazy bitch tried to gank me.”

“What the fu- Dean, why are you only just mentioning this right now? Jesus Christ. Get Sam out of the shower. We need to wash that.”

He laughs, reaching out a lethargic hand to grasp your own. He strokes a thumb up and down the little veins on your wrist gently and you feel it in your stomach. He closes his eyes with a happy sigh once more. “You worry too much.”

You look down at his hand once, feel his calloused thumb on your skin. You let yourself be weak for only a couple of seconds. Then you gently tug your hand away from his and go over to shout at Sam through the bathroom door.

You wind up taking Dean to the hospital for a tetanus shot despite his protests. The injury itself doesn’t look like any deeper than the million others you had patched up, but it is dirty with specks of rusted metal caught beneath the thin, splintering skin. 

He gives up complaining by the time you manage to elbow him into the car. He nuzzles up on you in the waiting room. You feel a sharp tug of affection and then you feel nothing at all. You become as rigid as a plank while you try not to let yourself sink into him. Eventually he stops trying and you sit in silence that is not uncomfortable but not entirely companionable while you wait.

The wait is long enough that you are forced to delay your trip across state to the next day. Dean almost passes out in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. The setting sun reflects off his face. It becomes a deep orangey red.

“Why are you so sleepy?” you say, attention split between him and the road. You pause for a beat. “You have sepsis or something?”

His laugh is tired. “What’d I tell you about all that worrying, sweetheart?”

“Dean, you’re literally passing out on a ten minute drive. It’s not even six o’clock.”

“Spending the night bodysnatching really takes it outta you.”

You frown. “You stayed up all night?”

“Sure. Waited for Sammy to get back, gave each other the 411, and went on my merry way.”

You’re not sure what information Dean might have had to exchange with Sam - having been in the bar that whole night with you. You don’t ask.

“Why? Why not wait?” you ask instead.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he murmurs back, turning around slightly in his seat to signal that the conversation is over.

Dean didn't sleep again last night. 

He doesn’t tell you as much, but his eyes were open every time you awoke from a broken sleep with Sam almost knocking you off the bed with a gangly limb or sticking an elbow into your side. He blinks hard the entire drive across state, shaking his head every now and again like he’s trying to stop himself from nodding off. 

You sit quietly in the back seat and don’t complain that he is playing some Blue Öyster Cult song too loud. You see him looking at you every now and again from the rear view mirror and pretend you don’t. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror too. You just look like a small, jittery floating head.

Dean refuses to let you help with the digging despite the fact that his eyes are droopy and exhausted, but the bone burning is anticlimactic. You had been expecting some spanner in the works because you can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a spanner in the works on a job - but the ghost has only been terrorising the town she killed her husband in, not the one where she was born and buried. You will have to wait until you get back before you know whether it worked.

“We getting a place here?” you ask, yawning as the three of you make your way back to the car. Night had fallen by the time they started digging. It must be close enough to midnight by now.

“Nah,” Dean says, tossing the keys to Sam who catches them swiftly. “If it didn't work we gotta find out soon. Sammy, you drive through the night. I’m gonna sleep in the backseat.”

Your stomach lurches. Dean, who used to just sleep in the passenger seat, had taken to sleeping in the backseat with you when you two started your thing. He sometimes just says he needs a nap because he wants to cuddle and is too embarrassed to say so in front of Sam.

You look at Dean for just a moment. He’s looking back at you with a soft, weary expression.

“I’ll join you in the front,” you say, looking over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’ll do enough talking to keep us both awake.”

Sam says nothing, just twirls the keys around with his fingers and gets into the front seat. You can’t look at Dean when you get into the passenger seat.

You don’t talk to Sam like you promised. Your body feels hot and there’s a thick, mushy ache at the base of your brain. You can’t seem to talk yourself out of the violent guilty feeling that comes from catching glimpses of Dean in the rear view mirror. He looks very young like this; with his eyes wide and hurt and muddled. Eventually you watch the expression melt away as Dean slips into what seems to be a deep sleep, the perpetually perplexed line forming between his brows. You have the strange thought that this time his sleep is genuinely perplexed - that he’s trying to work out what’s going on with you.

“So,” Sam starts, checking the mirror to confirm that Dean is out for the count. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice is dull. You’re almost just saying it to say it - you know there’s no real point in pretending.

“We’re not doing this,” he says. “You guys need to work this out because my sleep has been terrible.”

“Your sleep? I’m the one getting squashed every night. Are you aware that you’re a behemoth?”

Sam abruptly laughs. “Yes, I’m aware. Which is why I need the bed to myself. You and Dean fold up on each other like you’re just one person anyway.” 

Your chest aches at that. You put your chin in your hand, looking out the window even though it’s too dark to see anything.

“Did he fuck up?” Sam asks eventually.

No - not really. It’s you that fucked up, if you have to think about it. But you can’t say that. You just shrug.

Sam sighs. “He doesn’t know what he did. You gotta talk to him.”

“I know,” you say.

“No you don’t. You’re just trying to get me off your back.”

“I have you on my back enough overnight. Give me a break.”

He laughs again. Dean stirs and sighs in the backseat. 

Dean has always thought that he is the relationship equivalent to a Big Mac and fries. The idea of him is more appealing than the experience, and the payoff is always terrible. He’s never known anyone to not feel regret once they’re through with him. 

But it seems to him most of the time that you don’t see him that way. Yeah, you must know at some level that he’s not the relationship equivalent of a filet steak with a side of… caviar (Dean hasn't been to many fancy restaurants). But sometimes, when you’re lying asleep in his arms in the early morning and he watches you in the dotted glow spilling through the shitty motel curtains that don’t block shit, he thinks you might both have been cut from the same cloth. Like every other attempt he had made at happiness hadn’t worked out just because it wasn’t with you. 

You are the only right fit. And he knows nothing lasts, but he thought that maybe this might.

You read a lot of horror books. It drives him fucking nuts. He complains about it all the time and tries to mask the fact that it’s just because he wants your attention. 

“Don’t you see enough of that shit already? What you want more nightmares for?” he asks you and you smile and joke that you’re doing research - as if Stephen King or any of those other dumbfucks know the first thing about real demons. Hell, those books are like chick-flicks compared to some of the shit you’ve seen together.

But once he gets over the initial sting of losing your attention, he will watch you. He sometimes sits there for some amount of time that is most definitely too long, just watching your eyes move left to right on the page, your lips just barely twitching as if you’re stopping yourself from mouthing the words.

It makes him imagine the two of you, side-by-side in your own bed rather than a rickety motel bed. The two of you don’t really have ‘your own bed’ - you’re on the road too much - but that doesn’t matter. It’s his daydream and he says it doesn’t need to be burdened by reality. 

You’ll read your horror books and Dean will catch up on all the books he never read at school so he’ll read the Lord or the Flies or To Kill a Mockingbird, but only until 10 o’clock sharp, because he needs to be up early to drop the kids to school in the morning and he wants to love on you before sleeping. 

He won’t admit that he’s only reading those books so he can talk to the kids about what they’re learning in school and you’ll never say it either but you’ll both know. 

He does this until you give him a strange look and call him a creep. Then he goes back to bothering you; tries to get your attention by pressing soft kisses to your neck or trailing his finger up your thigh lightly, just the way you like. 

He refuses to do any of the fancy bullshit when he showers alone because he’s a man and he doesn’t need to exfoliate, or whatever the fuck. But also because, if he did, then you wouldn’t join him for showers anymore, and he wouldn’t get to feel you slide that stupid scratchy glove over his skin or drag some thick goop through his hair and put a ridiculous pink polka-dot shower cap over his head because he needs to ‘let it soak in’. 

He pretends it bothers him, just like he pretends it bothers him when you stand between his thighs and massage serums and moisturisers gently into his skin like you’re giving him a facial. You both know it’s a charade when he grumbles about how it’s a waste of time but you put up with his boorishness because you know he can’t accept nice things any other way. You both play your parts perfectly. You’re always happy to pretend you’re making Dean do this and it makes his chest almost ache with both affection and the knowledge that he could live a million years and never truly be able to deserve you; to deserve this. 

In reality, you both know he likes feeling your hands on his skin with that innocent, loving sort of care. Touching him just because. Because “you’re going to look like a leather purse in five years if you don’t moisturise, Dean”. Because you want him to feel good and relaxed when he gets back to some shitty motel feeling like the life has been sucked out of him. Dean has never been touched just because before. He’s been touched for carnality and for injury but not just because. Never just because.

He lets you pretend that it bothers you too, when he starts making jokes about how it’s your time for a facial. But he sees the corners of your mouth creak upwards even as you roll your eyes and tell him he’s gross.

But he can see why it would be too much for you. He has to give it to you; you put up a good fight. You really did. But a person can only eat a Big Mac for so long before they get sick - or whatever the fuck the saying is. You have handled it beautifully in the time you had. Better than anyone else he had ever given the chance.

There was a sort of gravitational pull, when he first met you. He had tried so hard to fight against it but it took him kicking and screaming. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from getting close to you. Even the knowledge that he ruins every good thing he touches had not been enough to keep himself from being drawn to you like a magnet.

This, right now, feels the same. Like there is some sort of gravitational pull, but this time it’s working against him. He can’t seem to stop you from slipping through his fingers. He would get down on his knees and beg for an explanation if he were a less proud, less stubborn man. Or maybe he’s just scared of how you’d answer. But as it stands, he thinks maybe he will just have to accept that you’re being pulled out of his life the same way you were pulled in. He just wishes it was less gradual. You crashed into his life like a wave, and you’re being pulled out like a current - slow and steady and devastating. And he doesn’t know why. But he has a few guesses. 

Because Dean is the first person to admit he’s a fuck-up when it comes to you. Like when he watches you stand between Sammy’s outspread thighs and your hands work his face with that same gentleness that you use to put those weird moisturisers on Dean, even though you’re just disinfecting a wound or bandaging him up. Sometimes, at his worst and most ugly, his stomach splits with an aggressive mash-up of possessiveness and anxiety and plain, simple fear. It doesn’t matter that Sam’s hands are planted firmly by his side rather than on your hips or that there are far more clothes involved in these scenarios than in any between yourself and Dean. That violent beast still makes an appearance. Dean will kick up a fuss like a kid, complain that you’re running out of time, even when he damn well knows you have nothing to do. He’ll accuse Sam of being dramatic and accuse you of being overbearing. But he always apologises after. Never explains, because you know it all already. Just apologises.

He had the same feeling when he came back from getting information from that woman at the bar. And Dean is no prude but he was sick from the start because all he could do was wonder how this woman is so fucking okay. Obviously he intended to coax the information out of her with his best fuck-me-eyes, but he still couldn’t understand how she was able to flirt and giggle less than a week after her husband’s neck was slit in bed.

Because if that was you - Dean wouldn’t make it through the week at all. He understands how hypocritical that is, because of all his talk to Sam about ‘getting back out there’ and ‘she’d want you to be happy’ after Jess, but it’s true. He wouldn’t make it and he wouldn’t want to.

But then he got distracted by you. And the widow fucked off, haughty and insulted by his wandering attention, but he didn’t care because there was some pool hustler sitting there and trying to buy you a drink and that old beast came back out, even when he tried his best to contain it.

He’s not sure whether that pool player showed you just a glimpse of something better or if hiss jealousy scared you off for good. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. Because he is acutely aware of the fact that he would spend the rest of his life trying to fix it, even if it is unfixable. 

Even if you were done with Dean just because he is Dean, he would spend all his waking hours trying to figure out how to be less Dean-like. 

So it’s best not to know.

You move on to the next town without much fuss once Sam identifies a new case. At one point, Dean asks with crude sarcasm whether you want to say goodbye to the pool hustler from the bar. You take a few seconds to try to remember who he is talking about and don’t answer. The question is cruel and confusing.

He stops trying to show you any sort of physical affection beyond an arm around the shoulder which should relieve you but doesn’t. You’re not sure what you had been hoping - for him to beg and apologise, maybe - but it doesn’t happen. And you can recognise that it’s probably a good thing, too. If he had dropped to his knees and apologised and begged for forgiveness, you know you would give in. You wouldn’t have a choice. He has you trapped on a leash that is long but incredibly taut.

But, having forgiven him, you’re not sure it’s something you could ever fully work through. You would always know that he chose someone over you, if even for a little while. It would make you question everything. You’re not sure you could ever be with him without expecting him to leave.

So you move on - or you try to. You sink down the hurt with the hopes of becoming immune to it. You try not to think too much or feel too much. You let Sam and Dean do most of the work themselves, jumping in only when asked for. When there’s a TV in your motel, you go to the nearest thrift store and pick up some old VHS with Richard Gere or Meryl Streep in it until you slip into a mild sort of twilight zone. Other times, you read.

Most of the time, you’re just exhausted. Even Sam’s annoyingly large frame knocking against you in beds that are far too small for two people can’t stop you from sleeping well into the day.

Almost three weeks on from pool and beers and leopard print women, you check into a new motel. The ceilings are low with wall-to-wall carpet that feels a bit sticky under your feet, but the bed linen looks clean and unstained. You collapse on one of the beds, looking at the ceiling and vaguely wondering whether Sam is going to have to crane his neck to stand inside.

But when you look at Sam, he’s seated on the other bed. And he’s taking off his clothes, cramming his items into the bedside locker. He meets your gaze and raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to say something, and you understand emphatically that you’ll be sharing a bed with Dean.

The two of them flock around you, changing clothes - you think Sam showers - but you don’t move your eyes from the ceiling. Your gaze on it is like a lighthouse beam while they move around in your peripheral. You can’t wait for them to leave so you can disappear into your echo chamber. You’ll fight with Dean in your mind, tell him how you feel and how deeply he’s hurt you before slipping into a corpse-like trance and not thinking much about anything for the rest of the night. But all that will have to wait until they go.

“Coming for a drink?” Sam asks plaintively. He sounds like he’s talking to a kid.

“Not feeling it tonight,” you say, as if you had joined them at all in the last three weeks. Every time you consider it, leopard print flashes in your mind and you dig your heels in. “You guys go ahead, though.”

“Sweetheart, come out for one drink. It’s just across the road.” There’s a thin edge of irritation in Dean’s voice, despite the pet-name.

“I’m not feeling it,” you repeat, finally looking away from the ceiling and over at them. You feel the ice water in your voice and so do they.

Sam backs away to the door, mumbling something about ‘I’m just gonna-’ and leaves you in the room alone with Dean. You assume he is heading over to the bar.

“That’s a loada crap,” Dean bites, hardly noticing Sam’s departure. “You’ve not been feelin’ it for the last month. Come and get a soda if you want. Don’t just sit here and mope.”

You stare at him. You try to be angry at his casual cruelty - the way he’s acknowledging what he’s done to you and essentially telling you to get over it - but it’s hollow. You’re mostly just at a loss. You are resigned to the fact that ‘the conversation’ is about to happen and it’s probably overdue. But there isn’t a word in this world about this particular subject that you’d like to share with him - you have nothing to share that doesn’t make you look weak and wretched. You suppose he knows it all anyway.

“I don’t know how,” is what you land on, finally.

Dean hesitates, icy stare melting. A beat passes and he lies down beside you on the bed, grabbing your hand in his own. You feel his touch deep in your stomach.

You are both staring at the ceiling for some length of time and it feels very much like how you were before any of this started - before you complicated anything. You can’t decide whether the feeling it gives you is good or bad. After some time he says, “You have nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. I can handle it.”

Your mind goes around in circles, trying to make sense of his meaning but coming up short. You try to apply his words to everything that had happened between three weeks ago and now, but nothing fits right.

“What does that mean?” you ask softly.

“It means you don’t have to feel… guilty, or whatever. I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t kill me ‘cause it does. But it kills me more to see you walking around like a fuckin’ zombie. And you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

You blink, struck into silence. That nagging feeling that you should be angry resurfaces - because Dean thinks you should feel guilty? - but it’s once again empty and defeated.

“You still there?” Dean probes gently.

“I’m here,” you say. “I don’t feel guilty. I don’t know why I should feel guilty.”

You’re still not looking at each other - both of you staring straight ahead. But you can hear the hurt in Dean’s voice. “Then what’s all the moping for? I thought-”

There is another stretch of silence.

“My feelings are hurt,” you say. He has won and you’ve come clean. It feels terrible. Your stomach is tight and sore. “I knew it was a possibility but I thought you would at least tell me before you… y’know.”

Dean leans up now on one arm, crouching over you. You feel his eyes on your face but don’t look at them.

“Before I what? I don’t know. You’re gonna have to help me out here, angel. I’m in the dark. Been in the dark for weeks.”

You don’t see how that’s possible - how he could have missed such direct cause and effect. And Dean is a liar when he needs to be, but he’s not lying about this. You know.

“The woman, Dean.”

“What woman?”

“There’s been more than one?”

You don’t bother trying to hide the twisted and hurt look on your face - it is coming out in your voice, anyway. Your insides feel like minced meat.

“There’s been none, if I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”

Finally - finally - you look over at him. You expect to see a sad, wry look on his face, or maybe just guilt. But Dean is smiling.

“Then I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” you say firmly. “I’m talking about the woman from the bar. In the leopard print. Blonde.”

Dean is still smiling but he looks perplexed. He shakes his head.

“Jesus, Dean. In that town with the crazy ghost wife. In that bar with the pool player.”

You’re horrified that he can’t recall. You hope this doesn’t mean it was a regular occurrence throughout the time that you had been sleeping together.

“The fuckin’-” Dean laughs, full-bodied and blithe. “The fuckin’ widow?”

“How the fuck would I know if she was a widow?” you snap. You’re ready to sit up, but he pushes down on your shoulder, like he’s suddenly enjoying this. It’s not how you saw the conversation going.

“That was the woman Sammy showed us. Remember? Her husband’s neck was slit the week before. The first case.”

You turn your face away from him again, indignation melting away from your face while you stare straight ahead at the cracks above you. You’re playing it all back in your head; the lean-in, the whisper in the ear - or had you invented them? You can’t remember now. But you remember his face when he spoke to her - the smoky grin. That much you hadn’t imagined.

“What the hell are you-” you start.

“I didn’t touch that lady. I was on a stakeout.”

You frown. There’s a dull ache behind your eyes and Dean is still grinning.

“You don’t give me that smile. The one you gave her. You never do.”

“What smile?”

You do a poor imitation of it, lip poking up at the corner. It feels grotesque even on your own face, like you’re masquerading a good attitude when this is the expression from all of your worst memories of Dean picking up random girls in bars while you were secretly pining for him. He laughs and the mock smile drops from your face immediately. You move to leave again, but he grabs your arm.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t even know I did that until now. But you’re right, I don’t give you that look.”

Your heart plummets. You can’t even look at him when you give him a curt nod, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. Tears are dangerously close.

“You know why?” he continues. You wish he would stop fucking smiling. You shake your head.

“‘Cause it’s phoney as hell. There are certain things a man will do to get information or to pick up someone for a night. Cheap tricks. I never wanted you for a night. I want you for all my nights. Days too.”

“Oh.”

There’s an apology in your tone but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it. He just mimics your ‘Oh’ and laughs again like some sort of joy junkie, flopping back on the bed. You go back to staring at the ceiling again and lapse into silence. His chest is gently heaving.

“Thought I lost you for good,” he says gently, once the initial gaiety fades. “I can’t believe you thought I would-”

You breathe shakily while shame and sheepishness swirl in your stomach. You’re glad that you’re not looking at him right now - you can only see the cracking, yellowness of the ceiling. Dean sighs, continuing.

“Sweetheart, there’s nobody else for me. I guess this is my fault for not making that more clear. I would never do that to you for as long as I live. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

You nod at the blistering yellow plaster, a prickling behind your eyes. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is wobbly. “Yeah, Dean, I’m yours. I’m yours. God, I’m so so sorry-”

“Slow down, angel-”

“I just got the wrong end of the stick because you were talking to her and you were making that face and we never really spoke about, y’know, exclusivity so I just assumed, but I should’ve just-”

“Sweetheart.”

You stop. When you look over at Dean, he’s looking at you too.

“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m just- fuck. I’m so… I love you.”

You do cry then, one short, abrupt sob tearing through your body. “I love you too.”

He reaches out and puts one hand behind your back, pulling you into him and pressing a small kiss to your neck. You can almost feel him deflate, his body coming home to you. His hands quiver and press tight, rubbing up and down your back. You wonder, in that moment, how you ever could have thought that Dean would give himself to someone else. He was made for you.

He leans away from your neck then, mouth meeting yours, pressing against your shallow, shuddering breath and nothing matters.

Dean texts Sam to let him know he’ll need to get his own room for the night. He shows you the reply.

SAM: Gross. SAM: Glad you guys worked it out.

You’re mildly embarrassed, but that only makes Dean laugh. He has been on a high since you talked. He is very flippant about the whole thing - not taking it at all personal that you shut him out based on an assumption. He says he is just relieved that you have come back to him.

You poke at him - almost prodding him to be mad at you. You sure would be, if the roles were reversed. But he just rolls his eyes and jostles you into the shower. He doesn’t tell you that he’s missed the way you wash his skin and his hair, but you know.

For once - just for this one time - neither of you play your parts. He doesn’t grumble about your body wash or facial cleanser or exfoliating glove and you don’t pretend you’re forcing it on him. He just closes his eyes with a dopey smile, hands never leaving your waist unless it’s to brush a hand through your hair or squeeze your ass. You don’t admonish him for that either just for this one time. He’s hard as a rock the whole time - he always is - but he doesn’t try anything in earnest. 

Not until you leave the shower and curl up against him in your duck-egg coloured bathrobe. Your skin is warm from your shower and from Dean’s flesh pressed against your own. His eager hands fly around your body, gripping your thighs and palming your boobs while he presses his desperate lips against yours. He speaks against your lips rather than pulling away.

“Fuck, angel. You have no idea…” he murmurs. “Never thought I’d be allowed touch you like this again.”

The way he’s kissing you is slow and dirty, probably a bit too much spit passing between lips but you’re too hazy to care. The hand that had been caressing your breasts over your bathrobe now goes to the V-shaped neckline of your bathrobe. He draws it down with a fist, loosening the tie around your waist with his other hand.

He stops kissing you only to glance down at you, now fully exposed to him. Dean is hardly faring better - he is in only his underwear, but it is practically transparent with how firmly his cock is straining against the fabric. He looks at you for a bit too long, his throat working.

“Can’t believe you kept all this from me, sweetheart. For weeks. Fuckin’ messed up.” He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth and you gasp, back arching up. Your hands go to his wide shoulders instinctively, encouraging his movements. “Was having wet fuckin’ dreams. Kept forgetting you weren’t-”. He stops himself, mouth moving to the other nipple, tongue moving expertly against the thin skin. He’s trying not to kill the mood.

“Dean-” you sigh. Even his hand on your waist feels like something rattling through your bones.

“Yeah, baby? You miss me too?” He looks sly, peering up at you while kissing down your stomach. His lips are hot against your skin.

It is almost criminal how pretty he is. You’ve always thought it - how could you not? Every girl who has ever caught sight of him even once thinks he’s pretty, but not every girl has seen him like this - bleary-eyed, menacing and lovelorn - holding your eyes while he licks and sucks his way to your thighs. You know Dean is experienced, but you would very much like to think that maybe you are the only one to ever see that look on his face.

He nips gently at your thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. You jump a bit and instinctively try to clamp your legs together, even with his head in the way.

“Asked you a question, sweetheart,” he says, nipping at the other thigh.

You had been too busy looking at his pretty green eyes and stupidly handsome face. You try to think back about what he asked you.

“Missed you, Dean. Couldn’t do anything without you,” you say.

“Yeah?” You can’t see Dean’s mouth but you feel his cheeks round against your thigh while he kisses there, thumb brushing just alongside your hip. You’re wiggling around unintentionally, desperate for some kind of friction. “She missed me too, huh?”

He brushes his thumb against your clit. Featherlight. Barely enough to feel.

But oh, you feel it. You gasp out, clutching his hair just to tether yourself to something. His breath is warm against your core.

“Yes! She missed you. She missed you so much.”

Dean raises his eyebrows from below. You refuse to refer to any part of your body in the third person until he has you well and truly gone - teetering off the edge of sanity. He bites your ass cheek playfully, making you jump. 

“Fuck, yeah. Bet she did,” he grunts, eyes on your face which is tight with sweet agony. “Never gonna go cold on me again, are you?”

You shake your head wildly. You might whisper ‘Never’ a few times, or maybe it’s just ringing through your head. His head props up out of your thighs for just a moment with a radiant smile. 

“Good girl,” he says, and you can hardly process what those words do to you before he’s diving down again, mouth working against your pussy, one finger pressing its gentle way inside.

You can’t help it - you cry out. It feels like an electric current. It had been so long.

But your mind is still working overtime and you still can’t get rid of the seed of guilt suspended low in your stomach. This feeling - the feeling of him sliding his tongue against your clit while he nudges his finger in slow but hard - is far more than you deserve.

“I think you should- fuck, ah- I think you should let me take care of you instead.”

He doesn’t move his mouth from you. He just continues to lick and suck, sending stars straight from the sky and into your eyes. But he looks up at you quizzically, as if to check whether you’re serious.

“You’re- shit- fuck,” you gasp, unable to concentrate. You might be slurring a bit. “I’m the one who should be making it up to you. I want to do something for you.”

That’s when Dean removes himself, propping up to look at you with a tricky, dark smile. His mouth is slick and shiny which sends heat to your face. “You’re fuckin’ adorable. You think this is for you?” he asks, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. Your eyes follow it. “Quit worrying so damn much and be good to me. Let me take what I need. You got a lot of making up to do.”

If his words were not enough to tear a moan from you, then the way his mouth meets your cunt again - desperate and sloppy but proficient - would have done the job. “Are you real?” you ask. Dean laughs against you. It doesn’t do much to help your problem.

The problem being that you’re about to come. Embarrassingly fast and - from what you can already tell - embarrassingly loud. You might usually make an effort to stifle your moans, but you know exactly what Dean wants and that is to hear you. You owe him that. He’s lapping at your cunt with vigour, taking breaks every now and again only to speak to you.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he groans. “Jesus, sweetheart. You got any idea what you do to me?”

You’d probably make some lame joke about how he’s the one doing things to you right now if your brain was still in the vicinity. You can only whine in response and hope it’s sufficient.

“You’re so cute when you’re about to give it to me,” he says, fingers pumping and curling. “Y’go so dumb and needy.”

When his mouth meets your clit again, you fly off the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you shake and whimper while Dean tells you what a good girl you are and admires how well you’re doing for him. You feel him smiling against you.

You never really come down from that high - you’re horny again, instantaneously. His fingers are barely out of you when you pull him up from his position and begin tearing frantically at his underwear and the bathrobe that is now just hanging loose from your shoulders.

He smiles, even while his eyes darken. “Another one? Already?” “Gimme a break,” you say. “I haven’t gotten off in three weeks.” You can hear the high whine in your voice, but it doesn’t immediately register as an issue. Maybe you’ll be embarrassed about it tomorrow. His cock is standing proud up against his stomach. You perch yourself on his lap while he sits up against the headboard, bare crotches just inches apart.

“Three weeks? Shit,” he laughs. “I’ve been jackin’ it in the shower every other day. No wonder you were all pouty.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pressing a short, messy kiss to his mouth and raising your hips up so you’re rubbing against the underside of his cock. You’re soaking him. His cock twitches against you and sends a small thrill up your spine, but you don’t give much away.

Dean grunts, face pained. His grip on your hips tighten until his knuckles are stretched white. You’re clenching against nothing, body protesting at having his cock - which you had been thinking about for three weeks straight - so close but not inside. You push it away and grind down against him, because he looks so pretty and needy like this, glistening eyes turned upward to look at you. 

You look down because you know he will follow your gaze. You slowly lift your hips upward, dragging your heat against him until you reach the head. You stay there for a moment, just letting the tip graze your opening before sinking down slightly, just barely letting it notch inside, your body humming with energy. He releases a choked breath and you’re not sure if it’s a reaction to the sight or the sensation.

Whole body demanding otherwise, you lift yourself off. Dean makes a tortured, protesting noise, squeezing your hips while you move down on him again.

You do it again, let him graze your opening, let it notch inside you the slightest bit. But this time, when you try to pull away, Dean uses his leverage on your hips to nudge the first few inches of his cock all the way in. A noise catches in your throat at the unexpected intrusion at the same time that Dean groans. Your stomach lurches.

“Fuck me, sweetheart. You get tighter on me?” he asks, voice strained. His eyes are stuck on where you’re taking him. You sink down a bit further, ignoring the initial burning stretch of the breach until you are taking him all the way. The stretch is overwhelming. It always is. His face twists and he gasps.

“Think you’re just needy,” you whisper, grinding down laxly. You’re teasing him, but you can feel your body becoming more pliant by the second, slowly releasing control to him. His hands guide your hips.

“Damn right I’m fuckin’ needy,” he grunts. “You got any idea what it was like goin’ without this tight little hole to fuck for three weeks?”

Stars are exploding behind your eyes at the stretch of him. He could fuck you a million times, but you’ll never get over how perfectly he fits inside you - how the tip of his dick hits a spot that makes you go dumb and satiated in a way you had never been with anyone before him.

“Gonna need an answer, angel,” he says and he knows he’s being cruel. He smiles at you in that way of his - one side of his mouth curving slightly.

“I don’t know,” you moan, hating him and loving him.

He’s fucking you in earnest now - thrusting up from below, hands grinding you down on him. You are trusting him with your body the way you always do and Dean rewards you for your sweet submission to him like he always does. With mind-numbing pleasure.

“You don’t know?” He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone in direct opposition to the harsh way he’s pushing into you. A rough thumb is brushing on your clit and you clamp down on him, feeling your wetness spill around him and drip past his balls and onto the sheets. “Don’t know that I was in hell for three weeks? That I was so horny my balls hurt? That I was waking up with dirty dreams and fistin’ my cock in the shower while you were in bed with my fuckin’ brother?”

Your mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the information you’re being offered while his hips meet your wetness with a dizzying rhythm. You feel a little stupid.

“I didn’t know. Dean, fuck- I’m sorry.” You think you might be crying tears of pleasure. You can feel them on your cheeks.

“Sh sh sh,” Dean cooes, not all that kindly. “S’okay, sweetheart. Pretty pussy came back to me eventually, didn’t she? Missed getting stuffed with me. And you’re never gonna keep her from me again, are you?”

“No. Never again,” you whisper, eyes rolling back.

He stops thrusting quite suddenly, slowly sliding out of you. You feel his absence immensely, stomach clenching in protest. “That’s my girl,” he says patronisingly, with a sloppy, lazy grin. 

He has you under him then, before you can really think about it. Your left cheek is pressed firmly into the pillow, the weight of it forcing your mouth open slightly. Your back is arched, ass presented to Dean who is knelt behind you. He gives your ass a single, loving pat and then he’s sliding in again, groaning as if it was the first time.

It feels deeper like this. Maybe it should be painful how far he’s pressing into you but you’re always so wet when it’s Dean and right now you’re wetter than you have been in your life. You moan so obscenely that you are momentarily embarrassed, but every noise you make urges one from Dean, and that’s a trade you’ll take any day. 

“Jesus-” he chokes out “Hot - wet - tight fuckin’ cunt. Gonna fill this pussy every day from now on, angel. Fuck you dumb. Never gonna let you think those silly little thoughts ever again. This pretty hole is the only one I’ll ever need.”

His hips meeting your ass is creating a brutal, rhythmic song. The sound of it alone would be enough to get you there, but Dean’s words have you gushing.

“I missed you,” he confesses, breathless. “Missed you so much. How you feel around me- fuck, angel. You feel so good.”

You’re almost glad that Dean can’t seen your face like this. The dumb, fucked-out expression you’re sure you’re sporting. You clench down so hard, you almost see stars.

“I missed you too,” you babble. “Missed having you inside me. You fill me up so good. Dean, I’m gonna come.”

He twitches inside you once and then he’s leaning forward, grabbing your face roughly with his hands and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers. His chest is pressed up against your back and you are twisting back, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into you.

He kisses you, deep and dirty. There’s too much spit and your tongues keep missing each other because the angle makes it difficult, but the torridness of it sends you over the edge, gasping and whining loudly into his mouth. When you pull away, a string of spit still connects you. Your eyelids flutter open and you look into his pretty green eyes. Dean comes.

“That’s it, baby, there you go,” he gasps, shaking. “Fuck. I love you so much.”

You’re still coming as Dean spills into you. You can do nothing but meet each other’s eyes while he pumps you full. A veil of starlight is painted behind your eyelids.

You’re sticky and slippery with sweat, your wetness and Dean’s cum by the time his thrusts begin to shallow out. Your exhausted body slumps against the bed, satisfied to stay there for the night, except Dean pulls out gently and eventually coaxes you to get up and do stuff like pee, brush your teeth. You do it all in a trance.

When you both settle back down, you leave a kiss on his clavicle, lips against skin. He smiles and strokes down your spine. His hand is in your hair, just holding you against him. Your upper thighs are still sticky and your leg that is pressed against Dean’s confirms that his are too. You can feel the slow, strong tinkling of his heart against the skin of his chest. You have a theory that he still doesn’t quite believe that this won’t be taken from him again tomorrow, but you’ll wait for tomorrow to prove him wrong.

“Might need another shower,” he slurs, even as you both float away to sleep.

a/n: they are both so dumb... they pmo even though i was the one writing them lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 dean taglist: @soullessambs @leyra-giovanni

Emergency rooms were not designed for quiet people.

You had figured that out sometime during your second week at PMTC, standing in the middle of the nurses’ station with three different voices calling your name and a trauma alert going off somewhere behind you.

The er existed in layers of noise, monitors chirping, stretchers rattling across tile, doctors shouting orders over the steady hum of fluorescent lights, and somehow you had learned to move through all of it without getting lost.

Your family liked to joke that you had been trained for it.

You grew up in Pittsburgh, in a house where six people talking at once was considered a normal dinner conversation. Someone was always shouting from another room, someone else arguing about the Steelers, your mother asking if anyone had seen her phone.

Compared to that, the ER was practically organized. It still made your nerves stand on end because of the chaotic loud but the organization gave you something to focus on.

You adjusted the pile in your arms, youe laptop, a PMTC iPad, and a notebook, and slipped past the trauma bay doors, nodding automatically when one of the nurses waved you down.

“Hey—social work!” someone called.

You stopped.

Technically you were the social work intern, which meant you still occasionally looked around behind you to see if a real social worker was following.

There wasn’t.

Your supervisor, Kiara, was somewhere upstairs handling another consult, which meant most of the er had quietly accepted that if they needed social work right now, they were getting you.

You tried to convince yourself that you didn't mind but you always came back around to the conclusion that you did mind. You minded a lot, in fact. As an intern you were still constantly doubting yourself and looking towards Kiara to double check.

“Room twelve, Mr. Melnick, is asking about discharge again,” the nurse said. “Thought you should know.”

“Okay,” you said immediately, already pulling your small notebook from your pocket.

You wrote it down.

You wrote everything down nowadays. Names, numbers, resources, reminders to drink water, question you needed to ask later and occasionally things people said that has stuck in your head longer than they should have.

The notebook had become something of a survival tool.

It was also currently full of notes about Mr. Melnick. He had been in the er four times in the last two months. He was a combat veteran, with severe PTSD, panic attacks that escalated quickly enough to land him back in a trauma room before anyone could convince him he was safe.

Technically, the case belonged to Kiara. In practice, the case had slowly become yours. Mostly because it overlapped almost perfectly with your master’s thesis.

Your thesis advisor had described it as “an underexamined but critically important area of emergency medicine.” You usually described it as repeat er trauma patients who fell through every other crack in the system.

Veterans especially.

Which was how Dr. Abbot had ended up involved. At first it had been purely practical.

Not only was he Mr. Melnick primary emergency medicine physician but you had also needed insight into how combat trauma presented in people like Mr. Melnick, what set it off, what helped, what didn’t, and Dr. Abbot was one of the only physicians in the department who had both the clinical experience and the personal background to understand it.

He was also, inconveniently, a veteran himself. So you had done what you usually did when you needed information. You looked him up in the hospital directory and texted him.

You hadn’t really thought about it.

Doctors texted each other all the time. Nurses texted consults. Residents texted attendings. You assumed social work interns could text attendings too.

Dr. Abbot had responded with a short, blunt answer to your question.

Then another.

Somewhere between the first shift and the second, the two of you had ended up orbiting the same patient chart for most of the night.

Which was also how he had become the unfortunate witness to what the er had since referred to, quietly, and with far too much interest, as the incident.

You still maintained it had been blown slightly out of proportion. Your blood sugar had dropped. It happened sometimes.

Being a type one diabetic meant there were days when your body decided it would prefer to function like an unsupervised toddler instead of a responsible adult. Most of the time you managed it fine.

Except when you didn’t eat.

And between a PMTC caseload, a full graduate program, and a thesis that refused to write itself, eating had quietly become one of those things that sometimes slipped your mind.

The episode itself had been quick, embarrassingly so.

You had been standing at the nurses’ station explaining a discharge barrier for Mr. Melnick with Dr. Abbot when the room tilted slightly to the left.

Then everything had gone dark. You didn’t remember falling. You only remembered waking up in a trauma room with a glucose tablet dissolving unpleasantly on your tongue and Dr. Abbot standing at the end of the gurney with a glucometer in his hand.

The er had learned two things about you that night.

One: you were a type one diabetic.

Two: Dr. Abbot did not take that lightly.

Which was why, apparently, you were now being periodically monitored like a mildly irresponsible houseplant.

You settled into one of the chairs at the far end of the nurses’ station, flipping open your laptop so you could update the notes on Mr. Melnick before the next consult came in.

Your desktop looked exactly like it always did—half research, half chaos.

A small music player hummed quietly in the corner of the screen. A reminder notification blinked lazily beside it. Several open documents sat scattered across the desktop like unfinished thoughts.

You had just opened the case notes when your phone buzzed against the table. A text notification appeared on your screen. For a second you just stared at the name.

Then you sighed quietly to yourself and riffled around your scrubs pocket for your cell phone.

Did you eat today?

For a moment you simply looked at the message.

The glow of your phone screen reflected faintly against the stainless steel edge of the nurses’ station while the er continued moving around you—stretchers rolling past, monitors chirping, someone laughing too loudly at the far desk.

You checked the time.

12:04 AM.

You had been on shift since six.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you tried to retrace the evening the way you would retrace a patient timeline.

Six o’clock: check in. Six-thirty: Mr. Melnick chart review. Seven: consult in trauma three. Eight: back to Melnick’s chart. Nine: phone call with a case manager. Ten: another consult. Eleven: more notes.

At no point in that timeline did food appear, bot because you weren’t hungry because you were.

You just forgot.

Which was a dangerous realization for someone with type one diabetes. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. You should tell the truth.

But instead, you typed quickly before your brain had time to argue with you.

yes

You hit send. The message bubble appeared underneath his question. Almost immediately your stomach twisted. You stared at the screen for a second, feeling the lie settle somewhere uncomfortable under your ribs.

Then, because apparently you were incapable of leaving things alone, you typed again.

coffee counts, dr. abbot

You sent that one too. The familiar blue bubbles stacked beneath his message. For a second nothing happened, the three dots didn’t appear.

You lowered your phone slightly, leaning back in your chair as the thought crossed your mind, quiet and unwelcome.

Why did he even care?

Sure, he was a doctor.

But he wasn’t your doctor.

You didn’t even know him that well.

Two shifts working the same patient didn’t exactly count as a meaningful relationship. Most of your interactions so far had consisted of clinical questions, short answers, and the occasional blunt correction when you misunderstood something about combat trauma.

And yet.

He had been the one to catch you when you collapsed. He had been the one to check your blood sugar. He had been the one to make sure you stayed in the trauma bed long enough for the glucose tablets to actually work.

Since then, he had checked on you twice. Three times if you counted this. Which was strange. Strange enough that it made something in your chest twist a little.

Not entirely bad but not entirely good either.

Your phone buzzed again in your hand and you looked down.

No, it doesn't.

You could practically hear the flat disapproval in the sentence. Which was ridiculous. You couldn’t hear tone through text messages.

That wasn’t how communication worked and yet somehow you could still picture the exact expression he would be wearing if he were standing in front of you right now.

Brows drawn together slightly, mouth set in that quiet, unimpressed line he seemed to default to whenever you said something he didn’t like.

Your stomach twisted again, guilt this time. Before you could think of something else to say, another message appeared.

There wasn’t really a world where ignoring Dr. Abbot was a good professional decision. Especially when the message read less like a request and more like a direct order.

You closed your laptop.

The motion triggered the quiet cascade of your usual traveling office. Your iPad slid onto your pile first, followed by the small stack of notebooks that seemed to multiply every time you looked away from them. Your phone disappeared into the front pocket of your scrubs while you gathered the loose papers that had migrated across the nurses’ station during the last two hours.

When you finally stood, the chair rolled slightly backward behind you. Your pile felt heavier than it had a while ago. You adjusted your grip and then turned towards the desk where Lena, the night shift charge nurse, was reviewing the patient board.

“Lena?” you asked. She didn’t even look up at first. “Yeah?”

“Where’s South fifteen?” Her eyes lifted away from the board slowly. Then one eyebrow crept up. “South fifteen?” she repeated. She pointed down the hallway with the end of her pen. “Supply room past trauma two. Last door on the right.”

“Thank you,” you said quickly.

You had already turned before she could say anything else.

The hallway was quieter than the nurses’ station, but the er never really slept. The familiar rhythm of the department followed you as you walked, footsteps, distant voices, the soft beeping of monitors somewhere behind a curtain.

You passed trauma two. Then the supply closet. Then the last door on the right, South 15. You hesitated for exactly two second before pushing it open.

Dr. Abbot was already inside. He was leaning back against the wall near the foot of the empty hospital bed, arms folded loosely behind his back like he had absolutely nowhere else in the world he needed to be.

Which was, of course, a lie.

Attendings always had somewhere else to be.

He looked remarkably patient. Your eyes landed on him first. Tall, dark t-shirt, slightly disheveled hair like he had run a hand through it sometime in the last hour and never bothered fixing it.

There was something unmistakably smug about the way he was standing there, not obvious smugness but something subtly smug.

The kind that said he already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go. Then your attention shifted. Next to the empty hospital bed sat one of the adjustable rolling tables.

And on that table, a sandwich and a yellow Gatorade. You looked back at him immediately. “This is unnecessary, Dr. Abbot,” you said.

He didn't move. “Sit,” he said calmly. You didn’t sit.

Instead you adjusted your heavy pile in your arms and attempted a professional pivot. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk about Mr. Melnick’s discharge barriers—”

“Not right now.”

The interruption was immediate. Your mouth closed again. Dr. Abbot pushed himself off the wall and stepped toward you before grabbing the hulking pile in your arms and setting it on the table. Then, gesturing casually to the food like it was the only topic currently available for discussion.

“I didn’t know what kind of sandwich you like,” he said. “So I grabbed chicken salad.” He nudged the bottle slightly with one finger. “And a yellow Gatorade.”

You stared at the table. Then back at him. “Oh,” you said quickly. “I love chicken salad.” The words came out a little too fast, a little too bright.

You made absolutely no move to reach for the sandwich.

His eyes flicked from your face to the untouched food and back again. Then one eyebrow lifted slightly. A beat of silence passed. Then he said, very calmly, “Do I need to supervise?”

You blinked.

He tilted his head slightly. “Or are you just going to do what I say?”

HAND-HOLDING IS HIS FAVORITE THING EVER.. he knows you’re shy about PDA, so he never forces it, but when you do reach for his hand, oh, he cherishes it. he’ll squeeze your fingers gently, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, completely focused on you.

LOVES HEARING YOU TALK ABOUT THE THINGS YOU LOVE.. even if you’re shy, when you finally start opening up about something you’re passionate about, sam is so happy. he’ll listen intently, nodding along, asking questions, just completely mesmerized by how cute you look when you get excited.

SAM READS TO YOU.. out loud. you’re laying in bed, curled up under a blanket, and he’s got a book in one hand, your hand in the other. he has the most soothing voice ever and every few lines he’ll glance over at you with the softest smile like, “still with me, sweetheart?”

LOVES IT WHEN YOU GET SLEEPY AND CLINGY.. if you ever get too tired to keep up your usual shyness and just snuggle into him, sam is in heaven. he’ll wrap you up in his arms, stroking your hair, whispering, “you can fall asleep, sweetheart. i’m not going anywhere.”

HE KEEPS A LITTLE MENTAL LIST OF THINGS THAT MAKE YOU ANXIOUS.. crowds, loud places, random new people. he notices and makes plans around it. if you’re ever somewhere you don’t like, he’ll quietly lean over and whisper, “want to head out, babe?” and if you nod? he’s already guiding you out like a prince in plaid.

HE LEGIT BRAGS ABOUT YOU IN PRIVATE.. if he’s talking to dean or someone he trusts, he gets this dreamy little smile and is like, “she’s shy, yeah… but she’s got the biggest heart. smartest girl i’ve ever met.” he’s so down BAD.

WHEN YOU’RE OVERWHELMED, HE GIVES YOU HIS HOODIE.. and i mean, immediately. you’re not even asking, he just sees you getting overwhelmed and wordlessly tugs it off, wraps it around you, and kisses your hair. now you smell like him and feel safe.

SAM IS OBSESSED WITH YOUR VOICE WHEN YOU TALK JUST TO HIM.. you might be quiet around others, but when it’s just the two of you? when you’re cuddling and whispering things only he gets to hear? he treasures it. he’ll literally say, “i love your voice. it’s so peaceful.”

HE NOTICES EVERY TINY CHANGE IN YOUR MOOD.. you don’t even have to say anything; he can just tell. he’ll come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, rest his chin on your shoulder and softly ask, “what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

HE HAS A BABY VOICE, JUST FOR YOU.. not like silly baby talk, but that extra affectionate tone that only comes out when he’s holding you close or waking you up in the morning. “c’mon, sweetheart… time to get up. i made your tea.” like PLEASE he’s your emotional support giant.

HE’S SO GENTLE WHEN YOU’RE UPSET.. if something’s bothering you, he’ll never push you to talk, but he’ll always make sure you know he’s there. he’ll rub slow circles on your back, murmur soothing words, and just be there until you’re ready to open up.

SAM LOVES WHEN YOU PLAY WITH HIS HAIR.. you’re shy about touching him, but the first time you nervously threaded your fingers through his hair, sam melted. he closed his eyes, leaned into your touch, and let out the softest sigh. now he begs for it. “c’mere, baby. Just for a minute.”

YOU HAVE A SAFE WORD FOR SOCIAL EXITS.. sam came up with it. like if you’re somewhere that’s draining you, all you have to do is say the word (maybe something dumb and cute like ‘moose tracks’) and he’ll immediately get you out, no questions.

HE WRITES YOU NOTES.. little sticky notes with stuff like “drink water today, babe <3” or “i miss you, even if you’re just in the next room” and sticks them where you’ll find them. your journal, your laptop, the fridge, your pillow, everywhere.

HE FINDS YOUR AWKWARDNESS SO HOT.. when you try to be flirty but your voice shakes, or you avoid eye contact after saying something bold? sam is grinning so hard. he’ll bite his lip and softly say, “that was really cute. keep going.” and you’re immediately done for.

IF YOU CRY, HE’S IN FULL ON SOFT MODE.. no panic, no ‘don’t cry’ BS. he just holds you close, rocks you gently, and says stuff like, “let it out, sweetheart. i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere.” literal human comfort blanket.

HE NEEDS A KISS BEFORE BED.. even if it’s just a shy little peck. and if you’re being all bashful and hiding your face under the covers, he’ll laugh softly and coax you out with kisses to your hands. “don’t hide that pretty face, baby.”

HE BUYS YOU BOOKS THAT REMIND HIM OF YOU.. the titles are always something cheesy like “quiet is beautiful” or just some cheesy romance novel with a blushing heroine. he always scribbles a note inside like “saw this and thought of you. you’re my favorite.”

HE LIVES FOR THE LATE NIGHT CONVOS.. you’re in bed, half-asleep, and you whisper something like “do you think the stars look different in heaven?” and this man is suddenly wide awake and in full philosophical mode, holding you and telling you what he thinks while stroking your arm.

HE TOTALLY PICKS UP ON YOUR SOCIAL ANXIETY AND SUBTLY HELPS YOU OUT.. if you’re in a conversation and get flustered, sam will gently step in without making it obvious. he’ll steer the conversation smoothly so you don’t feel pressured to talk too much, all while giving you reassuring little touches, like a hand on your back.

SAM OFFERS YOU HIS JACKET WITHOUT YOU ASKING.. cold? you get the jacket. nervous? you get the jacket. just existing in the world? guess what, you’re getting the damn jacket. it’s like a hug from him, and you know he gets a little weak seeing you wrapped up in it.

HE NEVER LETS YOU DOUBT HOW MUCH HE WANTS YOU.. you’re quiet and might have moments of thinking you’re too awkward or not enough. sam sees it immediately and pulls you into the warmest hug, whispering, “you’re everything i’ve ever wanted, sweetheart. don’t ever think you’re not.”

ADORES THE WAY YOU TUCK YOURSELF INTO HIS SIDE.. like a little shy koala. if you ever burrow into him, face in his chest, holding onto his flannel? he’s DONE. he’ll just wrap you up and murmur, “god, i love you so much.”

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DEAN LOVES TEASING YOU.. like, he’s constantly making little comments just to see you get all flustered. he’ll lean in real close and murmur, “whatcha’ blushin’ for, sweetheart?” with that damn smirk. and when you hide your face? oh, he’s chuckling and pulling your hands away.

YOU STRUGGLE WITH EYE CONTACT, AND HE ALWAYS FINDS IT ADORABLE.. sometimes he’ll tilt your chin up with two fingers and say, “c’mon, lemme see those pretty eyes,” all gentle but firm. other times, he’ll playfully move his head into your line of sight when you try to look away.

HE’S RIDICULOUSLY PROTECTIVE.. because in his eyes, you’re just this soft little thing and the world is way too rough for you. if anyone so much as looks at you funny, dean’s throwing an arm around you and giving them the scariest glare. “you got a problem?”

DEAN SECRETLY LOVES THAT YOU GET NERVOUS AROUND HIM.. he’ll catch you fumbling with your words and just grin, all cocky. “damn, sweetheart, do i make you that nervous?” but the moment you get overwhelmed, he softens up and reassures you, “hey, take your time, baby. i ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

EATS UP YOUR AWKWARD ATTEMPTS AT FLIRTING.. if you ever try to compliment him, you’ll probably stammer through it, and dean just grins. “aw, sweetheart, that was adorable. you tryin’ to flirt with me?” if you get flustered and deny it, he just chuckles and tugs you close. “it’s workin’, baby. big time.”

HE’S OBSESSED WITH YOUR LITTLE MANNERISMS.. like the way you fidget with your sleeves, or how you get shy when you compliment him. if you stammer out a “you look really nice today,” he’ll lean in all smug and go, “yeah? that so?” just to watch you get all flustered.

DEAN IS YOUR ULTIMATE COMFORT PERSON.. if you ever get anxious, he’ll pull you into a bear hug, rubbing slow circles on your back while murmuring, “deep breaths, sweetheart. i gotcha.” if you’re too overwhelmed to talk, he’s totally okay with just holding you in silence.

HE ABSOLUTELY MELTS WHEN YOU INITIATE AFFECTION.. since you’re shy, you don’t do it often, but when you finally work up the courage to kiss his cheek or reach for his hand? he’s grinning like an idiot, heart skipping a beat. “damn, sweetheart, you tryin’ to kill me?”

DEAN’S A PHYSICAL TOUCH MENACE, SO YOU JUST HAVE TO DEAL WITH IT.. he’ll sling an arm around your shoulders, pull you onto his lap outta nowhere, or nuzzle his face into your neck because he can. if you squeak or squirm, that’s just a bonus for him.

HE’S PATIENT WITH YOUR AWKWARDNESS.. if you’re struggling to put feelings into words, he won’t rush you. if you get too nervous in social situations, he’ll subtly shield you from attention. he gets that you need time, and he’s more than willing to give it to you.

JEALOUS, BUT NOT IN AN AGGRESSIVE WAY.. if some guy gets too close, dean just slides in between you two and goes, “hey, buddy, she’s with me.” but if you’re just naturally awkward around other people you don’t know that much, he’ll tease you later, “damn, sweetheart, you’re nervous around everyone but me, huh? guess I really am special.”

CONSTANTLY REASSURING YOU THAT YOU’RE PERFECT JUST THE WAY YOU ARE.. whenever you second-guess yourself, whether it’s about your awkwardness, how you look, or anything else, he’s there, reminding you how amazing you are. “you’re perfect, sweetheart. don’t ever think otherwise. i love you exactly how you are.”

SOFT FOR YOU IN WAYS NO ONE ELSE GETS TO SEE.. to everyone else, he’s all bravado and sarcasm. but for you? he’s tucking you in, brushing your hair behind your ear, whispering, “you okay, baby?” when he sees you retreat into yourself. he’s your safe space, and he loves being that for you.

GOD HELP YOU WHEN HE FLIRTS.. he thrives on making you blush. he’ll say something suggestive just to watch your brain short-circuit, then kiss your forehead and go, “relax, sweetheart, just messin’ with ya.” (he’s not. he loves seeing you flustered.)

HE LEARNS HOW TO READ YOU LIKE A BOOK.. you don’t always say when you’re uncomfortable, but he knows. the second he sees you shifting awkwardly, playing with your sleeves, or avoiding eye contact? he’s immediately stepping in, guiding you out of the situation, pulling you close, or giving you a reassuring squeeze. “s’just us, sweetheart. you’re okay.”

HE ADORES HOW POLITE YOU ARE.. like, you always say “thank you” when he does literally anything. opens a door, passes you something, even when he kills a monster like, “thank you for saving me, de..” and he just snickers, ruffling your hair, “sweetheart, it’s kinda my job, y’know?” but he secretly melts every time.

HE GIVES YOU SMALL BUT SWEET SURPRISES.. dean isn’t big on grand gestures, but he’ll randomly pick up flowers for you after a hunt or get you something cute that reminded him of you. “just thought you’d like it, sweetheart.”

HAND-HOLDING IS KEY.. at first, you’re too shy to reach for his hand, so he starts sneaking little touches, his pinky brushing against yours, his fingers ghosting over the back of your hand. and when you finally take his hand one day? oh, this man smirks and squeezes tight. “took ya long enough, sweetheart.”

CUDDLES ARE MANDATORY.. if you’re shy about initiating them, that’s fine; because dean has zero hesitation. if you’re sitting next to him? he’s pulling you into his lap. if you’re lying down? he’s throwing an arm around you. and if you get all stiff and awkward, he just chuckles, “relax, sweetheart. I ain’t lettin’ go.”

ABSOLUTELY LOSES IT WHEN YOU GET JEALOUS.. you wouldn’t dare say anything outright, but dean notices. the way you suddenly go quiet, the little pout on your lips. oh, he’s loving every second. he’ll lean down and whisper, “aww, sweetheart, you jealous?” with the biggest grin. if when you deny it, he just laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “s’okay, baby, you got nothin’ to worry about. i’m all yours.”

LOVES WHEN YOU CLING TO HIM.. when you grab onto his jacket or press up against his side in public, he’s thrilled. this man walks around like your personal bodyguard, keeping a hand on your waist, making sure everyone sees that you’re his.

WHEN YOU’RE SHY ABOUT BEING PHYSICAL, HE’S PATIENT.. at first, you’re not totally comfortable with PDA, so he makes sure to read the room. but once you start leaning into him, dean gets SO excited. he’ll kiss your forehead and be like, “i’m the luckiest guy alive.”

HE MAKES YOU FEEL SAFE LIKE NO ONE ELSE EVER HAS.. the world is loud and overwhelming sometimes, but with dean? It’s different. you know that as long as he’s around, you’re okay. and he makes sure you never forget that. “ain’t nobody touchin’ you while i’m here, sweetheart.”

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but you were new to all this.

he had to be gentle.

dean was the first real relationship you'd ever had. and if he was being honest, you were sort of the first real relationship he'd ever had too.

he used to hop from girl to girl, bed to bed and not think twice about it. you were the absolute opposite. you were the type of girl that didn't speak unless spoken to, you kept your head down and got through everything without so much as letting your imagination wander with what it would feel like to be with a man.

then you met him.

his hands were pinching at the fat of your thighs, he found it hard to keep his hands to himself when you were like this. between kisses, he could hear the shakiness in your breaths, it drove him unbelievably mad.

you felt almost sorry for dean, knowing it'd taken this long to get comfortable enough to even make out with the man. you knew his history and how he wouldn't go longer than a week without someone in his bed. now he'd went more than three months with you like this, aching for more.

and it wasn't like you didn't want more, believe me, you'd been aching just as horribly.

you were just... scared?

deans hands moved harshly against your skin, right hand coming down to gently slap your thigh before gripping it once again. the feeling prompted a low whimper to leave your lips.

dean almost groaned. he could get used to hearing noises like those.

when the man pulled away from your lips, heavy breaths still leaving his own, you swore you could have whimpered again just from the loss of contact.

he looked down at you, eyes all blown wide, lips slick and swollen, it was a sight he hoped was never erased from his memory. he wanted to remember this forever. "y'so needy." he had that cocky grin on his lips, cocking his head to the side as he viewed you as a whole, all his, right in his lap for the taking.

you felt your cheeks get hot at the sentence, eyes immediately darting anywhere other than his face. "don' be mean." was the mumble you let out, eyes adverting and voice lowering. you weren't able to talk to him, not when he got like this, all 'bigger' than you, it made you feel small, it made you feel wet.

"'m not, 'm not." he spoke with a low chuckle, one of his hands raising to meet your face, you felt the padding of his thumb wipe across your hot cheeks, he could tell you were nervous. then again, you were always so nervous. "i think it's cute."

again, your face got increasingly hotter but dean didn't leave you any room for words, dipping his head so his lips could meet your neck.

there was something so surreal about being like this, your hands gripping at his shirt, top lip clamped down on your bottom as he kissed against the skin of your neck.

again, this wasn't the first time he'd done something like this. makeouts and hickey-leaving was getting more and more natural in your relationship, common, even.

he'd come home from his hunts with sam and all he'd want was you either below or on top of him, his lips against anything they could reach.

you felt his lips part, sucking against your neck as one hand ran up your back, the other cupping the back of your hair. once he sucked, his tongue would smooth over the skin, pleasure to ease the pain. and he'd go again, gradually moving to different places on your neck. marking you.

your own lips were strewn shut, you were hoping and praying on every star that you didn't let a noise slip from you. you were too nervous, too embarrassed but the whole point of this was to feel good, wasn't it? so why did you feel so embarrassed to show him how good it felt?

your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling suddenly overwhelming.

you didn't register the move of your hips until his lips left your neck and his hands clamped down on your waist, low grunt leaving his mouth.

you stared at him with those big eyes and he swore he was gone. "y'can't do that, sweetheart." despite his words, his tone was gentle. "can't start something if you don't want to finish it."

he knew how inexperienced you were, he thought you wanted to hold off on losing your virginity which is why he'd never made such a move but by the way you were looking at him now, he swore you wanted nothing more than for him to take you.

and he'd gladly do so upon your command.

"i do..." you uttered. ".. want to." the words made your insides twinge, made your nose scrunch and your lips purse.

you were too nervous, shaking like a leaf on top of him. even so, with so much anxiety bottled into a human, dean made no movements of caution.

you sort of liked that dean wasn't as awkward or nervous as you were. dean was confident, that much was for sure. but being so confident also gave him this openness, seeping comfort into your veins as his large, warm hands trailed up and down your thighs.

"yeah?" his voice was breathy and his smile had left his features. he didn't need to be so teasing now, he knew you would simply burst of shyness. and he didn't want you in a position of uncertainty. "what d'you want?"

he wasn't trying to tease you, though he knew his fingers that began to dance against your skin were doing nothing to calm your nerves.

he just needed to hear you say it.

you planted your face into his chest with an incoherent mumble, cheeks alight as flames.

dean could have laughed at you but he didn't want you thinking you'd done something wrong. on the contrary, he found it downright adorable how shy you'd been getting. but you couldn't help it, this was such an unfamiliar feeling bubbling in your stomach.

"can't hear you, sweetheart." his head came down to sit atop yours, his voice a gentle whisper. "i need you to tell me what you want, okay?" his free hand tipped your chin upwards to look at him, those pretty green eyes held so much sincerity. "use your words f'me, baby."

words felt stuck in your throat, you couldn't seem to get them out. but dean didn't want to let this get away from him, he steadied your chin between his fingers.

"i want..." your voice was all breathy, all needy. it had dean reeling. "i want you to touch me."

and as the words passed your lips, you swear all the air was knocked from your lungs. listening to yourself talk had made your head feel fuzzy. before dean, you couldn't have even imagined such words leaving your lips.

dean was struggling to compose himself but nonetheless, he did. his lips quirked into this proud yet sly smirk as his fingers ran up and down your thighs. "where, angel? here?" he practically mocked, fingers against your knee.

at this point, dean had never seen an angel, he didn't believe in them. but he was sure that if angels did exist, you had to be one of them.

you could have corrected him verbally, told him to stop teasing or even scolded him for mocking you while you were all worked up like this. but instead, you chose to grasp his bigger hand in your own and trail it towards your core.

as your hand cupped his own, he could feel them shake, he almost cooed at you but he didn't want to make you more nervous than you already were.

but when his hand finally reached your clothed core, he couldn't help but let out a groan.

it didn't take longer than a second for dean to have you flipped over with your back against the mattress of the bed. a noise left your lips as he towered over you, that infamous smirk etched to his lips.

but a type of seriousness washed over him. "are you sure you want this?"

you knew he wasn't asking you to tease you or make you wait, he was being sincere and you couldn't have been more sincere back by bucking your hips with a low whine of the word, "yes." quickly followed by a "please."

"so needy." he mumbled back, lips moving to your neck while his fingers fumbled at the cotton material of your baby blue sleep shorts. he hooked his fingers around the waistband and tore it off skilfully.

he supposed his experience was paying off.

you didn't have any time to counter what he'd said, too focused on the feeling building in your stomach. much of it was worry, anxiety even but the majority of it was this foreign, amazing feeling.

"fuck." his ring clad fingers circled against your panties. you were suddenly hyper aware of how worked up you'd gotten while making out with him, a blush creeping in on your face as you turned away from him.

dean all but tutted, dragging your face back.

"don't get shy on me now, sweetheart. This wet for me, the least you can do is look at me." he had that empowering stare that told you he was in charge here, it had you shrinking further into the mattress.

but dean wasn't demanding, sure he was dominating but he didn't make you uncomfortable. truthfully, you'd been rather scared of getting this far with anybody but you were sure that if there was anybody you wanted it to be with, it was him.

his hands toyed at waistbands of your panties. "this okay?" his eyes were glued to your face, trying to watch every way your face contorted, making sure you were okay.

believe it or not, there was a lot one could tell from just looking at someone.

you nodded your head briskly, darkened and bitten lips parted slightly, covered in the slick left behind from your tongue. your cheeks had turned a darkened colour too, blush spreading across your face.

there was something so surreal about looking at you like this, knowing nobody else ever had. he pulled the panties down your legs, watching you steadily with his own lips parting open. his eyes moved from yours to trail down your body, landing on your sopping core. he couldn't help but breathe in a breath.

"you're so pretty, angel." he moved his hand upwards again, closed fingers gently toying with your clit, which earned a soft gasp from you. his lips quirked as he brought his hand away, using the other to slip off his ring. he took your wrist, holding it up gently. "take care of this for me, yeah?" you nodded as he slipped the ring onto your thumb, seeing as your other fingers wouldn't fit it. "good girl." he mumbled, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

he was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you were a virgin.

now, dean wasn't necessarily put off by the fact that you were a virgin. dean couldn't have cared less what you were. but he needed to make sure he was gentle, more so than any other time.

because he was the first, the one you'd remember forever.

though, he intended to be your very last, too.

his fingers trailed across your pretty tank top, down to your hips and finally edging between your legs. he peppered kisses against your face and down across your jaw, finally landing on your neck, fingers pushing your legs apart with ease.

as shy as you were, you didn't hide from him, you allowed him to part your legs, his hand was against your inner thigh, softly soothing up and down against your skin.

but he had to make sure, before he touched you. "sure this is okay? not having second thoughts?"

of course dean wanted to but he only wanted to if you wanted to. but you nodded anyway, swallowing though your mouth was dry anyway. "'m just nervous." you admitted softly.

it was no secret to dean that you were a nervous creature already. he knew this was all new to you but he didn't want you to feel shy around him. "you don't need to be." he pressed a kiss against the supple of your cheek, hand moving further as you let out a shaky breath. "not with me." as the whisper left his mouth, his hand came up to touch your hot core.

the noise that left your mouth should have embarrassed you but right now, you couldn't think of anything other than the feeling of his hand right where you needed him.

he collected your wetness onto his fingers, spreading it up and down your folds, two fingers parting from the rest as he gently eased them into your hole.

heavy breaths suddenly left you, chest rising and falling while dean's face was practically hidden in your neck, peppering kisses, sucking and licking against the soft skin while his fingers settled inside of you.

he gave you hardly any time to adjust to the feeling, pulling them out and then thrusting them right back into you. "you're so warm, sweetheart." he mumbled in slight awe. suddenly, the image took over his mind, the image of him inside of you. he couldn't seem to wipe it away.

he knew that giving yourself to him even just like this was a lot for you, he didn't want to push you any further than he already had tonight.

however, the image still tainted his memory.

as the speed of his fingers increased, so did the volume of your noises.

a sticky, wet sound bounced from wall to wall, causing your cheeks to warm incredibly further. you flushed, your own hand coming up to cover your mouth, suddenly aware of how loud you'd been.

a coo left his lips, free hand coming to drag your wrist away from your mouth. "wanna hear every noise you can make, angel."

and his words alone made you whimper.

the palm of his hand bounced against your clit with every thrust of his hand, emitting these noises from you that you'd never been able to draw from yourself.

"y'sound so pretty, you know that, baby?" you made a noise to show you were listening, though all it told dean was that you felt good. "look so pretty too. so beautiful. all mine."

dean couldn't keep his hands to himself.

his free hand dragged against your skin, pushing at it as if trying to get closer to you in any way possible.

against his fingers formed a creamy ring. he looked down at his digits sliding in and out of you, wetness surrounding you both, keeping you together by a wet string.

he let his thoughts wander.

as evil as it was, he simply couldn't think of anything else, he imagined it was his dick sliding in and out of your hot, wet hole, the noises you'd make would be so much louder, you'd be so much fuller.

then he was suddenly aware of your experience once again.

you were tight, incredibly tight which only made him scissor his fingers. if you were going to take his dick, he needed to stretch you out first.

"dean!" you spluttered out as he scissored his fingers inside of you. "c-cant."

your hips bucked backwards, as if you were trying to tell yourself to stop, but it felt too good to stop.

and dean knew your body well, more than you knew it apparently for he only tutted, holding your wrist in his free hand. "you can take it baby, there you go." and he must have known what was happening because your insides were turning to mush.

you'd orgasmed by yourself before but this? this was true bliss.

he held your waist down to the mattress as your body squirmed, head falling back into the pillows as his name fell on your lips, moans and whines blissfully leaving your slick lips.

"good girl." he mumbled, pressing kisses anywhere his lips could reach. "you're so good, there you go. atta girl."

his words of praise fell on your lips, only making you squirm impossibly more. but nonetheless, he kept up his pace, fingers moving to help you ride out your high.

dean swore he'd never seen something so beautiful.

he watched in awe, staring at the way your face scrunched up, pretty lips parted and your eyes screwed closed, though he could only imagine you were seeing stars behind your lids, not that he was being cocky or anything.

the sight was pure bliss, angelic, even.

he swore he'd been to heaven and back, just watching your face contort.

and he'd watch it forever, if he could.

he was suddenly aware of how tight his jeans felt.

"i need to fuck you." he was mumbling with a slight neediness in his tone, kissing up and down your throat, his hand only coming to a halt when your own practically pushed it away, the overstimulation becoming too much. "can i?" a beat passed. "please?"

his face rose to meet yours and you stared at him, all blissed out. you swore that his fingers were the most skilled, pleasurable feeling you'd ever felt, much better than to how it felt when you'd done it by yourself. your lips were glossed over, heavy pants leaving your chest. huge eyes and flushed cheeks.

almost a whine of the phrase, "uh-huh." passed your lips.

and it was enough for him.

his lips crashed into your own, kissing you ever so softly, though there was passion hidden somewhere between your heavy breaths.

needy hands pawed at the end of his black shirt, his own hands reached down to cup yours, helping you tear it off of his body. his amulet dangled downwards, just below your face and he was suddenly very aware of the fact that your top was still on. he supposed he'd been too focused on making you feel good to realise.

his hands reached the end of your own top, helping you push it over your head.

no words left his lips but they parted, tongue passing over the bottom one as he stared.

your pink bra was so pretty on you he almost had to think to decide whether or not he wanted to keep it on. but he decided with the latter, hands unhooking your bra skillfully, as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

he hardly got to see your boobs, for his hands cupped them as soon as they were let out of the bra. he cursed out a grunt under his breath, one hand leaving your breast so his mouth could replace it.

against the mattress, your back arched, stomach against his own while you bit back the pretty whimpers which he yearned to hear. his mouth worked against you, rolling his tongue back and forth, practically flicking your nipple in his mouth making you unable to contain the sounds you so desperately tried to keep back.

"d―dean!" you spluttered, eyes fluttering shut. his own eyes looked up at you, watching your face contort once again.

he had to have you.

as his face left your chest, a string of spit connected your boobs to his lips.

he wiped it away, though nothing could wipe away that smut smirk he held. nonetheless, he helped himself to shimmying out of his jeans, taking his boxers off with it.

it wasn't until he took everything off that reality set in. you stared, eyes blown wide, he was, well... big. and it was sort of hard not to get nervous, even with the fact that his fingers had just been stuffed inside of you, you weren't so sure it was going to fit.

"you okay?" he leaned down, towering over you. he realised your eyes hadn't moved from his dick, pulling your chin up with his two fingers. "are you sure you want this?"

you nodded your head, thoughts a mere muddle of clouds. "i just... 'm nervous." you admitted, feeling your stomach fill with this fuzzy feeling that you only got when you talked to dean.

"you don't have to be nervous, sweetheart, not with me, okay?" the palm of his hand rested on your face. "do you want this?"

"yes." you answered without a beat.

"promise?" you could have melted right then and there. dean winchester was of many things but above all, he was gentle.

"promise." you mumbled, finding yourself relaxing just at the mere sound of his voice. his hand trailed up to find your own, fingers interlocking yours. his free hand moved down to his dick, pressing it in his hand.

you watched with curiosity yet also nervousness. you'd never seen this done in real life, so the shyness was creeping in as you watched him move his hand up and down his shaft, dragging it towards your wet hole. instantly, a sound left your lips, blush instantly creeping in as your eyes snapped up to him. he only smiled gently at you, finding your shyness rather adorable.

the head of his dick slowly pushed inside of you and that alone had you feeling awfully stretched. he wasn't just long, he was thick too meaning he stretched you out completely. "okay?" you nodded at the sound of his question, the feeling of his lips on your cheek moments after. "'s gonna hurt a little, alright?"

you nodded your head, eyes shutting closed as you braced yourself.

you weren't an idiot either, you knew first times were supposed to hurt but luckily for you, you had dean right there, holding one of your hands tight in his own, soft whispers and kisses against your skin.

what more could you really ask for.

he slowly eased himself inside of you, worried he was hurting you. then again, there wasn't really any other way to get inside without hurting you. he watched as your face contorted, a gentle whimper leaving your lips but he knew it wasn't one of pleasure, more of pain, actually.

he mumbled gentle apologies and left a trail of them in kisses from your neck to your cheeks.

finally, he was in completely and he couldn't help the string of curses that he mumbled under his breath.

dean stayed as still as he could. worry set in, he didn't want to hurt you, not when you'd been so nervous in the first place. he'd been with many girls but you were a tight fit around him, swallowing his dick whole. he couldn't help but almost coo at the way your hole clenched around him.

he felt your hips shift, and he knew you were ready. "can i―fuck, sweetheart, can i move?"

again, you nodded with a subtle whine that told him in other words, yes, he absolutely could move. and that was exactly what he did.

he slowly pulled his dick out from inside you then suddenly slammed his hips back in, his dick hitting the spot deep inside your walls. instantly, he was met with a mewl.

"shit." he uttered, wanting to draw as many sounds like that out of you as he could. his two hands now rested on yours tightening his grip as he placed them over your head so he could gain better access. "oh, fuck, sweetheart, you're so fucking pretty."

it seemed as though dean had the mouth similar to a sailor when put in a position like this.

but he couldn't help it, you were staring at him with those doe eyes, pretty noises falling from you. his hips moved with ease, slamming in and out of you, it didn't take him long to pick up the pace either.

your legs lifted to surround his waist, moans leaving the two of you as his hips slammed inside of you.

"shit, you're so good for me." he was a mumbling mess, he meant every word of what he said, though he wasn't too sure what was leaving his lips as of now. "oh, my sweet girl, thaaat's it."

he tipped his head forward, connecting his forehead to your own. your whimpers and whines were swallowed by a kiss, gentle yet so full of neediness, it was exactly what you wanted.

"feels..." you mumbled once your lips had parted, though you were sort of dazed, not all the way there. "feels so good."

"good girl, 's it, take it all." you felt his hand suddenly trail down, fingers soft against your clit while his dick still hot between your gummy walls. "'s okay, you're okay."

you shook your head, swallowing thickly as your hips bucked. "'s―'s too much!" you panted out, moans leaving you as if you couldn't keep them inside.

"you can take it, baby, know you can." but he could tell by the way your face twisted again, you were close.

and so was he.

"you gonna let go f'me? huh?"

at this point, your eyes had fluttered shut and you lips were parted as you nodded, brows strewn together. "gonna... 'm gonna cum, dean."

"that's my girl." he answered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "cum all over my dick f'me, sweetheart."

you supposed you were more obedient than you thought.

dean watched as you squirmed and moaned, eyes screwed shut as you finally let go around him. he could feel your gummy walls squeezing him tighter, a ring of slick had formed at the base of his dick. the mere sight, his dick still stuffed inside your cunt and you, cumming all over him.

well, it was enough to have any man weak.

which was why he'd finished so quickly, too.

after all, he'd been holding on since you were sat on his lap.

and that one feeling, cumming in your wet, hot walls and watching you with that pretty, stricken and worn out face as you came on him too... he swore he had really been to heaven and back.

when you both rode out your highs, he laid himself on the bed next to you, watching as you reached your hand up, playing with his silver ring that sat on your thumb.

he swore he was staring at an angel.

“Um yeah,” you mutter, because you may have to fake your body language, leaning away from him in a way that’s supposed to express discomfort, but you don’t have to fake your shyness. 

“Lemme buy you a drink. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you say, twisting your beer bottle around. 

“C’mon, just one drink. I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he says smirking, and the way he says it is so unlike Dean, it sets your teeth on edge. If you were really a girl he was trying to pick up, he would have taken no for an answer, but left the door open for you to change your mind, which you inevitably would. He would have said something like; ‘If you’re sure. You know where to find me, baby’ and taken his seat back with a flirty wink. He wouldn’t have insisted or thrown that corny, overused innuendo at you.

“No, really, I’m okay. Thank you.” And you’re squashing your eyebrows together, squirming in your seat, trying to look intimidated but this is Dean and nothing about him is intimidating. Not to you.

“It’s just one fuckin’ drink, bitch. Don’t be such a stuck-up priss.” 

Dean’s a good actor but you know he feels remotely uncomfortable having to say any of this to you. It doesn’t matter. The man beside you, taller than Dean but not quite as broad, stands up off his stool. 

“Didn’t you hear the lady? She said she doesn’t want a drink, punk.”

Dean makes a big show of backing off, raising his hands in submission and muttering something about how he was ‘only trying to be nice’, before backing away to his table once again. You turn to your saviour with a smile that you hope is radiant.

“Thank you so much,” you simper. “That got a bit scary for a second.”

He looks nice. He is lightly tanned with wavy brown hair, soft green eyes and a handsome smile that verges on shy. You think that this must be what Sam would look like, if life had been a little kinder to him.

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a modest shrug. “God, I can’t stand guys like that. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Happens more often than you think. Not many people would step in like you just did.”

His chest puffs out like a pigeon at the praise. “Maybe it’s because I’m a cop, but I can’t stand when people sit around and do nothing when something like that is happening in front of them. Makes me sick.”

“You’re a cop?” you ask, smiling and trying to do that ‘doe-eyed shit’ that Dean always accuses you of. It’s harder to do on demand. “That’s so cool, I really admire you guys. Your job must be really hard.”

He shrugs again, cheeks going a dusty pink. “It’s worth it if I can get to help people. But yeah, it can get a bit hairy sometimes.”

“I bet,”  you sigh. “I heard about this weird killing spree in the next town over. Those guys sure aren’t living the dream right now. I can’t imagine all the things they have to see.”

He straightens up immediately, animation dropping from his face. “Actually, I- uh, I’m working on those cases right now. You’re right, it’s not pretty.”

You’re losing him. His eyes are drifting away from you, away from the conversation. He’s searching for an out. You’re dimly aware of Dean’s eyes on you from afar, boring holes into your head. In a blind panic, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, one hand reaching out to his arm in a consoling manner. His eyes drop just once to where your hand meets his wax, green jacket and you feel him coming back to you. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for bringing that up,” you say, teeth worrying your lip with anxiety that you don’t really have to falsify. “I had no idea. I’m a bit of a true crime junkie, but the last thing you want to do is talk about that right now on your time off. I’m just gonna go. It was nice meeting you and thanks for, uh-” You make a vague gesture towards Dean, who is still watching you with dark eyes.

“No,” he says, hand moving over your own one on his arm to stop you from moving. He smiles in such a genuine way, it almost makes you feel guilty. “I can let you in on a couple secrets if you promise to keep it between us.”

You brush your hair behind your ear and laugh, soft and shy.

“I’m Jeremy, by the way.”

You have to stop yourself from saying I know.

“Sold it a bit too hard back there,” Dean grumbles, leaning against Baby with his arms folded and watching you dart out of the bar. He’s wearing an irritated scowl.

“Don’t be an ass,” you say, rolling your eyes as you open the car door and slide into the passenger seat. It’s not often that you get to ride shotgun and it feels weird - like you’ve suddenly become more important. Dean follows. “You’re the one that told me to ‘charm the pants off him’ if I remember correctly, so-”

“Yeah, charm him,” he says. “I didn’t say to fuckin’ feel him up.”

“Feel him up?” you splutter with a half-laugh as Dean pulls out of the drive. “You’re ridiculous. I put a hand on his arm. I’ve seen you do worse.”

“Yeah, whatever. You get anything outta him?”

You launch into the story and try to share all the same bits that Sam usually does. You tell him how the victims were all men in their early 20s, recently discharged from a hospital not far away. How the cops are currently questioning the hospital staff but haven’t found anything suspicious just yet. You describe all the gnarly injuries, all the pieces of evidence left behind.

“Um- I think that’s it,” you say, eyebrows furrowing together as you try to figure out whether there is anything you left out.

“That’s it?” Dean says with surprise, eyes shifting from the road to you briefly. “You were in there for damn near an hour. Thought this was about to be some fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes shit.”

“Well I couldn’t just leave straight away once he gave me the information, Dean,” you say, frowning at him. “That’s suspicious. And rude.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head. “Never mind. What hospital is it?”

You bite your lip, face flushing. “Um- I don’t know. Should I have asked?”

“Goddamnit, sweetheart-”

“I can ask!”

“Ask who?” Dean frowns.

“Jeremy. The cop from the bar. I mean, I probably can’t just call him up and ask him outright but if I tell him I want to meet up then maybe I could-”

“You exchanged numbers?”

“Well yes,” you say, watching Dean carefully. He is looking more wound up by the second. “He asked and I couldn’t really say no after talking for so long. Besides, it’s useful now because I can ask him what hospital it was.”

“Jesus Christ. I asked you to charm information out of him, not to start a fuckin’ fling-”

“Well maybe you should have waited for Sam or done it yourself!” you say, voice raising in frustration. Your lip is wobbling a little bit and it feels like barbed wire is tightening around your throat. “I’m no good at this stuff, the flirting for information. I get nervous. You know that.”

Dean takes one look glance at you out of the corner of his eye and all his exasperation slips away. He lets out a puff of breath and his body deflates with it, eyes going soft and gooey like they always do when you get upset. It makes you feel like a kid in a horrid, humiliating way, but it’s better than being on the receiving end of his frustration. Dean being annoyed at you is your own personal hell. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything about that and you’d like to keep it that way for as long as you possibly can.

“Hey now, none of that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find out what hospital is it, don’t you worry about it.”

You nod once and turn to face out the window, still fighting the unsteady feeling in your throat and behind your eyes. Damn him - you’re so soft when it comes to Dean. No matter how much you rebel against it, no matter how many phases of denial or resistance you go through, you just can’t fight how you react to him.

He is still giving you cautious looks whenever he can pry his eyes away from the road. “C’mon, sweetheart. Y’mad at me?”

You shake your head because you don’t trust your voice to carry anything, but you still don’t look at him. He sighs and pulls in to a gas station at the side of the road. It’s one of those small, Americana-style ones you’d find on route 66. You can’t imagine he can get very much in there. He gets out without saying anything and you flinch as the car door slams shut.

You tap your fingers against the window as you wait for him and think resentfully about the fact that he, and he alone, seems to determine whether you’re going to have a good day or a bad one. One smile is enough to make you feel the sun on your skin even when the clouds are out, but his disapproval or disappointment shatters you in a way that not much else can.

It’s hard to remember a time when that wasn’t the case. You look back on your life before the Winchesters as boring - insignificant, even. It’s probably pathetic and un-feminist to admit, but it’s true. 

The before of your life seems grey. Before Sam convinced Dean to let you tag along with them because you had nowhere else to go. Before you managed to convince him that you were more than just a burden - that you could help with their jobs. Before you wormed your way into his heart, even if it’s not in the capacity that you might have wished for.

When Dean slides back into the car, he has a cherry cola and a pack of those sour green gummy worms that make your face scrunch up and your tonsils hurt. They’re your favourite.

He watches you as you take them from his hands and when you smile, so does he.

Dean finds out which hospital it is two days later. You’re not sure whether he called up Sam, who is out of commission in a motel a few towns back with the flu, or if he did some digging of his own while you were asleep. But he’s tugging on his jacket by the time you wake up in the motel bed, bleary eyed and sore from the awkward position you slept in.

“Dean?” Your voice is thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”

“I’m headin’ out to the hospital to poke around. It’s early. You go back to sleep, I’ll be quick.”

You would usually fight him on this, but your body is tired, having only recently shaken off the flu that you had so kindly passed on to Sam. You nod drowsily, a bit dizzy with sleep, and he gives you a fond, amused smile, as if you did something very funny. You watch him leave.

Your mind is too awake to drift immediately back into your stupor, and your body gradually wakes up with it. Within a few minutes, you’re too alert to even try. The red digits on the alarm clock read 7:09, and you suppose most coffee places would be open about now.

Dean has all your expensive hair products and shower gels out on the counter of the bathroom and you file that away to complain about later, even though you secretly kind of like when he uses your stuff. You like to think that he might have struck out a couple times because the woman could smell the sweet, girly scents on his skin and hair, and assumed he had a girlfriend.

The shower you take is short, only because there is a film of dirt on the shower floor that makes you feel like you might slip. Most of your clothes are in dire need of laundering so you pluck one of Dean’s plaid shirts up. You tell yourself that it’s ok because he has used something of yours too, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. This is very different. You’re wearing Dean’s shirt because some ugly, desperate part of you wants to feel close to him - wants to smell his scent on your skin. He’s explained to you why he uses your toiletries; “All that girly shit is fuckin’ luxe. Makes my skin feel like a baby’s goddamn ass”.

You check your phone for any updates from Dean before you leave the room, but you see only the same text that had been sitting there since yesterday.

JEREMY (COP FROM BAR - HOSPITAL MURDERS): I really loved meeting you last night. Let me know if you’re free any time soon. I would love to take you on a date.

You smile despite yourself as you descend the stairs of the motel, which leads directly onto the streets of the town. The guy really was sweet, but Dean’s reaction is enough to stave off any intentions to respond, even just for a ‘fling’, as he termed it. It’s hypocritical, really, that Dean has the freedom to chat up whoever he wants on a job but considers you to be ‘derailing the operation’ whenever there is the slightest hint of a connection on your end.

Ultimately, though, it’s fine. Your feeble old heart has a one-track mind and any attempts to satisfy it with some shoddy, off-brand replacement, whether for one night or more, leave you feeling sick and heartbroken. You’ve learned well enough by now that any time you try to move on, it just leaves you bereft.

It’s not even that you think that nobody can compare to Dean - not exactly. Dean is good and he’s kind and is smooth enough to make a nun blush. He’s smart, funny, loyal - the best kind of person there is. But you’ve met a lot of guys with those same qualities. It’s just Dean’s unique blend of those characteristics that you feel must have been concocted within him specifically for you.

And it’s fine that Dean flirts with other women. That he can pick up a girl as easy as others can tie their shoelaces and throw them away even easier. Because he has suffered enough and done enough good in this world to be allowed these kinds of indulgences, and you know that if he was aware of how you felt, he wouldn’t do it anymore. He would lock himself away to avoid hurting your feelings and eventually go insane with frustration and you know he would bear it for you if he thought the alternative was hurting you.

But you won’t let him. Because you love him and there aren’t many things you can do with your love. You can’t get rid of it, you can’t put it down anywhere, or give it to someone else. So you choose to love him in this strange, silent way instead. You suffer so that he doesn’t have to.

The diner you choose is straight out of one of those ‘small town America’ travel brochures. You’ve seen ones just like it in those autumnal TV comedies that you put on in the background. Sam watches them with you with mild interest, even if he pretends he dislikes them, but Dean complains about anything that isn’t chock-full with cars and guns and hot girls. It’s bright when you walk in and fairly clean, even if the red vinyl of the booths is cracking and there is a small stain on your table. A tall, pretty girl takes your order of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast and manages to bring them over to you almost immediately. The food is not great, but it’s not bad either.

“Hi there. Mind if I join you?”

Jeremy is standing in front of you, dressed in his blue uniform and hair askew. He’s smiling hesitantly, as if he’s not sure whether you’re about to tell him to get lost.

“Jeremy, hi,” you splutter, even as you do your level best to seem collected. “Of course. Please.”

He seems a lot more assured of himself as he slides into the booth in front of you, hesitant smile giving way to a charming grin. “You remember my name. That’s a good sign at least.”

You breathe an awkward laugh. “Sure I do. Wouldn’t forget. Are you on duty?”

“Nope, coming off. Just ordered some breakfast at the counter. Then I gotta head over to my niece’s seventh birthday party.”

“Ouch,” you say, wincing in an exaggerated way. “A seventh birthday party is a lot for the morning after a night shift.”

“Tell me about it. You kinda forget how loud kids are at that age.”

He uses the waitress’ name when he thanks her for bringing his order. It makes you smile.

“So you remembered my name and you’re good with me joining you, but you didn’t reply to my text,” he says with a small, teasing grin when the waitress - Justine, apparently - goes back behind the counter. “Trying to figure out what that means. Can you help me out here?”

Your face flushes with shame and mortification, your brain racing to come up with an excuse. He’s handsome and nice and not even trying to make you feel bad about the fact that you ignored him and he should be perfect for you. You should be jumping at the chance for someone like him to take you on a date.

“I’m so sorry,” you gush, real guilt pouring through. “Your text was so sweet, it was really shitty of me to not reply to you. It’s just- well, I’m only here for a couple of days and I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“Relax,” he laughs. “I wasn’t mad. Just don’t wanna be sitting here bothering you if you’re not…”

“You’re not bothering me,” you say, and it’s the truth. Jeremy smiles.

“Where do you live, if you’re not from near here?”

“I travel around a lot for work,” you say, and because you know that’s not really an answer that doesn’t raise suspicion - you add; “But technically Kansas.”

“Kansas isn’t that far from here. Just a matter of a few hours when the traffic’s light.” He’s not looking at you, cracking pepper onto his plate casually.

You’re not worth this kind of attention. Guilt, along with something much more complex and difficult to describe, gnaws low in your stomach. You know that you should be thankful that someone like him would even look twice at you, let alone suggest hours of travel to see you again after meeting you once. But your ungrateful heart can only scream that he is not Dean. Not even close.

“I’m in Kansas maybe thirty percent of the time,” you say with a regretful smile. “I really do move around a lot.”

Jeremy responds, but you don’t hear it. Because another sound has taken up your attention; something low and gravelly and something that sounds an awful lot like Dean.

Your eyes snap over to the counter where Dean has just ordered two coffees to-go. You watch in slow-motion while he looks around the diner - probably looking for a hot girl to chat up, your traitorous mind taunts you - before his gaze finds you. 

Sitting in the booth. 

With Jeremy. 

It looks so bad - it looks planned - and you can only gawp open-mouthed as Dean stomps over, looking completely murderous. Jeremy is giving you a strange look now, wondering why you have suddenly stopped responding, but there’s nothing you can say. You feel like a mouse in a trap.

“We’re going,” Dean snaps out when he makes it all the way over, placing his hand on your arm in a firm grasp. “C’mon.”

Jeremy’s eyes darken as he stands up. “Get away from her right now,” he spits. “Or we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Dean seems to remember the part he played in that little private investigation at the same time as you. The pushy creep who wouldn't take ‘no’ for an answer. His eyes flick between yourself and Jeremy for a second, before he decides it’s not worth it to blow your cover, or to get arrested on charges of sexual harassment. He scoffs for just a second and shoots you a very unimpressed glare before walking out of the diner without his coffees.

“I told you to stay here!” Dean snaps as soon as you walk in the door to your motel room again. It has been over an hour since that moment in the diner and you had been dreading this every moment since. The rest of your breakfast was pleasant, if a little awkward after that interaction. Jeremy had insisted, insisted and insisted again on dropping you back to the motel in his cruiser in a show of gentlemanliness that did more to annoy than impress you. And sure, maybe a part of you understood that you would consider the same gesture charming if it had come from Dean, but Jeremy isn’t Dean so that doesn’t matter.

“No you didn’t,” you sigh, throwing the key onto the table.

“Well, it was fuckin’ implied.”

You give him a bewildered look before collapsing down to sit on your bed and peel off your shoes. “In exactly what way was it implied?”

“When there’s a ghost going around whacking people, your natural instinct should probably be to stay the hell outta the way.”

You roll your eyes and make sure he sees you do it. “Well I’m not a male in my early twenties, so I’m not really the target here, am I?” Your mind catches up a second later. “Wait, you found out it’s a ghost?”

“Yeah, it’s a ghost,” he replies, but he really doesn't seem to want to linger on that subject right now. “That little piggy you were with might be a male in his early twenties. You don’t know, which is why you should have stayed the hell inside.”

“He’s late twenties at the very youngest and you know it,” you say. “And since when am I not allowed to go get breakfast while on a job? Come off it, Dean.”

Dean is still furious, but he seems to be scrambling to figure out how to respond. You take advantage of his momentary speechlessness. “Tell me what you got.”

He is hesitant to drop it there, but he eventually does. He still looks displeased while he walks you through what he figured out - the fact that it’s a ghost; a female from the early 1900s who was left to rot in hospital in favour of a male patient in his early 20s and subsequently died from medical neglect. She has been enacting her revenge with a host of killings every ten years around the anniversary of her death. You will be going back to the hospital after hours, when it’s a bit quieter. 

“Pretty standard job. In and out,” he shrugs, and you thought he might distract himself with the details and have gotten over the whole diner incident by the time he finished telling you about it, but he’s still not looking at you. It sends a bolt of hurt through you but you shake it off.

“Right, in and out,” you agree.

The job is simple. In and out, just like he said. You distract the receptionist by asking after a grandmother that doesn’t exist while Dean chases the leads he had found earlier. He finds the bones within thirty minutes and burns them. He’s a bit banged up by the time he makes it back to where you’re waiting in reception, clothes askew and hair mussed up with a cut or two spilling blood through his shirt, but he won’t tell you what happened except that he ‘Sorted it.’ The receptionist gives you a skeptical look when you walk out with him, but she doesn’t say anything else. 

You feel exceptionally useless when you climb back into Baby. The power rush you had from riding shotgun has evaporated.

“I can’t believe you made me be the distraction again,” you mutter, scuffing your shoes against the car floor just to piss him off.

“Someone’s gotta to do it,” is all he says back. He still won’t look at you, not even to give you evils for the way you’re treating Baby. Hasn’t looked at you properly since this morning in the motel. It hurt before and it still does, but now you’re just fed up more than anything. There’s only so much awkward silence you can take. 

“Dean, will you- Goddamnit, can you look at me?” 

He takes a second, fingers flexing around the wheel as he pulls out of the carpark. His lips flatten into a thin line, before he looks at you for a brief second, raising his eyebrows as if to say; ‘There. Happy?’

But you’re not.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t know what the big deal is. You can pretend all you want that this is about me going to get a breakfast, but it’s not is it? You just didn’t like that I was with Jeremy.”

Dean wasn’t expecting that. All exasperated sarcasm melts from his face as he steals an astonished glance at you, eyes alarmed and mouth somewhat ajar. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“You don’t want me getting distracted on a job.”

At that, he seems to relax, slipping back into the same easy grouchiness as before and you wonder what it was he thought you were getting at. “Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters lowly.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” you sigh. “How come you can do whatever you want but I can’t?”

You surprise yourself as much as you surprise him by bringing this up. That’s a subject you always stay well away from - Dean and girls. You look away and pretend not to hear when Sam teases him after he stumbles into the motel room the day after a job ends. You’ve smelt all kinds of perfume on him - sweet, spicy, cheap expensive and say nothing. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom so you can stop yourself from retching when he approaches some random table in a bar and shoots a suave smile to someone who isn’t you. But it’s spilling out of you now; not because you can’t hold it in anymore (because you can and you will until the end of time), but because it’s simply not fair. You couldn't move on if you tried, you know this, but who is he to tell you whether or not you can try?

“Because, sweetheart, it’s different,” he says, and the word ‘sweetheart’ is uttered almost sarcastically, in a way you had never heard before. You had always been his only sweetheart - one of the only things he could give you and you alone, but it was always said with a sort of gentle veneration - never like this. It feels tainted now. No longer yours.

“How is it different, Dean?” You’re trying to keep that damned barbed wire from closing in on your throat again. Trying, for once, to not be the baby that cries too easily and loves too easily and gives herself away to him for nothing in return.

“Because those girls don’t mean anything. They’re not distractions,” he explains, voice thick and low. “But you can’t have someone who doesn’t mean anything. You carry on with that asshole and you’ll end up in some fuckin’ picket fence house with a wraparound porch.”

He’s halfway there. He’s right, of course. You couldn’t just have an indistinct someone who doesn’t mean anything. You could never let them warm your bed without making yourself feel ill and blue - you had tried it before and it didn’t work out well. 

But he really doesn’t understand that you could go on a hundred dates with Jeremy or with anyone else and you still wouldn't end up anywhere but right here. Following Dean around like a slobbering puppy. Because your sick, stubborn heart decided what it wanted years ago and has not forgotten.

Dean must mistake your silence for something else, because he watches you wearily, frustration falling away from his face and giving way to a panicked sort of concern. “Unless that’s…” he coughs nervously. “Unless that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” you confirm glibly. You don’t mention that it could be what you want, if he decided that it was what he wanted too. It’s your turn to avoid his eyes now. You watch the rain stream down the car window.

“C’mon, I’m tired of fightin’ with y’, sweetheart,” he says and the designation of ‘sweetheart’ is once again yours to claim. He is speaking to you sweetly, coaxing you out of your corner. But tears are springing to your eyes so you keep them trained away from him.

It’s mostly for his benefit, that you hide this from him. It’s not his fault that your world is moved by his hands alone. It’s not his fault that all his attempts to take care of you have worked so well that they backfired and hurt you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-” he sighs and you can hear him running his hand through his hair, even though you can’t see it. You can smell a burst of your shampoo when he does it. “I don’t know how to… Did I upset you?”

You don’t say anything for a moment, and he seems ready to speak again. 

“I don’t want the… picket fence and porch,” you say, tracing raindrops with your fingers. There’s a wobble in your voice. “But it would be nice to just have someone, maybe.”

That ‘someone’ is Dean, obviously. But you can still dream of someday breaking free of these feelings - finding someone else. You won’t feel a fraction of this intensity for them but that would be ok, that would be alright. And they wouldn’t look at you the way Dean does and they wouldn’t be able to make you laugh like he can but you would learn to live with that, maybe even learn to numb your feelings for Dean from this fire into a dull ache.

Because what good is your love for Dean when you’ve had to debase it so many times? You’ve tried to bastardise it - to turn it platonic, to turn it familial, even to get rid of it altogether and none of it ever works. It returns to you, defiled and wounded but no weaker, every single time.

“You could have me.”

Even the tears in your eyes can’t stop you from looking over at Dean now. You’re searching for any sign that he might be making some sort of joke, but you can’t find it. His eyes are trained firmly on the road, a worried pinch between his brows. You almost feel like you imagined it.

“I… What?”

“If you wanted to have someone. You could have me.”

Your breath feels stuck in your lungs. Dean has no idea what he’s saying; how unintentional cruel he is being to you. You have no idea whether he means as a friend or as a warm body to satisfy some part of your longing. You don’t want to think too long about whether he means the latter - because you’re deathly afraid that you are weak enough to accept his offer and then the whole thing really will fall apart.

“I didn’t mean it in that way. I meant-”

“I know what you meant. I want to be that. For you.”

He is speaking so uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the same soft that he offers you when you’re scared or upset, the confident arm around your shoulder while he coos and comforts. This is another kind of soft. He always looks tired, but right now he looks exhausted. You’ve only seen him look this vulnerable a handful of times and you feel a strange discomfort when you realise each time has been when he was speaking about his dad.

You are soaking in his words as he puts the car in park outside the motel. Crickets croak to fill the silence between you. He is sneaking glances and you know him well enough to know that he is trying to get a read on you.

“Why?” you land on eventually.

He frowns. “The hell do you mean why?”

“Why are you offering to-? You don’t need to feel sorry for me, or whatever-”

Dean laughs, more angry than amused. “You really think I’d tell you I want to be with you because I feel sorry for you? I’m fuckin’…” Dean sighs, face twitching with discomfort and awkwardness. “I think if you just gave it a chance, I could maybe be the someone you’re talkin’ about. Maybe.”

Your face flushes with heat and your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you had for breakfast. Your mind is racing to make sense of what you’re hearing - he could ‘maybe be your someone’? “What…”

Dean shuts down, as if a sudden door slams over that vulnerability he had shown you just a minute ago. “Y’know what, forget it-”

“No!”

He pauses, his hand going still on the car door. Your thoughts aren’t making sense at this point but you’re desperate to say something - anything - that might stop him from leaving.

“I want to-” you stutter, clumsy as a baby goat. “I want you to be my maybe-someone too, but I want to know for sure that you… I don’t know how to talk about this, but please don’t leave.”

Dean is skittish when he looks back over to you. You see a flicker of something masked by a cloud of doubt. Slowly, he reaches his hand out for yours. You clutch it with urgency, holding it tight against your own. His hands feel big and rough against your skin. Your thumb glides along all the little ridges and bumps and callouses; the results of the dirty work he never lets you do. He looks as if he is almost afraid you’ll bite when he reaches the other hand out, hesitantly moving up to your face, and his throat bobs a little bit when you lean in to his touch. His pretty green eyes are watching you carefully while his thumb works its way slowly along your cheekbone and you wonder for the briefest of seconds if this is another one of your dreams.

But the next second he’s kissing you and you know it can’t be a dream. Because even in your dreams, you don’t allow yourself to imagine it would be like this to kiss Dean. In your dreams, his kisses are hot and rough, the same way you had seen him dole them out to an endless carousel of girls in dark corners of bars, while you and Sam play solitaire and try to ignore what’s happening in your eye-line.

Dean’s lips are warm and unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he is really allowed to do this. You melt into him slowly, because you had thought about this moment too often for you to freeze up when it is finally happening. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, pulling you up against him, and chokes a broken sigh into your mouth, as if he was the one who had been waiting on this for years. As if he was the one who had to suffer all this longing, had to wield his love carefully so it wouldn’t pour out of him like water from a faucet.

You have gone astray in the feeling of his lips, of his large hands gripping your waist with such painstaking gentleness. Your heart is aching in your chest and you know it’s lost to him forever when he runs a careful hand through your hair, holding you with the same tenderness that he treats you with in all regards.

You’re not even thinking when you press yourself closer to him, clasping your hands around his shoulders and pushing your chest to his urgently. Your need for him - to just be close to him - is growing rapidly inside you like a fire. You shake a bit as Dean kisses you harder, mouth moving against yours, hot and messy.

Gone is the sweet gentleness from just a moment ago, but this is still not quite how you have seen Dean kiss strangers in bars. He’s holding you a bit tighter, kissing you with a bit more exigency. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you’re sure you had never seen him kiss anyone like this. Heat is pooling low in your stomach and you’re squirming, legs twitching as you try to get closer to him. Eventually Dean grunts, the sound sending sparks in your stomach and between your thighs. He splays a hand over your thigh and shifts it over his own. In this position, you become aware of how hard he is. You can feel it even through the layer of jeans and it makes you gasp.

“Dean,” you breathe, struggling for air. He’s undeterred. One hand moves to gently caress the side of your neck as his mouth moves to kiss you there, soft but insistent.

“Hm?” he hums against your neck. You feel its vibration.

Your brain is failing you. The need for him is catapulting you off the edge of sanity and all your focus is garnered towards that bulge below you. You press down without even meaning to and Dean groans at the contact.

“Hey now, slow down, sweetheart,” he says, pulling away from your neck and looking up at you with half-lidded, blown-out eyes. You make a noise that you don’t even hear. You think it’s a protestation. 

“F’you think I’m gonna take you in the front seat of Baby out in some scabby parking lot for our first time, you’re crazy,” he says, thumb reaching up to pull at your bottom lip. 

Your heart soars. First time.

“What, you think that mangy motel room is better?”

Dean laughs. “Maybe not. But ‘least there I can lay you out all pretty. Take my time with you like I always pictured.”

His words go straight to your abdomen in a strange, pleasant mix of love and desire. You clamber off his lap in record speed.

You frown. “Are you sure?”

“Am I - fuck - what the hell are you talkin’ about right now?”

Dean is sitting up against the headboard of the bed. His gaze is dark and unfocused, sweat dripping down his brow and on to his naked chest.

“Are you sure that you want to be my maybe-someone?”

He gives you a strange look, eyes squinting and corners of his mouth poking up in that Dean-is-very-bewildered way. “Huh?”

“I just want to make sure that you’re sure, because I don’t think I’ll be able to- Oh…”

Your mind trails off the subject as Dean uses his grip on your waist to thrust his hips up just a bit, hitting that sweet spot you had just recently (tonight) discovered. His cock is deep inside you, stretching you out in a way that is almost enough to make you want to drop the subject. If you cared about him any less, you probably would.

“I don’t wanna be your maybe-someone, sweetheart. I wanna be your someone. I love you.”

That brings you back. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and you have the odd compulsion to cry. Your body is experiencing a lot right now. “You love me?” The barbed wire is tightening again, but this time in a good way. That steamy grin Dean had been wearing crumbles into something softer. He nods.

“But what about the girls?”

“What girls?”

You flush. “Y’know. The girls you… in all the bars…”

His hands palm your hips with a bruising grip, flexing there as he bounces you on him experimentally, like he’s trying to get you to forget that any girls ever existed. Your cunt clenches tight around him, entire body buzzing, and black spots dance behind your eyes, but you sit still because you have really fucking great self-control. 

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head rolling back. “I don’t wanna talk about any damn girl except you right now.”

“Dean.”

His face scrunches up in exasperation as he fights to keep his eyes on yours. They keep travelling down to your tits. “I wasn’t lying when I said they didn’t mean anything, sweetheart,” he says, dropping down to press kisses to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut and you unintentionally grind down at the wonderful tingly feeling it gives you. Dean grunts. 

“Tried to go on as normal for a while. Thought I could get over you, ‘cause I didn’t wanna burden you with my shit. Didn’t work. Just ended up with a loada pissed off girls who kicked me out after I said the wrong name. That’s it.”

You barely notice that you had begun to grind down on him again until Dean wraps his lips around one of your nipples and you let out a desperate moan. His right hand moves down, feather-light, to stroke up and down your thigh.

“How- how long?”

“Dunno. Kinda sleep-walked into it,” he says, gasping between sentences as you leisurely ride him. “Think I realised when we were at Bobby’s house that one time and I heard you bangin’ around in your room for at least twenty minutes. Walked in and saw you wrapped up in that bedsheet like a ghost ‘cause you couldn't get it on and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. ’S stupid but it made me laugh so damn hard.”

He laughs shakily as he remembers it. You try to recall, but the angle he’s hitting inside you is turning any thought into a tough feat. “I don’t remember that. Must have been years ago.”

He just nods and leans up to kiss you, pretty and desperate. You pull away, even if you would much rather not. 

“You’ve loved me for years?”

“Probably longer than that too, sweetheart. Everyone else seemed to figure it out before I did. Everyone except you.”

He’s trying to distract you again with his lips on your neck, but your brain is working too fast now.

“Everyone- Dean, does Sam know?”

He grunts and you can feel it rip through his chest under your fingertips. When he looks up at you, his pretty green eyes have gone a shade darker.

“Please don’t say another man’s name while I’m fuckin’ you ever again, sweetheart,” he damn-near growls. “ ‘Specially not my brother’s.”

You’re being flipped over then, your skull narrowly avoiding the headboard, until you’re under him, knees pressed up and he’s sliding into you at his pace this time.

“But yes. Everyone means everyone.”

He rolls his hips into yours and you can’t stop the breathy moan that escapes at how he feels inside you. He’s so deep and you’ve never been this full before, but there’s no pain to it because it’s Dean and he had made sure you were ready for him - of course he did. He had played with your pussy; rubbed it and fingered it and licked it in ways you didn’t even know were possible before sliding into you with a slow, loving reverence that made your legs tremble and your heart quake. He’d eased in slowly, despite you whining that you wanted to take him all the way. Dean has always taken care of you and he always will, especially now.

“And since you clearly can’t be trusted on top yet,” he says, punctuating his point with a brutal thrust that has you gasping and clenching around him. “I’m just gonna have to fuck all those thoughts outta your clever little head. Maybe then I’ll let you get back on top. When you can’t treat this like a job we’re workin’ on and all you can think about is me and how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

God, his voice is travelling right through your body and you still can’t quite believe that this is really happening. Your hips jerk up to meet his thrust as he turns you to ruins below him. You’re still fighting to hold on to your line of questioning, but he’s making it so hard.

“Dean, I- oh-”

His hand goes down to find your clit, gives it a rub with his thumb without losing any of his rhythm.Your eyes squeeze shut and your body moves against his as if your mind doesn’t have any say or involvement in the matter. 

“That’s it, let me fuck you stupid. Forget about everything else. I’ll sort you right out, baby.”

It shouldn’t be possible for him to fuck you like this. One hand still under your knee and the other playing with your clit, still maintaining a bruising rhythm that sends stars to your eyes. 

It’s not fair. 

Because for as many times as you had pictured being fucked by Dean, as much as you had known that nobody else could compare, you still had no concept of just how good the real thing could be. How thoroughly it would destroy you for anyone else.

“So pretty and dumb when I’m splitting you open like this,” he whispers, fucking himself so deep in that you can feel the tip pushing against your cervix. “Can’t believe you’re letting me have you like this. Knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Thought about you like this every goddamn day.”

You have already come twice. Once on his fingers, once on his tongue. And now he’s about to make you come with his cock. You love every woman he has ever been with for showing him exactly the ways to touch you in order to make pleasure flash in every nerve, and you hate them for ever having him like this before you did. But it doesn’t matter now, because Dean seems as far gone as you and his face makes you think that maybe he’s destroyed for anyone else too.

The noises you’re making are barely coherent - something about how good it feels, how deep he is inside you - but they make Dean smile at you, sly and patronising as his tip keeps hitting that spongy spot inside you.

“Yeah, baby?” he coos at you, and all you can do is nod, even if you’re not sure what exactly he’s asking you. “Doin’ so good. Tight pussy’s suckin’ me in.”

Your eyes flutter, fighting the instinct to close only because you want to keep watching Dean - you don’t want to miss a second of how sweet and wrecked he looks above you. He’s got the control now, but you can tell he’s close to losing it by the way his eyebrows furrow just a little and his face goes unfocused. His drooping eyes travel around your body quickly, shooting from your face to your tits to where you’re being split open by him, like he can’t decide where to look.

“Please, Dean. Need more,” you whine, just centimetres from coming. You’re not even sure you could take more at this point, but you want to see what he’ll do.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says, even as he slams his hips into yours harder. Your eyes roll back. “Takin’ you nice and sweet right now. Gonna make you come apart real pretty for me. Enjoy it ‘cause next time I’m not gonna be this nice.”

Your brain stutters at the thought that this is him being nice. This feels utterly filthy to you.

There’s an overwhelming pit of pleasure in the bottom of your stomach and it seeps low into your pussy. You twitch once, clenching down on him, and with one more brutal thrust you’re falling over the edge, grinding right down on him. You’re spewing out words incoherently, babbling in tongues. One thing that is coherent, though - one thing that is entirely unmistakable - is how you gasp out; “I love you” in a broken moan.

You hadn’t really noticed that you hadn’t said it back when Dean first admitted it. It had felt obvious to you, like a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green and you love Dean Winchester. You didn’t really think about the fact that he didn’t know.

But you think about it now. When Dean’s half-lidded eyes suddenly shoot open and he’s marvelling at you with such open awe that it makes you feel like maybe you’re something sacred to him too. His face crumbles and he seems to lose control while you’re still riding your high, spilling so deep inside you that you can feel his warmth in your tummy.

Once he’s spent, he slows his hips down and thrusts shallowly while you twitch and jerk around him, his body folding over your own in a way that makes you feel wholly and completely surrounded by him. You feel lax and satisfied as you had never been before.

“You mean it?” he asks against your neck, lips pressing a small kiss there. You know that that kiss means; it’s ok if you don’t.

You shudder out a breathless laugh and your chest moves against his because of how closely your warm bodies are pressed together. 

“You really don’t understand. I’m crazy in love with you, Dean.”

His head lifts up and he searches your eyes with the same expression he uses to investigate a haunted house or look for evidence in some abandoned warehouse. “Since when?”

“Since forever,” you say, heat flooding your face. “Even when I was just some dumb kid you didn’t want tagging along with you and Sammy.”

He goes soft. He melts to a puddle and wraps himself around you even tighter, hand going to your face while he presses a hot, gentle kiss to your lips. “My girl,” he murmurs against your lips.

“You girl?” you repeat, pulling back even though you still feel like you’re floating. “Are you sure? I know you don’t really-”

Dean groans. “Sweetheart. You gonna make me fuck all those doubts outta your head again?”

You smile. “Maybe later.”

You want the ground to swallow you up. Digest you, even. It was bad enough that you were half dressed, hair tousled in an un-subtle way; there was no doubt what sent you here and even though the nurses were lovely - you knew you had made their night.

And then they sent in a sexy silver fox in a pair of scrubs to check you over. Worst. Night. Ever.

"Marcie tells me you took a tumble - you might be concussed?"

"Uh, yeah," You manage out, throat dry as all hell. You wished your partner had been considerate enough to grab you a drink and some snacks before heading for the hills. "Fell off my bed."

"I'm the night shift attending, Dr.Abbot." He says with a friendly smile. "I'm just going to shine a torch in your eyes and check that there's no swelling behind the eye or dilated pupils, okay?"

You nod. He makes a hissing sound as he sees the bruise swelling beneath your brow bone, where a small but deep cut sits. He shines a small torches into your eyes, moving it to and fro quickly, and you wince.

"That looks like a pretty nasty bruise for just falling off your bed." His voice is playful, however, there's a steely undertone you can't miss. An friendly opening for you to elaborate or perhaps confess the true nature of why you have such a nasty bruise.

No wonder your bed-friend had bolted.

Steeling yourself, you sigh but you can't help the heat that rises to your cheeks.

"I fell off my bed and hit the corner of my bedside table." You say candidly.

His eyebrows raise, mentally painting himself a picture, but before he can finish piecing it together, you're giving him the answer.

"During sex."

He stares at you. You stare back, frowning slightly. And then he cracks ever so slightly, with a huffed laugh and a wide grin.

"Ah. That would do it." He says matter-of-factly, trying not to laugh.

You smack your lips together. "Tell me about it."

"And your partner didn't-?" he raises a brow and you shake your head.

"No, he didn't do it. And no, he didn't stick around after dropping me off."

Abbot nods and then offers another warm smile. "Well, the good news you don't need stitches. I'd like to keep you for a little bit longer just to be safe. I'll send an a nurse around with tylenol and an ice pack."

"Thanks, Dr. Abbot." You smile weakly, sighing as you retire yourself to the uncomfortable hospital bed.

"No worries." Before he leaves, he flashes you another smile. "I'll try and check in on you later."

You watch casualties and emergencies of varying degrees of severity rush past your open room. Dr Abbot occasionally barks orders, but over the hub-bub his voice is drowned by beeps, bloops and screams of pain.

You manage to fall asleep once your ice pack melts to a lukewarm temperature, however, you are rudely awoken by the blaring alarms of a patient crashing in the next curtain cubicle over. There's a lot of commotion; shouts of medical jargon, shoes squeaking on linoleum, silence as a long beep stretches through the curtain to your ears.

Then it repeats.

After the third repetition, a familiar voice says "call it" and a soft, female voice announces the time of death of you curtain-neighbour. You don't realise you've been holding your breath or how tight your chest feels, despite not knowing the person that was less than two metres away from your sleeping body.

It's a strange sensation. You're still groggy, someone somewhere in the ER is screaming, more beeps, more yells and yet… there's an eerie quiet behind your curtain partition and next-door's. Your heart aches for the stranger. You wonder if they had family, if they were loved. You're overwhelmed with the urge to leave the ER. Someone else needs your bed. Someone out in the fray.

Someone who was screaming.

You were on your feet before you could talk yourself out of it, grabbing what few things your lover had managed to scrounge together for you before leaving you at the doors. The beeping persists, ringing in your ears as you throw back the curtain and walk straight into a hard back.

Dr Abbot turns slowly towards you, or at least it seems that way as you sway on your feet. A wave of nausea hits you so hard you stagger backwards but thankfully Dr Abbot already had his hands out to catch you and hold you steady. Could he really move that fast?

"Woah there," his voice is soft. "I was just about the check in on you. Where d'you think you're goin'?"

You blink slowly. Your head throbs. Your eyes hurt. You squint at him. He looks different. Why is that? Sluggishly, your brain orders you to drop your head and take him all in… His scrubs are covered in blood, so are his hands, and specks of it are on his face and neck. The voice, the one who commanded a T.O.D, was his.

You meet his eyes. How long had you been asleep? His eyes were now mirthless; still soft but serious.

Even when you puked over his shoes.

Head CTs weren't as cool as they looked in TV shows. You were cold, oddly vulnerable, and all alone. There were no speakers for the doctors to speak with you, no microphone for you to speak to them. Just you and the rumbling of the moving machine.

Dr Abbot had been a saint. You assumed he had to be because of his profession but you knew that once whatever drowsiness had passed, you would be re-living the moment puke was on his shoes forever. Even if he smiled and joked about it after.

God. That was embarassing.

Porters wheel you back to your small section of peace quickly once you're done with your CT. No one is speaking to you about the results and you cannot decide if that's a good or bad thing. Once you're back and safely nestled, you make a grab for your phone. No missed calls or texts from… Anyone.

Cool.

Great.

You wonder if you should let your family know and then opt against it. You don't need to worry them. It's nothing.

You hope.

An hour of doomscrolling passes by in a nauseating ebb and flow of ER casualties until Dr Abbot reappears with fresh scrubs and a small smile. You don't feel like smiling, but you somehow manage one.

"Good news," He says, coming to stand at the side closest to you. "CT is normal. So, most likely you had a concussion."

You raise an eyebrow at him and he looks sheepish. "Sometimes a concussion doesn't present for hours, sometimes days." Then he flashes you a grin. "Got me back good though. I needed a new pair of shoes."

You groan into the side of your pillow at the reminder. "You're welcome."

He snorts a little and presses some keys on the monitor beside you. "Don't beat yourself up about it. Puke is better than some other bodily fluids."

Like blood? You want to say, but press your lips together and hum non-committally. You doubt he needs that reminder.

"How are you feeling?"

"About as good as I look." You sigh, flexing your fingers in front of your face idly.

"Well, you look pretty good to me." Abbot says. He's not looking at you when you whip your head up. He taps something else into the monitor. "And you're awake and speaking, so that's a bonus."

You open your mouth and close it again. Did he just say what you thought he said?

"We'll up your fluids and monitor you a bit longer. You may be discharged tomorrow sometime or the day after."

"Okay." You say blinking at him like he's a dream.

He turns to you again. "Why were you trying to leave?"

"Huh?"

"Before," he says, resting his arms on the side of your cot. "You looked like you were in a hurry."

You swallow the last of the spittle in your mouth and look away from him. In the quietest voice you can muster, you tell him why.

"I heard what happened next door."

At first you don't think he heard you, and you're about to change your answer to something less honest when he sighs gently. His shoulders slump, his demeanour more exhausted than relaxed, and his hands open and close tightly.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"I'm sorry." You blurt suddenly. "I... your job... it's..." You curse the concussion that muddles your brain. You want to be able to ease the burden of his role, but you know he's heard it all before. You sigh, slumping into your uncomfortable cot pillow. "You did the best you could. I just felt anxious. Like someone else could have needed this bed more than me."

"Thank you." There's a sincerity in his tone that warms your chest. A little something to ease the sounds of the E.R. "That's not entirely true though. If you'd left you could have collapsed in the street, or at home, and choked on your own vomit." He says matter-of-factly and then smiles a little. "At least with you here, I get to keep a close eye on you."

More beeps and bloops sound and someone calls his name but it feels like time stretches. You watch him. He watches you. And for a moment, you could swear this is a little more than a doctor-patient interaction. You dismiss your doctor with a half-hearted wave and a small smile when his name is called again. "Go get 'em, Doc. You're dismissed."

He snorts in disbelief before playfully saluting you as he steps out into the chaos. "Yes, ma'am."

Abbot returns another five times before the end of his shift. He says it's to check in on you but you think it's for reprieve of the cluster-bomb that is the emergency room. Each time, he arrives tired and each time he leaves slightly more envigorated.

"Why would he just leave?" Abbot says, brows furrowed in disgust. It was his third visit, clearly emboldened by the events that had transpired beyond your curtain partition.

"You gotta ask him that, Doc." You say with a half smile. He looks so sweetly baffled by the prospect of someone leaving you after being part of the cause that sent you to the E.R., that you feel a tug in your chest that you hope isn't an underlying condition.

"Oh, believe me. If he calls come find me. I have a few choice words for him." He harumphs.

"Easy Tiger," You tease with a knowing smirk. "I don't think he will be calling anytime soon."

He coughs, pretending to clear his throat as he checks your charts, but by the rosy cheeks and his smile - you know your tease was a success. Perhaps this thing you had going on wasn't all in your concussed head.

"Good." He swallows. "It isn't my place to say but if I were you, I'd be breaking up with my girlfriend over something this."

You raise your eyebrows at him and a half-manic grin spreads across your face. "He wasn't my boyfriend." You say.

"Oh." Abbot's eyebrows raise too.

"Yeah." You say, watching him. "I dodged a real loser."

"You most certainly did." He says, snapping the thin folder shut. Something about his expression seems strange; not in a bad way, more that his brain had realised there was a second option he had not yet considered. He opens his mouth to say something and grimaces as his name gets yelled from the ambulance bay doors. "I'll be right back."

You nod and watch him jog away, before hearing him intercept a patient on their way to a bay, cussing them out for yelling at the nurses. You bite back a smile; somehow the hospital visit is turning out to be better than you expected.

You've managed to sleep a little more and are far less nauseated than you had been earlier in the nigh; all good signs according to Dr Abbot, though you tell him you wished you had a cappuccino in hand. As the clock creeps closer to 7 a.m. you see Abbot less and less as he prepares handover for day shift. It's a strange feeling. You feel like you're going to miss him but you also feel stupid for feeling such a thing towards a doctor, whose literal job it is to take care of you.

The curtain opens and Abbot's face appears, grey curls sticking out in odd directions and a warm smile on his face. Behind him is another man, another doctor, of a similar age but with darker hair, a beard and a sad Droopy-esque demeanour. They play off eachother wonderfully.

"This is dayshift attending Dr Robinavitch," Abbot tells you, and Dr Robby nods behind him, hiding a smile into folded arms. "He'll watch over you for me."

"Call me Dr Robby," the doctor behind Abbot says.

You struggle to keep a straight face. "For a concussion?"

Dr Robby half turns away from you, unable to keep a grin underwraps and shakes his head. Dr Abbot shrugs and, at a very endearing attempt at acting nonchalant, tells you that it's protocol. When they leave, you can hear Robby's sarcastic tone carry back through the curtain,

"Protocol?"

Day-shift was somehow worse than night-shift. The noise was unbearable, and with only luke-warm hospital food to keep your hunger at bay and no Dr Abbot to brighten your mind-numbing hours in the hospital bed, you were so far beyond agitated you didn't know what to do.

To Dr Robby's credit, he checked in where he could. But unlike his night-shift counterpart, he was curt and quick. Other, more pressing matters needed his attention.

At 2pm, you were asking every nurse or student doctor to be released. Each one told you they would ask Dr Robby. Each time, they never came back with an answer. It wasn't until 3pm that you heard there had been a major pile up and emergency traffic was being redirected to the hospital, as it was closest. At 4pm, you heard a familiar voice rushing in through the ambulance bay, emergency bed wheels squeaking as they were pushed and pulled around the E.R.

You got up to peek through the curtain, half convinced that you had made up hearing Abbot's voice. However, he was there, helping a patient breathe through a balloon and barking orders at student doctors. It was a sight to behold. You couldn't do what he was doing, but you respected it. You thought about when you'd last seen him hours ago. He looks a little rested, though not much. He must have been called back to help.

Once the patient was stable, Abbot handed the patient over to the nurses and porters to move them into a room. He sighed to himself and then glanced up, meeting your eyes across the E.R.

Then, he smiled.

Your hand gripped the curtain tight as you forced yourself to not whip it closed. Your face was burning up - but not from a fever - and you managed a smile that you knew looked incredibly bashful and waved with your free hand. He half raised his back when someone called his name and he was gone again. Hyperfocused on another patient.

You back into your cubicle, grateful you don’t have a heart monitor attached to you. You can't be making this up. But then again, even if you were reading into it too much, had you not already embarassed yourself to the point of no return? What would adding one little question to test the waters do?

You hum to yourself, mind made up, before marching out of your cubicle to the charge nurse.

Dana, the dayshift charge nurse, was a sassy blonde haired woman that instantly captured your heart. She commanded the E.R. and it's staff in way that left you awestruck, and she still managed to joke and tease along her way.

"I only have a concussion," you tell her as more casualties wheel in.

"Only a concussion?" Dana retorts sarcastically. "Where's your icepack?"

You wave her question away. The thought of another icepack gives you a headache. "I need to be out of that cubicle."

"No can do, honey." Dana sighs. "Head injury-"

"I'll sit in a chair, nearby." You interject quickly. "I won't leave. But-"

Abbot's voice cuts through, calling for a place for his next emergency patient. Before Dana can reply, you shout over pointing to your vacated cubicle.

"Use mine!"

He's about to argue, flabbergasted you're even suggesting such a thing, but Dana snorts from beside you and hurriedly directs to nurses in to whip away your old sheets and disinfect the bed. As Abbot pushes the cart past you, patient groaning in pain, he shoots you a concerned and almost disappointed look, before telling you to stay put.

The noises from behind the curtain blend into the monstrosity of noise where you stand, gripping the few of your belongings. You can't tell how long the minutes stretch, but then Abbot and two student doctors reappear relieved. Abbot directs them to the colourful screen before making a beeline for you.

"You shouldn't have-"

"He needs it more than me."

You both stare at eachother for a second before breaking into shy smiles. The flutter in your stomach this time around doesn't make you worried for Abbot's shoes.

"Thanks." Abbot says. "How're you feeling?"

"Better now that you're back." You instantly cringe at your response, but Abbot chuckles. You can feel at least three pairs of eyes watching you both, and a creeping sensation rises on your neck. You don't want to bottle out from nerves but with so many people around-

"Glad to hear it." His name is called again, and he looks agitated. "If you can wait around a little bit longer, I'll do a last check up and discharge you. Princess will find you a chair."

As he weaves through the busy rush of patients, visitors, doctors, nurses and porters, he turns back to look at you. "Don't go anywhere."

Don't plan to, you think as you watch him disappear.

Watching Abbot is mesmerising. Now that you're a bit more lucid, and have a front row seat to the E.R. chaos, you can truly appreciate the fast and strenuous work the doctors, nurses and porters do. Abbot hypes up his team, barks orders and then dips into room after room, dealing with case after case.

A couple of nurses gossip in hushed tones when Abbot comes past and shoots you a wink or a smile. You are well aware you're staring after him with a scorching face. If only you were hidden away behind your curtain again.

For a while, you don't see him. You're too busy doomscrolling again and messaging loved ones to let them know your condition, hoping they don't worry too much. Just as you begin wondering how much longer he'd be, Dr Abbot rounds a corner and holds up two to-go cups. He almost crashes into another patient being wheeled elsewhere in the building, only avoiding them by standing on his tiptoes and raising the cups above his head like a rather comical ballerina. When he reaches you, he checks the cups and hands one that has cap scrawled onto the side in black marker.

"You remembered." You say, taking the cup from him.

"I did." He says with a boyish smile. "But it may be cold by now. People just keep getting injured and it's almost like it's my job to fix it."

You chuckle lightly and take a sip. It is indeed cold but it's both the best and worst cappuccino you have ever had. "Thanks. For the coffee and, well," You shrug awkwardly. "Taking care of me."

Abbot taps his medical badge to where it reads doctor in block capital and you feel yourself smile again as you look at the cup in your hands.

"Well, as of," he checks his watch, "-Two minutes ago, you are no longer my patient."

"Ah." You're about to ask if you can go home but he continues.

"And as of two minutes ago, I'm on my break." He nods his head towards the exit doors. "I'll walk you out."

The evening air is lukewarm but it's cooler in comparison to the Emergency Room nevertheless.

You sip your cold coffee and fall into step alongside Abbot. "Will you be staying until your next shift is over?"

"Most likely." He says.

"Yikes." You shake your head in disbelief. "I do not envy you."

"Most people do." He says, sipping his drink. "I think it's the silver fox look I have going on rather than my shift pattern though."

You snort. "Mmhmm. That sounds about right."

"How're you feeling?" He asks after a beat. "Head ok?"

"I've been told my head's great," you joke and he half chokes on his coffee. "But yes, I feel a lot better being out in the fresh air."

"In that case, I can confidently send you on your way home." He says with a grin. "Although, I will say take some rest rather than romps for a few days."

"Where's the fun in that?" You say to the sky. Abbot huffs a half laugh. "I promise to be a good girl, Doc. No fun for me for a while."

"I didn't say anything about not having fun," Abbot says playfully. "And call me Jack. I'm not your doctor anymore."

You spare a glance over at him, eyebrows partially raised in questioning; Does that means what I think it means? He meets your glance with raised eyebrows of his own, a smile and a tilt of his head that says, "Yes - it's exactly what you think it means."

Nodding, you hide a satisfied smirk behind your cup. "So, what happens now?"

"For starters, you go home and rest." Jack says seriously. "Then when you feel up to it, give me a call." He points to your cup and you turn it slightly, where there's a number scrawled on the other side.

Oh, he's too smooth.

You can't believe you missed it and you shake your head with a laugh. "Do all of your patients get this special treatment?"

"Only the pretty ones." Jack says it playfully but from the glimmer in his eyes, something tells you it was a rare occurrence. "And not all of them get coffee."

"You are unbelievable." You scoff. "But I suppose having a doctor on-hand for other sex mishaps would be beneficial."

"If it means you boost my hospital rating then, yes, yes it is." Jack nods, placing a hand over his heart. "Patient care and comfort is the most important thing to me."

You chuckle, taking another sip of your drink. "I heard you telling a patient to shut the fuck up."

He shrugs, and swigs the dregs of his drink, before checking his watch. "Eh. Deserved it, he was insulting the nurses."

"Very deserved." You agree. "Need to head back?"

He looks disappointed but nods, resigning to his duty as a doctor. "Yeah. It's going to be a long shift. Let me know when you get home safe."

"I will." You tell him, loading up Uber on your phone. "And Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." He grins at you, and you can't help but grin back. "Again."

"You can thank me again over dinner sometime." He replies as he walks back towards the road. "Consider the coffee a free trial."

"A free-?" You laugh as he rushes across the road as an ambulance sounds in the distance. "Oh my God. What have I gotten myself into?"

End

Follow @grems-library for reblogs of my fics or join my taglist here

You’d noticed something was off that afternoon.

Getting out of the car, walking down the paved driveway you see Andrew, heading for the truck. Smiling and adding a small pep in your step towards him letting out a soft “Hey Andy”. But all he did was grunt and push pass you, not bearing to look at you, heading straight for the truck. “Andrew?” You call out, stopping and turning to look at him, but he’s already peeling out, tires burning black on the pavement.

You’d stopped by the Cody house to get your cut of the job they’d done earlier with the military. You’d gotten some inside information so they cut you in, not a lot, but enough to keep you around and to pay your rent in your shitty apartment. Walking inside the smell of apple pie floods your nose instantly. “Hey honey, want some pie?” Smurf smiles at you. You shake your head gracefully “no thank you, Smurf.”, “I’m here for my cut, then I’ve got to get home and do some housework.” You say, pulling your purse off your shoulder.

She gives it to you seemingly in a good mood, probably because the job went well, you don’t think much of it. The rest of the day goes by smoothly, spending it at your apartment cleaning, headphones over your ears. As dark falls over Oceanside you’re finishing up when you think your heart genuinely stops. Turning around after wiping down a table, headphones over your ears to block out your noisy horny neighbors you are met with Pope. Screaming and jumping back with a hand to your chest you stumble a little over something. Ripping the headphones off you try to catch your breath once your mind catches up with your eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ Andrew!” You yell, throwing your rag on the table. “Are you trying to kill me?”

His eyes snap up to meet yours, dark and angry. “What?” “No of course not I would never hurt you.” He shakes his head stiffly. Coming back to yourself you take in his appearance, he’s dirty. Not like sweaty and gross but literally dirty. He’s got dirt all over him. His eyes are red and his hands are shaking as he stands in front of you, eyes following every move you make. “Sorry, you just…are you alright?” You ask lowly, stepping towards him. As soon as you move so does he, but he steps back looking at you wearily. Raising and eyebrow you stay put, not wanting to scare him off.

“She’s dead.”

That’s when your really heart stops. Who? Who was he talking about? Smurf? You just saw her a few hours ago. You assume he can see you wracking your brain trying to figure out who he’s talking about so he speaks up again. “Cath. I killed her.” He says bluntly. His body is starting to shake now, so is yours. “Wh-“ you breathe out, having absolutely no words in this situation. “She was talking. She was putting you in danger. She was putting everyone in danger.” He growls. Your eyes must be huge because you can tell he starts panicking just looking at them.

You swallow and try your best to compose yourself. “She-..” putting a hand against your forehead you shake your head, “she was talking?” You whisper. Cath? Sweet, mothering Cath was talking to the cops about the Cody’s? Pope gives a firm nod before he starts pacing, you can hear his breathing speeding up as he thinks. “Did, like, Smurf tell you that? How do you know that?” You say sitting on the arm of your couch watching him. He doesn’t say anything, just paces your small kitchen. You stand, walking towards him. “Andrew.” You say, but he’s not listening. Cupping his face you make his eyes meet yours. “What happened.”

He tells you, everything of course. You try, I mean you really try to ignore the way your stomach twists and you think you’re going to be sick when he tells you they had sex, because now is not the time for jealousy, you know that. But also because you know why Cath had sex with him, to try and stop him, and that makes you even more sick. As he talks he gets more and more worked up. His volume rising, which, in this thinned walled apartment is not good. He’s stretching his words, pushing his fingers so deeply into his arms they’re leaving crescent moon shaped scratches that start to bleed, his chest is heaving with air he can’t seem to hold. His eyes looking everywhere but your face.

You think of the one thing that will still him, maybe not calm him down, but throw his mind into a bubble for long enough for him to stop his body from completely freaking out and shutting down. It’s now or never you think to yourself, even if the timing feels inappropriate you know he will still at your words, and at the way his arms starting to bleed from his fingernails you cave on yourself.

“I love you Andrew.”

You breathe. “I love you. I know you, and I love you anyways.” You take a couple slow steps towards him, voice a little shaky, “I know what Smurfs made you do, and I know you never wanted to.” You whisper the last part, soft hands moving to cup his face, “None of it was your fault, none of it.” Ducking your head to follow his gaze you continue, “you’re not going to scare me away, you can’t. I love you. I’m here, and I love you.”

Realizing he’s not answering you, just standing still, breathing heavily through his nose and staring at his feet you step back, tears in your eyes now. “I’m not asking you to love me back, I’m asking you to hear me.” He’s stone in front of you. His chest not heaving as brutally as before and hands dropped from his arms, making you sigh in relief. “It’s not your fault.” You whisper.

His eyes meet yours, dark and red. Then he’s gone. Front door of your apartment slamming shut behind him. You move to follow him but he’s seemed to shove something against it from the outside, blocking you in. Hands moving to your hair you groan, moving to grab your phone to call him. You must’ve called him 30 times before accepting he’s not picking up, opting for text instead.

Please, just let me know you’re okay.

I’m not mad if you don’t feel the same.

I’m not mad at anything.

It’s not your fault.

I do, love you.

(!) Call me.

This is shitty and was in my drafts but I will definitely be doing a part two, I am thinking of making it more… let me know if I should turn this into a series or keep it a two parter ok luv u bai

"Mama... Hurts... Mama, tummy hurts..."

You bolt upright, the heavy haze of exhaustion vanishing in a second. Slipping out of bed, you hurry to your daughter's room. When you open the door, she’s curled into a tight little ball under her blankets, clutching her knees to her chest, her face flushed and tear streaked.

"Oh, sweet girl, what’s wrong?" you murmur, lifting her into your arms. She feels slightly warm, but it’s her belly that’s rock hard and tense.

She lets out a sharp wail, burying her face in your neck.

You try to think. Did she eat something bad? A stomach bug? Your mind scrambles through the medicine cabinet, but you’re terrified of giving a toddler the wrong dosage or medicine.

Needing help, you grab your phone and dial the one person who always has the answers.

Over at the hospital, the emergency department is in its usual state of controlled chaos. Jack stands at the central desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

When his phone vibrates, he sighs. But seeing your name on the screen, he steps away from the desk into a quieter corner.

"Hey, baby," Jack says. "Everything okay?"

"Jack, I need help," you say, and the panic in your voice immediately puts him on high alert. In the background, he can hear the distinct crying of your daughter. "She woke up screaming. She’s clutching her stomach, a-and it's completely rigid. She’s... I think she's in so much pain and I don't know what to do. What medicine can I give her? P-Please tell me what to do."

"Okay, baby, hey, take a breath. Is she vomiting? Does she have a fever?"

"No fever, she’s just a little warm from crying. No vomiting yet, but she's crying so hard she might. She keeps saying her tummy hurts."

"Is the pain on the lower right side? Does she flinch if you press gently on it?" Jack asks. The fear of appendicitis is always there.

"No, it seems like it's her whole stomach. She's just curled up." Jack pauses, trying to piece every thing you say together. "Jack, did she eat anything unusual today? Anything out of the ordinary when you two were out?"

Silence hangs on the line for a second. And then, the memory of their afternoon grocery run hits him.

The grocery store.

The coke can.

He remembers her sitting in the cart, proudly holding her little juice box, while he grabbed a can of Coca-Cola. He remembers her finishing the juice in five minutes flat, and then pointing her finger at his red can.

“Want that. Daddy, please?”

“No, baby. That’s Daddy’s. It’ll make your tummy hurt.”

But she had been stubborn.

She pouted, she whined, she reached for it. And later, when they got home, Jack had set the open can on the low coffee table while he was distracted trying to put the groceries away.

He remembered the sudden silence in the living room.

When a toddler is quiet, they’re up to mischief.

By the time he had walked back into the room, she was sitting on the rug, the red can tipped back, a dark ring of soda around her mouth.

She had swallowed nearly half the can before he snatched it away. He had cleaned her up, checked her over, and when she seemed fine, he figured they’d dodged a bullet.

He hadn't wanted to worry you, so he kept it to himself.

God, he was an idiot.

"Jack? Are you there?" your voice breaks through his thoughts.

"Ye- yeah, I'm here," Jack whispers, a guilt washing over him. He leans his forehead against the hospital wall, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. It’s my fault."

"What? What do you mean?"

"This afternoon... when we went to the store," Jack confesses. "I got a can of Coke. She wanted it, and I told her no, but... I got distracted. I left the can on the table. She drank almost half of it before I realized. I thought she’d be fine, but... her stomach can't handle that. It's a massive gas buildup and a caffeine crash."

There’s a beat of silence. "Jack... she's a toddler. Half a can?"

"I know. I know, I’m so sorry," Jack says, his voice cracking. He feels utterly incompetent. He couldn't protect his own daughter from a stupid can of soda. "I should have been paying attention."

"We can deal with that later," you say, pushing your frustration aside because your daughter is still sobbing against your shoulder. "Do I give her medicine?"

"No pain meds yet," Jack says. "Do you have any pediatric gas drops? Simethicone?"

"Yes, I think we have some."

"Okay, good, give her the recommended dose of that. After that, don't lay her flat. Keep her upright against your chest. Rub her back firmly to help her pass the gas. And try to get her to take small sips of water to flush her system, but only if she wants it."

"Okay," you breathe, writing it down mentally. "Simethicone, upright, rub her back."

"If she starts vomiting repeatedly, or if she develops a fever, you call me immediately and bring her here. I'll have a bed ready. But it should start to pass in an hour or two once you give her that." Jack's voice is calm, trying to sound clear, so you understand the indications and calm your nerves. "I am so sorry, honey. I’ll come home. I’ll get someone to cover the rest of my shift—"

"No, Jack, don't do that," you sigh. Your anger softens. "It's okay. I can handle this. Just... stay on the phone with me while I give her the drops?"

"Yeah," Jack chokes out. "Yeah. I'm not going anywhere. Put me on speaker so I can talk to her."

-

When the clock reads 4 AM, Jack finally finds some minutes to check on his family. Because every time he had to suture a laceration or look at a patient’s chart, his mind drifted back to his little girl sobbing because of his carelessness.

He hates himself for calling and potentially waking you if she finally fell asleep, but the agony of not knowing is eating him alive.

You answer on the second ring, your voice sounded exhausted. "Hey."

"Hey, beautiful," Jack breathes."Did I wake you? Is she... how is she?"

"You didn't wake me. I was just sitting on the floor next to her, watching her," you say softly. "She threw up about an hour ago, but she's okay now."

Jack’s stomach drops. He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tight. "God. I'm so sorry. I should have come home. Was it bad? Did she choke? Is she—"

"Jack, it's okay," you interrupt gently. "She’s okay. Honestly, I think throwing up was exactly what she needed to get the thing out of her system. Right after it happened, she let out a huge sigh, drank a few sips of water, and went straight to sleep. Her stomach isn't hard anymore."

Jack lets out a long breath but the relief doesn't completely wash away the bitter taste of self reproach.

"I feel like a terrible father," he confesses. "I was right there and I let her get hurt."

"Jack, baby," you say. "You are not a terrible father. This things happen. Maybe you didn't think she would do it. And it's okay."

"That's not an excuse—"

"It's not an excuse, it's reality," you cut in softly. "Toddlers are like tiny silent ninjas. You can look away for three seconds, and they’ve climbed onto the counter. It happens to everyone. Literally everyone."

Jack swallows hard. "She was crying so hard, honey."

"And she’s sleeping peacefully now," you reassure him. "These things happen, baby. Yesterday it was a Coke can. Next week she’s probably going to eat my lipgloss. We do our best, we mess up, we learn, and we keep going. You made a mistake, and then you stayed on the phone and walked me through exactly how to take care of her. You're incredible."

Jack listens to your calm voice, and the anxiety on his chest starts to melt.

"How did I get so lucky with you?" he whispers.

A soft chuckle comes through the receiver. "Because you're a good man, Jack Abbot... Even when you leave carbonated drinks within arm's reach."

He laughs weakly. "I'm throwing all the soda in the house in the trash the second I get home."

"You better..." you say, a playful lilt finally creeping into your tired voice. "We are completely fine here. I promise. Sleepy but fine."

Jack catches the slight shift in your tone.

He can picture the teasing smirk on your face.

He leans back against the wall, a smile appearing on his face.

"You're really annoyed with me, aren't you, baby?" he asks.

"Maybe... A little," you reply instantly, letting out a hum just to provoke him. "I mean, my sleep is completely ruined now but we're okay."

"I know, I know. I'm at your mercy," Jack chuckles, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "How can I make it up to you? Name your price, Dr. Abbot will deliver."

"You are absolutely stopping to grab breakfast on your way home," you dictate, though there's no real heat behind it. "The good stuff. The biggest caramel latte they can legally sell you. Consider it the 'bad dad' tax."

"Done, beautiful. Consider it ordered. I'll bring your favorite. And morning kisses too. Special breakfast for my woman." Jack says smiling like an idiot.

"Good, handsome," you murmur as you look over at your daughter, who is now snoring softly. The storm had passed, and everything was going to be fine. "Get back to work. And, Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you. We love you."

"I love you both, honey, so much," he whispers, his heart swelling with warmth. "See you in a few hours. Go to sleep."

As the call clicks shut, Jack takes a peaceful breath, knowing he has a warm home, a recovering little girl, and a wonderful wife waiting to share breakfast with him.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.

You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R. 

You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.

“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”

Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.

Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose. 

“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”

“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”

Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”

Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.

You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.

You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.

“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”

“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him. 

He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)

“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.

“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.

Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.

“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.

You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”

The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.

Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up. 

“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.

“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”

“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time—  Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”

“I wasn’t—”

A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.

The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)

“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.

You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip. 

“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”

You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.

“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”

Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments. 

You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Oh, my god—”

“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.

“—That’s what this is about?”

“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”

His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted. 

“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”

You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.

“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”

Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out. 

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.

Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours. 

“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”

“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff. 

Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.

“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”

You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.

Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers. 

In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.

“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”

“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”

“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.

You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song. 

Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.

“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”

You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”

“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”

“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.

Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.

Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”

“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”

His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”

“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”

Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter. 

You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”

“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.

Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.

You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”

The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.

“Jack,” you echo softly.

The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out. 

“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.

The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”

“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”

“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”

Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”

“Eh. Maybe a little.”

You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”

“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.

“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”

“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”

Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”

“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?” 

“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”

“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”

“Still counts.”

“Does it?” you squint.

Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”

“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”

You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more. 

“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”

Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”

Your eyes harden in an instant.

Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.

“It’s casual,” you tell him.

Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage. 

“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”

Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne. 

For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.

Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.

Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.

You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before. 

There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.

Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.

Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.

Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.

You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.

You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.

Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”

“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head. 

“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”

You exhale a soft laugh. 

Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’  today?”

“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”

“Brutal,” he scoffs.

“You’re fault.”

“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”

“No,” you answer instantly.

“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”

Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”

“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”

“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”

Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”

Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.

“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”

“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.

“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.

You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.

Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.

“Am I?” you hum.

“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”

“You usually only do that at my place.”

Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”

His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can. 

Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.

“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”

“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”

“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”

You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day. 

The realization hit him like a truck.

His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.

“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”

Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.

“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.

You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”

“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”

An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”

Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.

“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”

“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.

“Because being with him made me feel good—”

“I said alright!” 

“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”

Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.

Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”

“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is what I wanted—”

The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again. 

Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.

“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.

She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence. 

“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”

The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you. 

“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.

“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”

“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”

Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.

You couldn’t hide from him if you tried.

You kind of thought silly crushes were in the past for you. You were a grown up, with a grown up job, and grown up friends. You weren’t supposed to get butterflies when their hand brushed yours, or get excited just by them saying good morning. It was childish, and you didn’t have time for it.

That was until Michael Robinavitch entered the picture.

It wasn’t entirely the same; instead of the giddiness you felt in high school, you felt frustration whenever those butterflies flew. You were a little annoyed with yourself for letting a girlish adoration get the best of you. Adult relationships were simpler because you knew how to communicate better by that point. You saw someone, you thought they were cute, you asked them out.

Therein laid the issue. See, Robby was your coworker. You’re boss, kind of. You were a nurse, newly hired after moving to Pittsburgh, you had been working at Allegheny for just about eight months, and you were happy there. There were many reasons you could not ask Robby out. For one, you had just gotten out of a relationship a couple months prior, an almost decade long one, one you moved halfway across the country for, and you were still untangling that web. For another, you were sure HR would not be thrilled about romance between two ER workers.

And most importantly, you were 85% sure that he had absolutely zero interest in you. 

When you confided in Dana (somewhat drunkenly) about your feelings for Robby, and how unbelievably disinterested he was, she tried to console you, saying “he’s gruff with everybody!”

You knew he was. That was the problem. He didn’t seem to treat you any differently than Langdon, or Perlah. He liked you, sure. Thought you were a good nurse, admired your drive and skill, but that was the extent. Every once and a while you’d forget yourself, let a flirty line slip, and he’d chuckle, and joke back, but what else was he supposed to do?

You were glad it was Dana whom you confided in, and not one of the residents, or god forbid Princess or Perlah or Jesse, the gossips. Still, whenever she wiggled her eyebrows at you behind Robby’s back, you had your regrets.

Like now. You had just finished up a trauma, MVA victim with multiple fractures and internal damage. He was talking one minute, crashed the next, and it had taken you and the doctors a while to solve his hemorrhaging.

But in the end he was stabilised and sent up to surgery, which you were all too happy to tell his husband, who hadn’t been in the car with him, but was waiting outside the room for almost an hour on tenterhooks.

When you finished up there, you mozied over to the nurse’s station to get started on your charting while you had a second. You never knew how long a second would last in the pitt. Robby was drinking some coffee by the breakroom, but he made his way over to lean on the counter next to your desk while he sipped. As you logged in you could feel his eyes on you, but you kept your neck straight forward, determined not to meet his gaze. It was those devastating brown eyes that hit you the hardest, and you already felt weak that day.

“Nice catch on the DIC,” he said gruffly.

“Thanks,” you said carefully, smiling but keeping your eyes on the screen. “It was a pretty straightforward case.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he said. “For some of the med students in there, that was their first time seeing it. I didn’t think to check his platelets.”

Your chest swelled with pride, mixed with exasperation and embarrassment.

“You would have gotten there eventually,” you teased.

Which was true. Whether they realized it ahead of time or not, the shockingly low level would have stood out when his labs got back. But maybe you should give yourself some credit, you were running on little sleep, hour nine of your shift.

Robby chuckled, warm and raspy. You needed to get away from him.

You clicked out of your account, chart half finished, and stood.

“I’m gonna go check on Mr. Wallace,” you said breezily.

As you leaned over the formica to grab a tablet, Dana caught your eye with a smirk. You cleared your throat and looked away, glowering slightly. Robby straightened up. 

“Need any help?”

“Nope, all good,” you said, hoping you sounded less stiff than you felt. “Just some simple sutures. And a reminder to not stop taking his propranolol just because his blood pressure gets better.”

You snuck a quick peak at his face, which was a mistake. His warm eyes crinkled in a small smile, salt and pepper beard tugged upward. And those damn glasses. You swivelled on your heel and stalked off to North 3, clutching the ipad tightly to your chest.

Get it together, you told yourself harshly.

By hour eleven, you were very ready to go home. Your back ached, your bra was itchy, and you were having a little trouble focusing your eyes on the screen. You had just cleared a patient’s discharge paperwork when out of the corner of your eye you saw a cup placed on the table in front of you. Your eyes trailed up to the hand that placed it and saw Robby’s face. It wasn’t particularly happy or sad, just blank.

“Thank you,” you stuttered. “But I don’t drink —”

“It’s tea,” he cut you off.

You were taken aback. You didn’t realize anyone else was even aware of the tea bags that sat forgotten at the back of a cupboard in the staff room. You were pretty sure you were the only one that ever used them. He probably bullied a poor intern into making it for you. Still, you were a little touched. As you gazed into his eyes, speechless, he spoke again.

“You’ve still got an hour left on your shift and you look exhausted,” he said. “Keep going strong, we need you. It’s still a zoo out there.”

He grabbed a chart and left to see a patient. Your unconscious smile fell back to a frown. Well, there went that. You slapped your cheeks and sipped your tea. It was piping hot, and just how you liked it. Plain with just a bit of honey.

That time, you didn’t see Dana’s knowing glance from across the room. 

***

You were back again the next day, third back-to-back shift of three, and you were not happy to be out in the rain. At seven in the morning, no less.

To avoid spending your whole day soggy, you commuted in some sweats, planning to change in the bathroom. As you walked in through the front doors, late, tips of your toes and cuffs of your pants soaked, you almost ran head first into Robby. You had been too busy cursing yourself for not owning any rainboots. He steadied you with his large strong hands, and you tried to pretend your daze was due to being jostled around rather than the burning where he was touching you.

“There you are,” he said, and he let you go. “What happened?”

His gaze was moving steadily down your body, taking in your lazy pants and toothpaste stained college hoodie, eyebrows slightly raised. 

You huffed and took a few steps back. Each one squelched with rain, and you grimaced, tugging self consciously at your rain jacket, hoping your baby hairs weren’t frizzing up too much.

“I still haven’t gotten around to getting a new car,” you sighed. “Had to take the bus.”

“What happened to your car?”

“Technically I shared it with Nick,” you said, avoiding his eyes. “I got the apartment, he got the car.”

His mouth straightened into a tense line, and, afraid of pitying remarks, you continued on quickly, crossing your arms.

“Any chance you have an extra pair of socks?”

“Uh” — he took one more hefty glance at your attire — “I bet Dana does.”

With a stiff nod, you started towards her desks. After a few more loud steps, you gave up, toed your sneakers off, picked them up and continued in your damp socks. Your face was burning by the time you reached the nurse’s station, but Dana either didn’t notice or was nice enough not to comment.

“Anyone got any dry socks?”

Her, Princess, and Donny’s eyes snapped to your hunched figure, filling almost at once with mirth.

“Jesus, kid,” said Dana, taking off her glasses while Donny snickered. “What, you swim here?”

Your hands moved to your hips. You were starting to create a puddle, which you didn’t want Esme to have to clean up.

“Socks?”

“You have got to just suck it up and get a car,” said Princess, as Dana pulled a fresh pair from her mom-bag of mysteries. “You’ve been broken up for almost three months!”

“Thanks,” you muttered, snatching the socks. “I appreciate the life advice.”

The three of them were still laughing as you shuffled off to the bathroom. When you emerged in dry clothes, you once again found Robby’s path intersecting with yours. This time, you both made sure to stop before you collided.

“Dr. Robby,” you nodded.

“You look… dry,” he said.

“Um, thanks,” you said, tugging your sleeves.

You automatically fell into work, walking towards the ambulance bay while Robby filled you in on the incoming trauma, tree collapsed on a family's house. Luckily, none of the kids were in range of falling plaster and wood, but the dad had some pretty gnarly looking bruises and a head injury. When you reached the double doors, he stopped you from splitting off with the touch of a hand to your elbow. You whipped back around fast enough to be embarrassing.

“Next time it rains, just call me, and I’ll pick you up,” he said, grabbing some gloves.

Your heart stuttered.

“Oh, that’s okay,” you wave off awkwardly. “You don’t need to drive me.”

“You were almost twenty minutes late,” he said bluntly, and he walked off, leaving you with a furrowed brow and sinking disappointment.

With a sigh, you turned and stomped off to prep Trauma 2.

The dad ended up being fine, a couple broken ribs and a mild concussion. You smiled so hard as you watched the mom and all three children crowd around Robby and give him grateful hugs, you had to excuse yourself. Dana grabbed you quickly, asking you to check up on a Mr. Weil who found himself with multiple staples in his hand.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’m sort of foisting him off on you,” she muttered, handing you the tablet with his info. “He’s given me kind of a hard time so far. Not so happy to be here.”

“Who is?” you half-joked. “I got him, Dana, don’t worry about it.”

“Not so happy to be here” was an understatement on Dana’s part. Mr. Weil was a clean shaven, gelled haired, calf-implanted nightmare. Did you know his suit was Armani? It probably cost more than your apartment, but you weren’t about to admit that to him. It was clear he had no intention of settling down.

“It's about time someone paid attention to me!” he complained as you prepared lidocaine. “You know I’ve been waiting out there for four hours?!”

“Yes, sir, you mentioned,” you said, trying not to show any emotion on your face. “Unfortunately we have limited staff, and we see people based on urgency.”

He scoffed.

“I have good insurance,” he said. “I make more than all those patients combined! I could pay your salary, sweetie!”

You were perhaps a little less gentle than you could have been upon injecting his hand. It didn’t particularly upset you to see him wince.

“Ow, watch it!” he yelled. “Are you sure there aren’t any doctors available?”

“Positive,” you gritted out. “Hold still.”

“Well, I want plastic surgery down here to consult,” he commanded.

It took everything in you not to roll your eyes.

“That definitely won’t be necessary, sir,” you said. “You won’t even need stitches.”

“No stitches? What are you gonna do, let me bleed out?”

“You won’t bleed out from your hand,” you said, monotone. “Due to the depth of the wounds, stitching them closed could only trap bacteria under your skin. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

He sucked his teeth in displeasure.

“I want a doctor’s opinion,” he said.

“I guarantee you it would be the same as mine,” you said, prodding the area around the staples. “Do you feel that?”

“No,” he said, whiny like a child. “Won’t leaving it open make it more likely to scar?”

You grabbed your pliers.

“You are free to pursue whatever medical care you want on your own time,” you said. “It looks like the staples are folded on some of them, so I’m just gonna cut them in half. How’d you end up with them anyways?”

He huffed, watching you cut the middle of the staples.

“My bitch assistant found out about my girlfriend.”

“Wow,” you said, glaring at his hand. “She must have been pissed, these are pretty deep.”

“Yeah, she’s crazy,” he chuckled meanly. “You better believe she’s getting sued for more than she’s worth.”

“I do believe,” you muttered darkly, beginning to pull the metal bits out of the skin.

It would have been almost calming, if it weren’t for whose hand it was. He hadn’t hesitated a second to tell you he was cheating on his girlfriend, didn’t seem the least bit ashamed. You often wondered if that was what had prompted Nick’s leaving. He never admitted anything, but during the last few weeks, there was hardly a night he didn’t spend working late. Or so he said.

Once all the staples were out you flushed the punctures with saline. He wiggled his fingers.

“This better not mess with my grip,” he complained. “I have a 110 mile per hour swing.”

Yeah right.

“You play?” he asked as you applied neosporin. “I’m sure you’ve got tons of doctors to take you out, but I promise you’ve never seen someone play like me. I could teach you a thing or two.”

You looked up incredulously and he winked. The nerve of this man.

“I don’t think your girlfriend would like that,” you said, trying to keep your eyes on the task at hand. “Or your assistant.”

“They don’t have to know a thing,” he said in a low voice, leaning closer. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

He smelled like he’d bathed in expensive cologne. It stung your eyes, and you leaned back, rolling your chair away from his bed.

“I’m good,” you said, as politely as you could. Which wasn’t the most polite.

His eyes hardened. You grabbed some Kerlix.

“You think you’re too good for me?” he seethed. “You’re just a nurse. And a shit one, too.”

His voice was rising steadily, and there were only curtains separating you from other patients and workers. You tried to keep going but he snatched his hand away when you reached for it.

“I bet you’re good a dick sucking, because you sure as hell aren’t good at anything else! Who’d you blow to get this job?”

You sighed wearily.

“Just let me finish wrapping up your hand,” you said.

“No way am I letting you fucking touch me!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. “I want a doctor, or I’m suing! You hear me? I’ll sue everyone in this goddamn second grade hospital, you ugly bitch!”

“Hey!”

The curtain snapped back and Robby stood there, eyebrows set in a heavy line, breathing a little heavier than usual. He didn’t glance at you as he stepped into the space, his eyes locked on to Mr. Weil. Mr. Weil seemed unsure of what to do, sizing Robby up as he approached. Robby was definitely taller, and the look on his face was dark enough to strike fear into much braver men.

“This is a hospital,” said Robby, eerily quiet. “And there are other patients getting care here. Do you understand that?”

When Mr. Weil spoke again, it was in a remarkably lower tone, though still tense.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do when I’ve been waiting four fucking hours for a fucking nurse to poke around my wounds like an idiot! I deserve a doctor!”

Robby crossed his arms.

“That nurse is incredibly skilled and seasoned. I have no doubts in her ability to treat your minor wounds.”

“Minor —?”

“And if you speak that way again, I’ll have to insist you leave this hospital and seek care elsewhere.”

Mr. Weil gawped. Clearly his supposedly large bank account had gained him great favor in the past, but not with Robby. Without another word, he grabbed the Kerlix from your hand, ushered you out of your seat, and took your place. You watched as he began bandaging the man’s hand, who sat at once, seemingly out of words. A whole mess of emotions was rushing through you, but frustration was one of them.

“Robby, I’m fine, I can finish the —”

“Go take a break,” he said gruffly. “I’ll finish up here. To avoid any further disturbances.”

You couldn’t tell if he was mad at you. The back of his head wasn’t giving you much. Rather than argue to stay with Mr. Weil, you exited the room somewhat angrily, pulling the curtain shut harshly behind you. 

“What was that all about?” asked Donnie almost immediately, falling into step alongside you.

“Just some asshole unable to take rejection,” you murmured, discarding your soiled gloves. “The usual. Need help with anything?”

You were setting up an IV for elderly little Mrs. Diaz, probable UTI case, when Robby found you again. He knocked on the glass and gestured for you. You excused yourself and stepped past the door.

“How’s it going in there?” he asked.

“Good, got a urine sample sent off for culture,” you said, crossing your arms. “Smell definitely says infection.”

“Right,” he said. “Well, I sent Mr. Weil home.”

“Oh,” you said awkwardly. “Um, good.”

Robby nodded.

“He, uh, he didn’t lay his hands on you, or anything, did he?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, just yelling.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

There was a moment of silence.

“So, did you need something?”

“No, just wanted to keep you updated,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

And he walked away. You let out a breath. Did he not think you could handle patients on your own? It wasn’t the first time one had yelled at you, the entire team had been yelled at more times than you could count, not to mention the violent interactions. But something felt different, the way he had completely taken over for you. Surely he didn’t blame you for Mr. Weil’s reaction. You didn’t think he even knew the whole story.

No, you decided eventually, he just didn’t want a repeat of that explosive event. 

By the time your shift was winding down, night shifters appearing and demanding locker space, the rain had stopped and you had seen almost thirty patients. Luckily, none were nearly as terrible as Greasy McGolfer, and you didn’t feel entirely dead as you packed up your stuff. You were the last to leave, or so you thought, until Robby appeared at your elbow while you shoved your still damp sweatshirt into your bag.

“Hey,” he said casually.

“Oh, hi,” you said with a smile. “You headed home?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to grab a beer?”

You paused, veins thrumming as they always did when Robby was near. You were planning on getting takeout and watching Legally Blonde for the millionth time until you passed out, but suddenly you felt wide awake. Sometimes everyone sat and drank in the park after a hard shift. The others must have already been waiting there.

“Okay!” you said. “Let’s go.”

You didn’t see Robby’s wide smile as you zipped up your jacket.

You loved the way the city smelled after a rain storm. Fresh, and clean, and familiar. Robby held out a hand to help you jump over some puddles, which you took, as your shoes still weren’t entirely dry and you weren’t interested in worsening the situation. You let go of his arm quickly, so as not to lean into him too much.

Luckily, the rain had forced Robby to drive to work, rather than take his death bike. You had expressed your displeasure of his motorcycle many times. He had said “I’m not taking advice from a nurse who watches Grey’s Anatomy,” and you had said “judge all you want, but if anyone ever comes in with a bomb in their chest, I’ll be ready.” That was the first time you’d gotten a true, deep belly laugh out of him, and the first time you’d thought crap, he’s gorgeous.

To your surprise, he drove you not to the park, but right past it. You didn’t question him as he drove you downtown, to a little irish pub, a real bar. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was certainly a step up from a cooler of Budlights on a wet bench.

Even more surprising was that you didn’t see anyone from work there. You didn’t mention it, as he steered you to a booth in the back and took your coat. He greeted the bartender like he was an old friend and planted you down in a comfortable, cushy red rounded bench.

“Drink?”

“Please,” you said. “Do they have Sapporo?”

“Honey, I wouldn’t take you out to a place that didn’t have Sapporo.”

Your face flushed. You had never heard him call anyone honey before. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling until you reached up to feel your burning cheek. You glanced around. You had never been to the bar before, but you were unsurprised Robby had. It was classic, with shelves of liqueur behind the counter, and a real beer tap, and pool in the corner. You doubted any college students were sneaking in.

Robby announced his return by placing a bottle of beer in front of you. He himself had a beer, what looked like an amber ale in a glass. You took a swig. Even in the dim lighting he looked good. Soft eyes, slightly tired, sleeves rolled up and one elbow leaning against the table.

Since the booth was a semi circle, it was hard to be on one side or the other. You could feel his warmth, even with a few feet in between you. 

“You come here often, huh?” you said, thinking of the bartender’s greeting.

“Oh yeah, have for years,” he said. “Since I was a med student myself.”

“Wow,” you said. “Has it changed much?”

“Not a bit,” he said fondly. “I’m pretty sure I’m in one of the pictures on the wall, from when we won the Stanley cup in ‘09.”

You breathed a laugh.

“And where were you the other four times?”

“Working, of course,” he said.

You hummed in understanding.

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” you said, putting on a mock-serious expression. “But I’m a Bruins fan.”

He smiled around the rim of his glass.

“Ooh, yeah,” he sighed. “That might be a problem. See, the Penguins are objectively a better team.”

You scoffed.

“They literally aren’t!” you said. “Last time I counted, we had more cups than you.”

“One more,” he mumbled, eyes alight with humor.

You laughed, giddily. Looking down, you realized that you had subconsciously angled your body inward to face him, and he was doing the same. The two of you were looking awfully isolated in that back booth. You wished someone else would show up, because you were pretty sure that you were about to say something stupid. Something about his eyes, or his laugh. You needed a buffer.

“Hey!” you said suddenly, grabbing his arm. “You any good at pool?”

He scrunched his nose.

“Ish,” he said. “Most of the time I just lose to Abbot.”

“Well today’s your lucky day,” you said, pulling him to his feet. “I’ve never played. Get ready to win by a million.”

He chuckled as you pulled him over to a free table. You picked up a cue and handed one to him, placing your beer down on a side table. He removed a triangle border from around the balls. 

“Alright,” he said. “How much do you know?”

“I hit the white ball, and the white ball knocks the other balls into the holes,” you said.

“More or less,” he said. “I’ll break, and you just watch what I do.”

You did watch. You watched his hands grip the cue, and his ass as he leaned down over the table. The actual shot, you just caught a glimpse of it. The balls clacked against each other as they rolled in every direction. He straightened up and grabbed his beer.

“See?” he said, stepping back. “I mean, that wasn’t good, but that’s the basic mechanism. You try.”

You stepped over to where the white ball was, carefully raising your cue so as to not hit the wrong kind of balls. You leaned over and thought that maybe pool was a horrible idea, as your ass bumped his hip. But when he reached an arm around your shoulders to correct your grip, you thought maybe it was the best idea you’d ever had.

Robby ended up winning, which didn’t surprise you. Not only was it your first time playing, but your attention was decidedly elsewhere during the game. Even so, your ribs hurt from laughing and you were using your pool cue for support. You had never seen the fun side of Robby before, the free side, without Gloria or patient satisfaction scores looming over his head. If you thought his smile looked good under the fluorescent lighting of the ER, it was nothing compared to the easy, relaxed version on the outside.

Somehow, almost two hours had passed by the time you sat back down in your booth. You had forgotten all about the others. You were having a great time, alone with Robby, just barely buzzed, and didn’t really care much about what had happened to the rest of the group. Robby had slid a little further into the seat this time, only inches between your thigh and his, and his arm resting on the edge of the booth above your shoulders.

“They have pretty good pizza here,” he said, leaning perhaps a little unnecessarily close. “Want a slice?”

“Mm, oh my god, yes,” you moaned, snacking on pretzels from the bowl on the table. “I’m starving.”

He smiled, and laid a warm hand over yours for a second, then parted, with an, “I’ll be right back.”

You watched him go happily. As you finished off the dregs of your beer, a middle-aged, tattooed waitress appeared to take the bottle. She smiled kindly at you as she did, showing off dimples and a nose ring.

“Can I get you a refill, hon?”

“I’m all set, thanks,” you smiled back.

“You’re his nurse, right?” she said, eyes twinkling.

You blinked owlishly up at her.

“What?”

“Well, he’s told us about you, of course!” she laughed. “You are even cuter than I pictured! ’Bout time he —”

“Thank you, Selene,” said Robby, interjecting quickly, with two plates of cheese pizza in one hand, the other guiding the waitress away from your table.

She waved cheerfully at you as Robby sat down, and you waved back. He slid your pizza to you and you took it, looking at him skeptically.

“You’ve told them about me?” you asked.

“Sure, I mean,” he took a bite of pizza. “I talk about work, and people at work.”

Your lungs constricted. You picked up your slice.

“Good things, I hope?”

“Only the best,” he said cheekily.

You bit into your pizza.

Robby was funny. He cracked jokes at work, but they always came under an air of great stress. You could tell he was relaxed with you because he made you laugh until you cried. And interesting too, smart, and well read. Not a surprise, but even on matters outside of medicine, like politics, and history. He listened to the things you said. You could talk, and he would listen.

The more time you spent with Robby, the more you compared him to your ex, and the more desirable he became. It was when you started picturing more moments alone with Robby that you forced yourself to end the night and asked him to take you home.

You both waved goodbye to the bartender, and Selene, who winked, and the conversation never broke in the car. When he pulled up to your apartment, he opened the door for you and helped you out. You chatted as he walked you to your door.

“I’m one hundred percent serious,” you said. “I heard it from my own ears! At least half the med students have raging crushes on Abbot. I can hear them gushing in the mornings by the lockers.”

Robby chuckled.

“So, he’s like — the McDreamy?”

You stopped dead with one foot on the cement step. You were smiling from ear to ear.

“You watched Grey’s Anatomy?”

“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “I only made it through about half a season.”

You tried and failed to straighten your face.

“I can’t believe you watched it,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “You hate medical dramas.”

His lips pulled into a smile so tender, you didn’t want to ever look away. He was backlit unfortunately by the sconce above your foyer door, but you could see every line of his face perfectly. Maybe because you spent so much time memorizing it over charts and med orders.

Then he kissed you.

At first just a soft peck, but he lingered. His lips were as soft as you imagined them. Softer, even. You leaned your head back, allowing him to deepen it. Your hands slipped up, one in his hair, one on his cheek, while he snaked his around your waist. He pulled you closer until your bodies were borderline flush with each other.

You could feel his pulse thrumming fast against your wrist, and his beard was scratching your palm. Maybe it was this, or the feeling of his breath against your cheek as he sighed, that shocked you back into reality.

You pulled away quick, breathing heavily, hands on his shoulders. When you finally looked into his eyes, his pupils were quite dilated.

“Wait,” you breathed. “Wait — what just happened?”

He cleared his throat.

“We kissed,” he said slowly.

You pulled away completely, out of his arms. He took a step back too, now looking confused. You were struggling to find words. Perhaps sensing this, he spoke first.

“I’m, um, sorry if I moved too fast,” he said earnestly. “I thought — I had a really good time on the date, and —”

“Date?” you interrupted, still feeling a bit hazy from the kiss. “That was a date?!”

Now you were both speechless, staring at each other in confusion, air still charged. Robby shoved his hands in his sweatshirt pockets and took another step back. There was a hint of pain in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Or, I guess I thought it was. I guess not, though, if you had no idea.”

He sounded tired. You were struggling to comprehend. Robby had asked you out? Robby? The stoic, stern, obsessed with work Robby? And you missed it?!

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought… I had been flirting for a while, I thought you knew how I felt. I thought I made it obvious.”

A little squeak escaped you.

“Obvious?” you all but whispered.

You chuckled despite yourself. Robby opened his mouth but you cut him off. All of a sudden, you had too many words.

“Please explain to me how anything you’ve ever done or said was obvious,” you said, turning and pacing back and forth in front of your door. “How it was supposed to convey anything other than professional appreciation. Seriously, I would like to know!”

He looked taken aback.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay? Nothing has to change, we’re still coworkers. I thought I had waited an appropriate amount of time. That’s what Jack said.”

“An appropriate amount of time for what?” you said frantically. 

“After your break up!” he said, hands in the air. “And look, that’s on me, I shouldn’t have listened to Abbot. He hasn’t been on a date in twenty years.”

You started laughing again, but this time, out of joy. Realization was beginning to dawn on you, warm and fuzzy: Michael Robinavitch asked you out. Michael Robinavitch liked you. Liked you enough to discuss it with Abbot. And he had been trying to show it for weeks.

Before Robby could force out another apology, you flung yourself at him, smashing your lips to his. He caught you somewhat awkwardly, but found his footing. This kiss was different. It was desperate, and messy, and giggly, and heated. A tug on his hair caused him to sigh contentedly. His hands wrapped back around you like they’d been itching to since you pulled away. They left a trail of buzzing in their wake, an excitement you hadn’t felt in years, revitalizing you instantly. 

You broke apart but stayed close, forehead to sweaty forehead, sharing air.

“You are terrible at flirting,” you said with a giddy smile.

He huffed a laugh.

“I’m much more smooth when I’m not around you,” he said. “You make it kinda hard to focus.”

Your hands suddenly jumped to your face.

“Oh my god,” you hissed. “Oh my god.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t believe you let me go out on our first date like this!” you said, smoothing down baby hairs that had surely popped up. “I’m in my scrubs, I’m exhausted, I’m not even wearing any makeup —”

He started laughing, and squeezed your sides. You shrieked, hands going over his.

“You’re adorable,” he said fondly. “You’re always adorable.”

You sighed, letting your head fall to his chest.

“You only think that because you’ve never seen me dressed up,” you said. “Just wait.”

“I’m very excited,” he said, tucking your head under his chin. “But I’m fairly certain my opinion won’t change.”

You nuzzled further into his neck. You didn’t want him to leave. And he didn’t have to.

“Michael,” you said dreamily. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He pulled back with a grin.

“Both of us?”

“Definitely.”

You pulled out your keys and unlocked the main door.

“You’re not working tomorrow, right?” you asked.

“No,” he said, hands never leaving your waist. “But my car —”

“I have a parking spot,” you waved away. “It’ll still be there tomorrow. You have more important things to worry about.”

You pulled him inside and shut the door.

You couldn’t wait to tell Dana.

---

requests open!

“How are you not freezing?” Victoria hisses, jamming her shoulder into yours.

You jump at the sound of her voice, glancing down at your arms, which are currently hosting a very enthusiastic colony of goosebumps. You cross them over your chest and rub slow circles into your own forearms, as if friction alone might coax warmth from marrow. 

It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. You’re fairly certain even your cells might have frostbite. And okay, yes, maybe wearing short sleeves in January was a bit... idealistic. But you had faith. In body heat. In central heating. In the power of sunlight. In the flawed yet beautiful science of layering. 

All of those have failed you today.

“I am freezing,” you say, which is a generous interpretation of the breathy little gasp that leaves your mouth. Your teeth haven’t started chattering yet, but it’s a close call. Pride’s the only thing keeping them in line, white-knuckling it through sheer force of delusion. “I just… wasn’t expecting the heat to be broken.”

Victoria makes a face. “That was your first mistake.”

“What was?”

“Trusting this hospital,” she says. “It’s constantly praying on our downfall. This place senses hope and snuffs it out.” 

You let out a graceless snort, breath nearly clouding in front of you. “That’s… a lot of existential dread for a Tuesday morning. Do you wanna talk about it or should I just let you have that one?”

“Please,” she says. “It’s too early for self-reflection.” Then she jerks her chin toward the side hallway. “Why don’t you go work whatever weird spell you have on Robby. He’ll listen to you. He never listens to me.”

The tips of your ears begin to burn.

“Okay, first of all, that’s not a thing. Second of all, if he listens, it’s probably because I’m annoying and he wants me to go away.”

“Right. Sure.” She shrugs. “Tell yourself that if it helps.”

“I just feel like we’re assigning intention to something that is very much not intentional,” you say quickly. “Which is… not fair to me, frankly —,” Your pager chirps. You nearly skip out of your skin, relief flooding you as you glance down. “Oh — that’s fourteen. Flight risk. I should, uh, go before she makes it to the elevators.”

You pivot like you’re on a mission (because you are — an extremely cold, slightly frantic get-away-from-Javadi mission), heading toward Room 14 with your mental script already queuing: soft tone, kind eyes, lots of de-escalation language, maybe a distraction about her grandkids if she brings them up again.

It helps. Work always helps. It gives your thoughts somewhere to stand that isn’t the suffocating echo of Victoria’s voice and the very inconvenient realization that you sounded… defensive. Which is annoying. And suspicious, you know.

But as you reach the door, you notice it’s cracked open. And through that narrow slice of space, you catch the edge of a white coat, a familiar posture. Dr. Robby. 

You pause in the doorway, hands twitchy at your sides, watching him do what he always does. Speak plainly, calmly, like every syllable is weighed for maximum impact. You’d heard once that effective communication is about tone and rhythm, and he’s got both down to a science.

You know you’ve been hovering around him a lot lately. You're not proud of it, but you also don't have the emotional bandwidth to deny it. He speaks and things seem to fall into order.

You’ve been trying to wean yourself off the instinct to orbit him, to ask him things you already half-know the answer to, just to hear his version.

Santos even teased you once, just like Javadi, said he was your emotional support attending.

You laughed like it was funny. You also maybe had a small internal crisis and contemplated transferring to plastics.

But it’s fine. You’re working on it. You’ll just… circle back later.

He glances back once more at the patient, murmurs something low, then steps out into the hall. When his eyes find you, he gives you a subtle nod, then reaches out to touch your shoulder. He pulls the door shut behind you both. 

“She’s planning her next jailbreak,” he says. “I told her we lost the key to the ambulance. Bought us ten minutes. Maybe.”

You manage a tired, lopsided grin.

 “Well,” you say, eyes flicking toward the door, “if she actually makes it to the ambulance bay, I say we let her go. Anyone who clears that much ground in a hospital gown has earned her freedom. That’s just Darwinism.”

You glance at him, then immediately look away. “That was a joke,” you add, just in case. “I’m definitely not advocating… you know. Ditching patients.”

A tremor starts low in your back and rolls upward. It travels from your spine to your shoulders to your fingertips, and by the time it’s done, you’re visibly vibrating.

Robby’s gaze dips for a heartbeat. His jaw tightens. Whatever passes behind his eyes is gone as quickly as it appeared, shuttered and carefully controlled.

He clears his throat. Looks sideways. “You cold?”

“Just a little,” you lie, cheeks prickling from more than the wind now, almost as if trying to compensate for the lack of warmth. “Which makes sense, actually, because prolonged exposure to low ambient temperatures can cause muscle tremors even when core temperature is technically normal, so this is probably just my nervous system being enthusiastic. Overachieving. Really giving it its all.”

Robby frowns. You know he’s unconvinced.

“I’ll call the HVAC company again. And Gloria.”

It’s your turn to frown. “But — don’t you like hate Gloria? Or —,” you wince. “I don’t love the word hate. Strongly dislike? Actively avoid?”

He ignores you, reaching out then, thumb brushing your wrist as if he’s checking for a pulse. His hands warm you from the inside out instantly.

“You feel like an ice pack,” he mutters more to himself than you.

“Okay, see, when you say it like that it sounds much worse than it feels. Which is not me arguing. Just… contextualizing.”

He doesn’t respond right away, which is fine, totally fine, except your brain immediately interprets the silence as rejection, or judgment, or that maybe you’ve finally reached your lifetime word limit and this is the moment he’s decided to put you in time-out.

But then, his jacket is suddenly off and moved to drape over your own shoulders, heavy and warm and still holding the ghost of his body heat like an intimate ecosystem you weren’t prepared to be invited into. 

You blink up at him, mouth open slightly because you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with this kind of care that isn’t professional or clinical or required. 

“Talk me through it,” he says plainly, either oblivious or ignoring your state. You don’t know which is worse. “How do you rewarm someone who’s freezing but stable?”

“Peripheral circulation first,” you say, a little too quickly. “Movement, friction, muscle activity. No sudden heat, no hot showers, because vasodilation too fast is bad.”

“See? Atta girl,” he says. “You know what to do. Do it. I’ll be back.”

You’re still standing there like an idiot by the time he walks away.

Your blood is no longer blood but some sort of unstable soda stream. You feel like a Mentos got dropped into your cardiovascular system and now you’re vibrating with the combined power of gratitude, panic, and deeply repressed feelings about tall men with control issues and kind hands.

You don’t even hear Langdon until he’s right next to you.

“Well, well,” he says, eyeing the jacket like it’s a name tag that says property of Robby. “Didn’t realize we were playing teacher’s pet this early in the semester.”

“Wait — no, it’s not like —”

He’s already gone, leaving you shouting denials into a hallway that does not care.

You whirl to flee, heart hammering, only to make the gravest mistake of all, eye contact with Santos, who is leaning against the wall with a glint in her eye that screams I’m about to be so annoying.

She cocks her head. Opens her mouth.

You don’t give her the chance.

You duck into the nearest bathroom, slamming the lock shut, and only then do you catch your reflection.

Your nipples are clearly, undeniably, aggressively visible through your scrubs.

You stare for a second too long.

Oh.

And now your brain is playing the last ten minutes back in slow motion, pausing on Robby’s eyes dropping for a fraction of a second, on the little clearing of his throat, on the very deliberate way he handed you his jacket without a single comment because he’s probably a professional and a gentleman and also now irrevocably aware of the current status of your chest.

God, you hope the HVAC people get here soon. Because if the cold doesn’t kill you, the mortification definitely will.

And they do, eventually.

The heat kicked back on with a rattling groan, vents coughing out lukewarm air.

Victoria thanked you later, not Robby. In her mind, the cause-and-effect was obvious.

Well, as quiet as it can get between drunk driving accidents and chest pains that turn out to be something worse than indigestion. It's like the ER is easing up on you, just for a second. Which is exactly why your brain has decided to fixate on something entirely unhelpful.

Why has Abbot been in a grump.

He’s had that small scowl all night, not quite fully formed, like it’s still deciding where to land and how hard. You’ve been watching it develop with a level of focus you would absolutely deny under oath.

In fact…you kind of hope it lands on you. 

Not for any good reason. Not even a logical one. Just the same instinct that makes people watch storms roll in from too close, curious about the exact moment it tips from interesting into dangerous. 

“I’m telling you,” you murmur, not looking away from your screen as you type, “it’s going to be something stupid. Like the printer.”

Diaz glances over his shoulder, checking if the subject of discussion is still there, then turns back, scribbling something down. “Nah, too easy. He’d fix the printer before he’d let it piss him off that much.”

You hum, lips pursing as you click through another tab, the system lagging enough to irritate you. “Okay, fine. Then a person. But not a big thing. Something small.”

“You, then.”

“Uh—” You pause, looking up at him, mildly offended. “Rude. He’d never snap on me.”

“No, but he gets all stiff and weird whenever you flirt with him like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so it’s close enough.”

You cock your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “I do not flirt with him.”

Diaz just raises his brows. 

You glance back at your screen, suddenly very interested in whatever half-finished note is sitting there. “I’m just…friendly.”

“Sure,” he drags out smugly. 

“I am.”

“Right.” He nods, entirely unconvinced, tapping his pen against the paper. “That thing you did earlier? With the ‘thank you, doctor’ and the smile?”

You frown. “That was polite.”

“That was not polite.”

“It was,” you insist, even as your fingers hover uselessly over the keyboard again. “It’s called good bedside manner.”

“Yeah,” Diaz mutters, “for the patients.”

You open your mouth to argue—fully prepared, actually—but it dies halfway out when you catch sight of Abbot heading towards the nurses’ station.

The scowl is still there. 

Diaz follows your line of sight, takes one look, and immediately exhales like he’s just remembered somewhere else he absolutely needs to be. He shakes his head, already gathering his things.

“You coward,” you scoff.

“I’m not doing this.” He holds his hands up, backing away like this is a hazardous situation. 

“Huh. You would if Javadi was here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but when Diaz pauses, you can’t help the slick little grin that melts onto your face.

“What was that?” 

You don’t look at him. Just mime zipping your mouth shut, tossing the invisible key over your shoulder. 

“You’re annoying.”

“I’m not annoying,” you argue easily. “Right, Dr Abbot?” you add,  just as Abbot comes to a stop at the counter in front of you, earning a very clear middle finger from Diaz on his way out.

You have to tilt your head up a little to see him properly, his scowl edging into view above your monitor.

“…Am I?” you press, because apparently self-preservation is optional, ignoring the small, bright fizz of something that bubbles up every time you decide to push him just to see where the line actually is.

“Annoying?” he repeats, flipping through paperwork in his hands.

You nod once. He glances at you long enough to catch it.

"Jury's still out,” he mumbles, turning the page.

“I know you don’t mean that,” you whisper, leaning in. “It’s okay, Mateo’s gone—you don’t have to hide that I’m your favourite nurse now. No witnesses, no morale casualties.” You wave a hand airily, then reach for your hand sanitiser, squeezing a few pumps.

“Morale casualties?”

“Yup,” you reply, tilting your head like you’re weighing the gravity of the situation. “Could bring the whole floor down if they found out I’m your favourite. Women swoon for you, Doctor.” You smear the sanitiser into your hands. “Men too, I’m sure.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he walks over to the printer, feeding the documents in. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But not annoying.” You point at him, arching a brow. 

“How many times have you written the same sentence?” he asks, fussing with the printer, hands gripping the edges as he looks to one side of the machine then the other.

You roll your eyes and glance back at your screen, skimming your notes, only for your stomach to dip when you realise you have, in fact, written patient’s BP is normal three separate times.

“Okay, well, in my defense—”

“You don’t have one.”

“I was just making it very clear that the patient's BP was normal,” you shrug. “Robby likes details.”

Abbot gives the printer a light smack when the paper still doesn’t budge. “Robby’s not here, and I like legible charting.” 

You blink up at him slowly. “So you’re saying I should put your preferences and needs over everyone else's?" You do your very best to lace the question with something sultry, though at four in the morning you’re fairly sure the effect is somewhat dampened by the fact your concealer has absolutely creased beneath your eyes and your hair could probably be redone. You commit anyway. 

Abbot chooses to ignore your attempt, his hands hovering over the printer. “Do you know how to work this fucking thing?”

“Of course I know how to work a printer, Doctor. I’m not incompetent.” You swivel in your chair to face him fully, smile widening. “...Just admit I’m your favourite.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Well, in that case, I think my charting could do with a little improving,” you say, turning back to your computer, smacking your gum a little louder as your finger clicks on the mouse repeatedly. “Might rewrite that blood pressure note a fourth time. Maybe fifth. Really flesh it out.”

There’s a moment of silence behind you, followed by an exhale long enough to extinguish a line of candles. 

“Okay. Fine.”

You freeze mid-click, slowly pivoting your chair back to him, the gum between your teeth suddenly tasting a little too sweet. 

Abbot is staring at you with an exhausted expression. The one of a man who knows exactly how negotiations should go, having probably run more tense situations than you can imagine, but who also knows he’ll cave if it comes to the right thing. Maybe he’s just good at giving in when he wants to, like a soldier choosing his battles.

“Please. You little terrorist. You’re my favourite and I need these scanned to radiology. Now.”

You grin at him, pushing yourself up from your chair with a spring in your step as you approach the printer. “Fine, fine. Scanning, coming right up.” 

He moves to the side, letting you take over. 

“So all you have to do is give them a little push,” you murmur, dragging out the syllables, “just enough so they fit snug. And then you make sure the frames are squeezed tight…tight enough to keep everything in place, so nothing slips out.”

He clears his throat, eyes darting around like you’ve said something scandalous, and not just given him a briefing on how to use the scanning function of the printer. 

“The paper, Doctor. Get your mind out of the gutter,” you chirp, nudging the papers in and watching the machine whirl to life.

“My mind’s not in the gutter.”

“No?” You glance up at him prettily. “Oh, then you must just be deeply impressed by my ability to handle old things with such ease and efficiency.”

He shakes his head, already looking tired of you in a way that suggests he is not nearly tired enough. “You are unbelievably committed to making HR a recurring issue for me.”

“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment is a sufficient enough reply.”

His mouth twitches before he reins it in. “Radiology. Now. You can shred the original once it’s saved on the system.” He taps the printer once before backing away.

“Aht, aht,” you call after him, snatching the documents and setting them on the counter before rounding it and dropping back into your chair. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you with immediate suspicion. “What now?”

You stare at him expectantly. He stares back. Then scoffs like he cannot believe he is indulging this.

“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment,” he repeats flatly.

“That’s very cute. I’m glad you can follow instructions. But—” You hold up one finger before bending beneath the desk and emerging with a very sparkly jar covered in rhinestones, the label aggressively pink and handwritten in looping glitter pen. “You need to pay for the f-bomb you dropped earlier.”

“We have a swear jar?”

“I have a swear jar,” you correct, giving it a proud little shake so the coins inside rattle merrily, loud and obnoxious, “and everyone in my presence has to contribute when they slip up.”

He scoffs again, folding his arms. “And who decided that?”

“Me, obviously.”

“Of course.” He nods once, like that answer somehow tells him everything he needs to know. “Lena know you’re scamming the entire ER?”

“She helped me decorate the jar,” you beam, unscrewing the cap.  “Pay up, Doctor.”

He just stares at you. Then at the jar. Then back at you again like he is genuinely trying to work out whether sleep deprivation has finally pushed him into a hallucination.

“This is insane.”

“No,” you say sweetly, wiggling the jar in his direction, “this is discipline. We cannot have you running around the ER with a foul mouth, dropping f-bombs in front of vulnerable patients.” You lower your voice like you’re explaining something terribly serious to a child. “Honestly, I’m doing you a favour. Driving patient satisfaction rates up one dollar at a time.”

“Stop talking.”

“Well either pay up or give me something better to do with my mouth.”

The silence that follows is almost impressive. 

Abbot looks like every thought in his head has cartoonishly slammed into the wall. His face doesn’t change, not really, but his whole body seems to lock for half a second like his brain is still trying to peel every single thought back off the surface where they’ve all just splattered at once.  

You blink at him. 

Then your own words catch up to you. 

You like to flirt, yes—lightly, strategically, with plausible deniability. Not…whatever the hell that was. Not the sort of thing that sounds like you are actively trying to plant deeply inappropriate mental images in the mind of a man you have to see professionally every single day.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, eyes widening in horror. “I totally did not mean to say that out loud.”

His eyes are still on you, and your mouth has still not gotten the memo.

“Delete it. Delete the last ten seconds from your memory.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Well try harder. Please. I am literally begging.”

His mouth twitches. Not enough to count as a smile, but enough to let you know he is finding your humiliation far more entertaining than is medically ethical. “You’re assuming that I want to forget it.”

“Oh, that is not the correct thing to say to me right now.”

His jaw tightens imperceptibly, and it seems to hit him a fraction too late what exactly he has implied. “That came out wrong.”

“Did it?” you ask, already grinning despite your mortification, because embarrassment is temporary but the opportunity to harass him is forever. “Interesting. Because from where I’m sitting, it came out kind of perfect.”

“It didn’t.”

“It really did.” You stand back up and lean forward over the desk, placing the jar next to you. “So just to clarify, you’d actually like to keep thinking about my mouth?”

“You seem very committed,” he mutters, reaching into the pocket of his scrubs, “to seeing exactly how far you can push this before it becomes a problem for you.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

That shuts you up entirely. 

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound. Not one single clever thing. Your brain, usually so eager to produce nonsense at record speed, has apparently packed its bags and fled the premises.

He watches the whole thing happen with far too much satisfaction before pulling out his wallet and flipping it open. “There,” he says, smug enough to make your eye twitch. “Peace at last.” Then he pulls out two fifty-dollar bills, folds them, and places them into your jar. 

You’re silenced once again as you try to process exactly what he’s done. 

“What the hell?” you blurt. “A hundred dollars? Really? Are you insane?”

His brow lifts. “You want more?”

“No. Absolutely not. I want less, actually.”

“Thank you for overpaying my swear jar after I’ve spent ten minutes sexually harassing you beside a printer is a sufficient enough answer,” he mocks dryly. 

“I don’t see you complaining to HR. Matter of fact, this—“ you nod to the jar, “—looks a lot like you rewarding my behaviour.”

“Trust me, if I were rewarding your behaviour, you’d know.”

Your stomach does a humiliating somersault so violent it should probably be documented in your own chart.

He watches your face change and immediately looks far too pleased with himself. “That shut you up quicker than the money did.”

You scramble to recover, cocking your head to the side. “And what kind of behaviour would you lean towards rewarding? You know…for research purposes.”

“Getting those documents to radiology. Ensuring charting is done to the proper standard. No scheming during work hours.”

You roll your eyes and stick a finger in your mouth, mock-gagging. “Ugh, boring!”

“You asked.”

“True,” you concede, plopping back in your chair. “But I have a feeling there’s probably a much less professional answer rattling around in there that you’re not sharing.”

“I’m going to go now, okay?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your earnings.”

“Don’t act like you won’t be back later,” you call after him, twisting your lips as your eyes follow his retreating figure.

Of course you're not wrong, because he's back exactly thirty minutes later.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡