sugar

Honestly, sometimes it felt like you were dreaming. 

After four years of grueling schooling and countless thankless internships, you'd graduated with a shiny degree in journalism and hopped, skipped, and interviewed your way into the golden standard of reporting — the Daily Planet in Metropolis. Sure, you wrote the advice column, not exactly the hard-hitting exposé work you'd imagined while accumulating what was, generously, a small country's worth of student debt — but hey. It worked.

You’d admit – the first few weeks had been rough. It's not like you were born amongst the cornfields and cattle, but you weren't exactly hailing cabs and cramming into subway cars either. You were from, you know, the suburbs. Mowed lawns and minivans and mediocrity. 

Your first few weeks had been an adjustment. The elevator broke twice, once in the middle of moving in, which meant dragging boxes up six flights of stairs. Then you spilled coffee on the printer — the good one, the one Perry actually used. You'd considered sticking your fingers in the outlet just to end it right there. And then you watched some guy in what looked like a discount Halloween costume try to blow up City Hall, and the funniest part? People acted like this was just a thing that happened. Casual Wednesday, right?

It hadn’t all been bad though. Public transport was cheap and reliable, there was always something open — even at 3am, and the view from your cubicle in the bullpen wasn’t half bad. Skyscrapers stacked against the skyline, a slice of city park if you leaned left and, if you leaned right instead —

Clark Kent.

Oh baby. 

Six-foot-something of fucking — god, who knows. Corn feed and coffee? In your time spent here you’d probably gotten to know him the least. There was Cat, who'd taken one look at you on your first day and decided you were worth gossiping with instead of about — a distinction you were still grateful for. And Steve, whose comments made you question every day how he wasn't spending more time in HR, and, frankly, how he had this job at all. Jimmy — the only one you actually texted outside of work. And Lois, who you were frankly a little scared of, mostly because she'd corrected your grammar in a memo once and you still woke up in a cold sweat thinking about it sometimes. 

Then there was Clark. Kansas-raised, painfully polite, and... yeah, that was it. That's all you knew. The guy was a mystery. It felt like half the time he was buried at his desk, and the other half he was out ‘chasing a lead’. 

He looked like the kind to read a lot. Well, no shit, it was kind of his job. But like, recreationally, you know? 

"You're gonna bite through that thing." Jimmy's voice cut through. You'd been contemplating all this…Clark…for the past five minutes, gnawing your way through a number two pencil in the process.

"I'm just," you glanced down at your own teeth marks, hastily jamming the pencil into the nearest cupholder, "thinking. Articles. You know. I mean — columns, ideas."

You sniffed, quick and short, because that's what casual people did.

"Right..." Jimmy turned his chair a little, following your line of sight. The back of Clark's head, all those pretty dark curls you just wanted to run your hands thro— "Right," you heard him mutter again, the grin audible in his voice even as his gaze dropped back to his camera, fingers messing with buttons you didn't know how to work. He'd let you use it once, for a project, and you'd somehow deleted half the memory card in the span of a minute. He hadn't let you touch it since.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What is what supposed to mean?"

“Knock it off.” You swatted the top of his head as you slid off his desk, circling back to your own spot. You'd learned that if you leaned your chair just right, you could find that fine line between "just stretching" and "very obviously staring”, catching a glimpse of those beautiful broad shoulders. You'd also learned that if you kept your left monitor dark, you could catch his reflection in the screen when the sun hit just right. 

God. Your genius really was underappreciated here. 

You peeked around the corner, catching Jimmy's eyes on his phone. There was a flurry of messages, all emojis and exclamation marks. You'd finished your work about forty minutes earlier and still had thirty until the clock ran out. Might as well find something to do with the time.

“Who are you texting?” He turned his screen so fast you almost laughed.

"No one, just—" Suddenly he was very busy, jabbing the start button on his computer, eyes glued to a black screen. "My mom."

"Uh-huh." You let the skepticism sit heavy in your voice, just to make sure he caught it.

"So," he said, shooting you a quick glance like he was changing the subject on purpose, "you want to get drinks tonight?"

You blinked. What? 

“Huh?”

"There's this," he started, then seemed to catch himself, sitting up a little straighter. "Friday thing. We go to this place on Locust — nothing fancy, just like drinks and stuff. Decompress a little after Perry’s been…Perry basically. You should come."

You'd heard about these Friday night get-togethers before, but you'd never actually thought you'd get invited — not this soon, anyway.

"Oh. Um." You glanced toward Clark before you could stop yourself. "Sure, yeah." 

He grinned again, catching you. “Just don’t run out the door at 5 like you always do.” 

You rolled your eyes at his jab, leaning back to your desk. 

Drinks. Out. With the office. Clark worked at the office. Drinks + out = date. Date + Clark = date with Clark. By that logic — flawless, foolproof, definitely not delusional — this was basically a date. You couldn't help the little grin that tugged at your lips. 

The last fifteen minutes crawled by at an almost personal pace. You opened and closed your inbox a dozen times, solved the Wordle in a personal-worst six guesses, breezed through the mini crossword, and gave up on Connections after two humiliating minutes. You even finally picked up the staples, one by one, that had spilled in your drawer a week ago and you'd never quite gotten around to cleaning up. When your eyes finally flicked to the clock and caught 5:00 exactly, it felt less like the end of a workday and more like fate. 

Okay. Do not look too eager.

If you shot up the second the clock hit five, bag already on your shoulder like you'd been sitting there loaded and ready, that was a look. A desperate look. But linger too long, and someone might read it as reluctance — worse, indifference, like you almost hadn't wanted to come at all.

Maybe the move was to wait exactly thirty seconds. Time it. Or —

No. God, what was wrong with you? This was a Friday happy hour, not senior prom. You packed up your bag like a functioning adult and stood, the chair rolling back with a small, unglamorous squeak that immediately made you regret every choice that led here.

Lois reached Jimmy's desk first, unhurried, like the whole building operated on her schedule and everyone else was just catching up. "I invited my desk mate," Jimmy offered, tilting his head your way, an almost proud little grin tugging at his mouth — like he'd done something generous instead of just spilling office logistics.

"Oh." A small pause — surprise, maybe, or just recalibration — before her expression settled into something almost like approval. "Okay. Good." It probably meant nothing to her. But to you? From Lois Lane, that was basically a hard kiss on the lips. 

"Coming, Smallville?" She teased Clark as he slid his laptop into his bag.

"Right behind you," he said, offering a small smile before glancing — just briefly — toward you. Once more, meant most likely nothing to him. But to you? From Clark Kent — holy fuck it was like he’d just bent you over the table and-

“Coming?” There was Jimmy's grating voice slicing through another one of your fantasies. 

"Yes." You fell into step behind the group — brisk, but not eager. Casual. Except suddenly your arms felt like foreign objects, swinging wrong, too stiff, then too loose, until you gave up entirely and crossed them over your chest like that had been the plan all along.

"Finally joining us, I see?" Clark said, warm and easy — like you two had some kind of established rapport, like you sent this is so you TikToks at 2am and had each other's coffee orders memorized. If you didn't know any better, you'd have sworn there was a big fat diamond ring in his pocket with your name on it.

You did, in fact, know better. You were also choosing to ignore that entirely.

“Yeah." A small, involuntary smile tugged at your mouth. 

Yeah? Really. That’s all you could come up with. Nights spent three glasses deep, too many drafted texts you never sent — and this was what came out when it actually mattered?

“Where are we going again?” That was a little better. More conversational. 

“This dingy little place called Murphy’s, on Locust. They do a great happy hour deal.” The elevator button lit up beneath her fingers. “You ever been?” 

“Uh, no. Not yet.” You looked at Jimmy like that was the right answer. “Still haven’t really, uh, gotten the chance to explore much in the time I’ve been here.”

“You’re from Oak Park, right? Chicago area?” 

He could have been doused in baby oil and tied up in a bow, and it still wouldn't have turned you on as much as the fact that he remembered where you were from.

"Yeah." It took everything in you not to grin like an idiot. "Oak Park. It’s like uh, a suburb." No SHIT. Just stop talking.

The elevator ride down was full of easy, forgettable small talk — Lois complaining about a source who wouldn't return her calls, Jimmy half-listening while scrolling something on his phone, Clark asking polite questions about your commute that you answered on autopilot, because most of your brain was still stuck on he remembered. The walk to Locust wasn't much different — four blocks of comfortable noise, Jimmy nearly getting clipped by a bike messenger, you nodding along to a conversation you weren't fully present for.

By the time the bar came into view — low light spilling out from a half-open door, the low thrum of music and conversation already audible from the sidewalk — you'd almost managed to convince yourself you were being normal about all of this. 

Inside, the bar was warm and dim, all worn wood and low-hanging lights, the kind of place that had clearly been broken in by regulars long before your time. Jimmy led the way without hesitation, weaving past the crowd toward a booth tucked near the back.

"We always sit here," he said, sliding in like it was assigned seating. "Best spot. You can see the door and the bar, and it's far enough from the jukebox that you don't lose your hearing by nine."

You slid in after him, Lois and Clark settling across from you, and for a second it actually felt — normal. Easy. Like you'd done this a hundred times instead of zero.

"What are you drinking?" Lois asked, already halfway out of the booth, phone and wallet in hand like she'd rather be doing this than sitting still for one more second.

"Um — vodka soda?" It came out more like a question than an answer.

Lois's expression didn't change much, but something in it flickered — not quite a grimace, not quite judgment, but close enough to both that you felt it. "Sure," she said, tone perfectly polite, and somehow that was worse than if she'd just made fun of you outright. 

"I'll come with." Jimmy popped up out of the booth, shooting you a wink on his way past that you didn't have time to properly decode before he was gone, weaving after Lois toward the bar.

And then it was just you. And Clark. 

While your eyes were still narrowed at Jimmy for his betrayal, Clark cut through it.

“So, how do you like it?” 

Your gaze darted back to him. Him and those bright blue eyes, that jaw—

“Like…what? The bar?"

He gave a soft laugh. "I meant more your new job. But the bar works too."

"Oh." You smiled, trying not to visibly consider slamming your head into the table. "It's good. Um—" You glanced toward the bar, half-hoping Jimmy and Lois had somehow gotten drinks in the two seconds they'd been gone and were already walking back. No such luck. "They’re both good.” 

Silence settled over the table, thick and a little unbearable.

“Yeah." you added, mostly just to fill it.

Cool. Great. Very articulate. You should probably just walk into oncoming traffic right now, really commit to the bit.

"Well — that's good to hear." He was still smiling, easily ignoring your pitiful stumble through basic English. "It was a lot to take in when I first moved here too. Those two," he glanced back toward the bar, where Jimmy was doing something that involved way too much arm movement for ordering two drinks, "grew up on this stuff. Practically city kids, through and through — know the subway map like the back of their hands. I remember when I first got here, I got so turned around on the L I ended up three stops past my apartment, called my mom crying like a lost tourist." 

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Oh. Oh, you'd just laughed at him crying. You might as well have kicked a puppy.

"I'm sorry — that's not. That's not funny."

"No, no, it's okay." A soft laugh escaped him too. "It was. It is, really." 

This was the most you'd ever spoken to him — and even though it barely amounted to a few sentences, you already knew it'd be enough material to daydream about for weeks. Months, maybe.

"You're from Smallville, right? Kansas?" You hoped the fact that you'd apparently remembered every tiny detail he'd ever mentioned didn't come off as creepy. If someone had asked you where Jimmy or Lois were from — you’d have drawn a blank — that information gone in one ear and straight out the other, no stops in between. "My aunt lives in Wichita. Pretty sure we drove past Smallville a few times, actually."

"Is that right?" He looked, for a second, genuinely pleased. "See, whenever I bring it up people look at me like I'm from another plan—" He caught himself, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses. "Place. You know, like, middle of nowhere. Which, I mean, it kind of is, but—" 

"No, I get it." You said it like you meant it. Because you did. Suburbs weren't Smallville, not even close, but you knew the feeling well enough — people hearing where you were from and deciding, on the spot, that there was nothing else worth asking. Case closed. Next question.

"Yeah. Uh." A small pause, like he was deciding how to ask it. "So — what made you want to do this? Journalism, I mean. To be specific." If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Clark Kent was teasing you. 

Still. You'd honestly rather he asked you to explain quantum physics than answer that.

“Uh." Take a risk. "You know, power, mostly. I like knowing things before other people do. Makes me feel important."

Please work. Please work.

Something flickered across his face — surprise, maybe, or just him recalibrating — before it settled into a grin, small and a little lopsided, like he hadn't expected that answer and liked it anyway. 

But before you could actually say anything real, the moment was gone.

"Vodka soda." Jimmy set the glass down in front of you with a little flourish, like a waiter showing off. Lois slid into the booth with her own drink already in hand — whiskey, neat — and pushed a glass of water across the table toward Clark without looking at him. "Yours."

"Water?" You glanced at Clark's glass.

"Kent here doesn't drink." Lois took a sip of her whiskey, unbothered, a small smile playing at her mouth. "Says it messes with his internal moral compass or whatever. Real shame, considering how much material we'd get." 

Clark let out a scoff, mouth opening like he was gearing up to defend himself, before apparently deciding against it entirely. He just smiled instead, shaking his head slightly, and took a sip of his water like it was the wittiest comeback in the world.

"So," Jimmy said, sliding into the booth next to you, "what were you two talking about?"

You were tempted to kick him under the table — but the booth was tight, and the odds of accidentally hitting Clark, or worse, Lois, felt too high to risk it.

"Someone here actually knows where Smallville is," Clark said, glancing at you, something warm in it.

"Oh, really, new girl?" Lois raised an eyebrow, leaning back. "You Midwesterners find each other by scent or something?” 

“Something like that.” You took a sip of your drink, buying yourself half a second — long enough for Jimmy to clock the falter and swoop in like the world's most oblivious lifeguard. 

“Alright, alright, enough small town talk, yeesh." Jimmy waved a hand, then shot a grin toward Clark and Lois — the kind of grin that clearly meant trouble. "I've got a question for you."

The two groaned in unison, like they already knew exactly what was coming.

You braced yourself, unsure what to expect. "...Okay?"

"Batman. Or Superman?"

Huh. You didn’t have to audibly say it – the look on your face said enough. 

"You heard me." Jimmy grinned wider. "Batman or Superman?"

"He asks everyone this." Lois didn't even look up from her drink, like she was reciting something she'd said a hundred times before. "Cab drivers. Baristas. One time a guy selling hot dogs outside the courthouse. It's a whole thing."

"It's a valid question," Jimmy said, mock-offended.

"It's not, actually," Lois said. "But go ahead." 

"Is there, like, a right answer I'm supposed to be giving?" You glanced, somewhat desperately, toward Lois for help.

"No right answer." Her finger tapping the side of her glass. "There's just the answer that makes him insufferable for the rest of the night, and the answer that makes him insufferable for the rest of the week. Choose your suffering."

“Uh. Okay.” You glanced at Clark. “Superman?” You shrugged, hoping it was right. 

Lois tipped her chin up, grinning, rubbing idly at her jaw — the exact look of someone who knew something you didn't. Clark, for his part, said nothing — just reached for his water, taking a slow sip that did absolutely nothing to hide the small, pleased smile tucked into the rim of the glass.

“Was that wrong?”

"You're joking." Jimmy stared at you like you'd just told him the sky was green.

"What? Why? Why is it supposed to be Batman?"

"I mean—" He scoffed, dragging a hand down his face like the answer physically pained him to explain. "Come on. Look at the guy. Head-to-toe black, grappling hooks, that ridiculous car and the deep voice, standing on a rooftop like he's got somewhere broodier to be — it's almost sexy, honestly—"

 Lois let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You did not just call him sexy.”

“Let me finish.” He gestured vaguely, like he was building a case in court. "And no powers. None. Just gadgets and pure spite, running Gotham like he owns the place. Meanwhile Superman — powers and all — he’s uh, well he’s been getting his ass completely kicked a little lately, hasn’t he?"

"Uh, he hasn't—" Clark cleared his throat, the words coming out more muttered to himself than to the table. "He hasn't had his ass completely kicked."

You seemed to be the only one who caught it.

"How about you let the girl defend herself, fanboy?" Lois said, before Jimmy could get another word in.

You blinked. Faaaawwkkk. This ‘friendly night out’ was starting to feel more like a federal interrogation. 

"Okay, fine. Fine." Jimmy leaned back, bottle to his lips. "Why then? Why the big blue boy scout?"

You'd already finished your drink — no sip left to buy yourself time.

Like, there's no reason he needs to be. With powers like his, I'm honestly surprised he hasn't just taken over the planet or something. He could do nothing at all and still get away with it." You shrugged, glancing up from your melted drink for only a moment. “"But he chooses to help. And I think that's — I don't know, admirable. If he wasn't some guy in a cape, I feel like he'd just be a decent person you could get a drink with."

You went back to stirring what was left of the ice, the straw pinched tightly between your fingers.

"Batman's all brooding and dark, you know? Vengeance, fear, whatever — that's…that’s easy, in a way. It comes from somewhere ugly and it just makes sense. But Superman…,” You paused, searching for the rest of the thought. “He runs on hope. And hope's harder. It doesn't come from anything happening to you, you just…you just have to decide to have it."

A beat of silence settled over the table. Lois looked faintly impressed. Jimmy looked thoroughly unconvinced. Clark looked…pleasantly surprised.

“It’s because he’s hot, isn’t it?” Jimmy said flatly. 

Your jaw dropped slightly. 

“I literally — I literally never even insinuated that.” 

“God, Jimmy,” Lois chided him with a smile, “She was having a moment and you ruined it.” 

“Okay, okay — I’m sorry I didn’t use ‘sexy’ as a reason.” You shot back at Jimmy. 

"No, it's fine," Jimmy said, waving you off. "You can just keep lying to yourself..." He gestured around the table. "To us."

“Fine, fine Jimmy. I love Superman because I think he’s superrrrr hot and I want him to fuck my brains out. Is that, does that work? Is that better for you?” 

Clark choked on his water mid-sip, coughing hard enough to set the glass down and press a fist to his mouth, eyes watering. Beside him, Lois let out a short, sharp laugh — the kind that seemed to catch her off guard as much as anyone — before pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, composing herself almost as fast as she'd lost it.

“Yeah," Jimmy said, grinning like he'd just won something. “Yeah that’s better.”

You rolled your eyes, sinking back into your seat. Across the table, Clark was still composing himself, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere just past your shoulder. You weren't sure if you'd just blown this entirely or somehow scored brownie points.

By the time you all spilled back out onto the sidewalk, the sky had gone fully dark, streetlights buzzing overhead. Somewhere a siren wailed and faded, and a dog barked at nothing from a nearby apartment window. The night air had that early-fall bite to it, sharp enough to make you glad you'd worn a jacket.

"I'm headed this way." Lois nodded toward the corner, already digging her keys out of her bag. "Jimmy, you coming or not?"

"Yeah, yeah." Jimmy fell into step beside her, throwing a wave back over his shoulder at you. "See you guys Monday. Sweet dreams about your boyfriend in blue.”

You rolled your eyes, not dignifying his tease with a response, and watched the two of them disappear down the block.

And then it was just you. And Clark. Again.

"So — which way are you headed?" He asked, hands tucked into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself now that it was just the two of you.

You paused. Not because you didn't want to tell him. Hell, you'd tell him your bank number and social security if asked. You just weren't entirely sure which way was...anything, really. Four months in, and you still mixed up east and west more often than you'd like to admit.

"Not that I'm asking so I can, uh—" He huffed out a small, awkward laugh, adjusting the strap of his bag like it needed it. "I'm just headed this way, so — if you wanted the company, I mean." 

You smiled softly. It was funny — he was so big, practically built like he could block out the sun, and yet everything about the way he carried himself felt careful. Small, almost. Like he'd spent his whole life trying not to take up too much room. 

“Actually — do you know which direction 14th is? I'm still...uh, learning the city it seems.” 

Clark's mouth twitched, fighting a smile. "It's this way, actually." He nodded down the street to his left. "I can walk you, if— I mean, since I'm headed that way anyway."

Yes Clark Kent, I will marry you. Knock it off. 

“Sure, yeah. That would be great.” 

You fell into step beside him, the city noise settling into something almost comfortable — distant traffic, a couple laughing outside a closed shop, the occasional gust of wind that smelled like rain that hadn't quite decided to fall yet.

"Hey," Clark said, after a few quiet steps. "For what it's worth — I liked your answer back there. The Superman thing." He glanced over, something a little shy in it. "Good answer."

You felt your face heat, grateful for the dark. "Yeah, well. You catch me on a good day, I have thoughts."

"I mean it," he said, and somehow that was worse — the sincerity of it, no joke tucked underneath to soften it. "I can see why Perry picked you for the column." A small pause, like he was deciding whether to say the rest. "People are going to write in with actual problems, real stuff, and you're going to sit there and actually think about it the way you just did back there. That matters. Not everyone would bother."

"Thanks. I—" You cleared your throat, willing your voice to sound less like it was short-circuiting. "I try my best."

The rest of the walk went by faster than it had any right to. He pointed out a decent late-night diner ("Only go on weekdays, the weekend crowd gets weird"), told you which subway entrance to avoid after 10 p.m. ("long story"), and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, the conversation had drifted into something easy — no big confessions, no more painfully sincere moments, just the two of you talking about nothing in particular the way people who'd known each other for years might. You almost forgot, for five blocks, to be nervous.

Your building came into view too soon, its narrow, unimpressive stoop lit by a single flickering porch light that you'd been meaning to complain about since move-in.

"This is me," You said, almost wishing you hadn’t. You’d have been fine walking a few more blocks and being dropped off at some random apartment if it meant walking together just a little longer. The idea of getting mugged on the circle back didn't even sound half bad. 

"Right." Clark rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets again. "Well. Glad you came tonight."

"Yeah. Me too." You were already fumbling for your keys, mostly as an excuse to look anywhere but directly at him. "Thanks for, um. Walking me. And the whole—" you gestured vaguely, "—directions thing."

"Anytime." A small, easy smile. "See you Monday?"

"See you Monday." 

You managed a small, pressed-lip smile that didn't quite hide your reluctance before turning toward the building. The steps felt longer than they should have as you climbed them, acutely aware of him waiting behind you, and his quiet patience somehow made every movement feel awkwardly self-conscious, especially as your fingers fumbled with the lock. Once it finally gave, a quick glance over your shoulder was enough for one last small wave before you slipped inside and pulled the door shut.

When the door clicked shut behind you, you paused.

Then you did the thing every lovesick fool does.

A squeal escaped before you could stop it. You bounced on the balls of your feet, giggling helplessly to yourself as the evening replayed in your head—right up until you looked up and found another resident at the top of the stairs, staring at you like you'd completely lost your mind.

Your smile vanished, and you snapped to attention so fast it was a wonder you didn't pull a muscle.

The embarrassment forced you to hold it together for all of five seconds.

Fourth person missing in the past two weeks.

That's what the reporter on the TV said, flashing a photo of a young woman across the screen — some old yearbook shot, the kind they always seemed to dig up — as you tightened the apron around your waist. You'd glanced down as your fingers fastened the knot, choosing to ignore the stains you kept forgetting were there. Unfortunately, if this girl followed the same pattern as the last three, she wouldn't stay missing long.

"They can't keep saying it's bears." Sloane's voice came from behind you, thumbnail caught between her teeth, the yellow polish she'd applied just the day earlier already chipping off. “Bears don’t attack this much.” The kitchen ticked and hissed around you, grease popping somewhere on the flattop, the exhaust fan doing its usual half-hearted job against the smell of bacon and burnt coffee. "Ever."

"Ever?" You raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to turn around all the way, fixing your name tag instead — checking it wasn't upside down again, since last time a table of regulars hadn't let you live it down for a week.

Sloane rolled her eyes at your sarcasm. "It's called hyperbole, ever heard of it? It's just—" she wandered over to the little pass-through, the gap in the wall where you could see out into the dining room, and peeked through it. You watched the line cook's eyes follow her shamelessly as she leaned in to scan the outside room. "It can't be a coincidence."

You didn't really know how to respond to her. Yeah, sure, it was weird that three people had gone missing in the space of two weeks, and so far every one of them had turned up dead. But then again, this place had never exactly been postcard material.

Outside, the rain hadn't stopped in what felt like months — that relentless grey drizzle that didn't so much fall as hang, soaking into everything until the whole town smelled like wet bark and diesel. The mountains crouched behind a wall of fog you hadn't seen the top of since spring. Firs lined the highway, black and dripping, packed in so close together that anything could be standing ten feet off the shoulder and you'd never know it. Puddles gathered in the parking lot potholes and never fully left, rippling every time a truck rolled past or a car pulled in. The cold had a way of getting in no matter what you wore — through the seams of your jacket, past your collar, settling somewhere behind your ribs and just staying there. Even the diner's windows sweated, fogged from the inside, the parking lot outside blurring into smears of headlight and shadow.

The idea of an unlucky few wandering into the path of a hungry bear didn't seem far-fetched to you. Not out here. And besides — the reports didn’t just say killed. They said mauled. Torn apart. Something about the word choice had always struck you as almost too specific to be human.

"Hey—" Sloane's voice pulled you out of your little trance. "I've got some customers for you." She glanced back at you, the kind of grin on her face that made you nervous. You joined her at the pass-through, brows pinching in both curiosity and concern.

The bell at the door jingled, and two men stepped in, shaking rain off their jackets just inside the entrance — and even from here you could tell they weren't from around here. Boots too worn for tourists, jackets too... leather-y for locals. But there was something in the way they carried themselves, alert, checking angles, that read as more than just passing through. The shorter one had come in first, jacket dark with rain, holding the door for the taller one behind him — floppy hair, the kind of build that ducked slightly under doorframes out of habit more than necessity. The short one said something out of the side of his mouth, and the tall one huffed something that might've been a laugh, eyes already moving over the room. Then they caught on the corkboard by the entrance and stayed there a beat too long — all of it, the layered flyers, the faces, the whole quiet weight of it — before he looked away.

You definitely knew they weren’t local because well, fuck. They were hot.

“I don’t want them.” The words were out before you could stop them.

"Go." Sloane replied instantly, like she'd known you'd say that. You stared her down for a moment, hoping she'd break first and give in, tongue poking the inside of your cheek.

"Fine." You huffed beneath your breath, tucking your hair behind your ears and smoothing your blouse as best you could before pushing through the kitchen door.

The two men were still settling into the booth by the window as you wasted time behind the counter wondering if you had time to turn back, adjusting stacked plates and grabbing menus while your gaze lingered a beat too long. They were doing that thing again — pretending to be casual, elbows on the table, gaze drifting over the room like they were just taking in the ambiance, except their eyes caught a little too long on the exits, the kitchen door, the one other occupied table by the far wall. Like they were filing it all away without meaning to look like they were.

You didn't think much of it. Everyone was a little jumpy lately.

Menu in hand you finally came around the counter, past the row of red vinyl stools that had seen better days, past the pie case still fogging faintly at the edges. The place was the same as it had been for fifteen years, probably — laminate tables the color of weak coffee, the neon OPEN sign in the window buzzing every so often like it couldn't quite commit. Somewhere behind you the radio surfaced another half-familiar song.

You approached their table with that practiced fake smile plastered on your face. "Hi, welcome in," you said, your voice pitched ten octaves higher than usual, setting the menus down in front of them. "Anything I can get for you two?"

The short one picked up his menu, thumbing through it without really looking at it — eyes on you instead, a slow drag up and down that lingered just long enough to be a choice, not an accident. Green eyes, cocky grin, like he already knew exactly what he wanted and it wasn't on the menu. "Hi," he mouthed, just for you, like it was a secret worth keeping.

You were more annoyed at yourself for not fixing your hair that morning than you were at him for looking at you like that. The tall one cleared his throat, pointed enough to be an actual interruption. "Coffee, black, please."

"Make that two, sweetheart." The short one didn't even glance at the guy across from him when he said it, handing over his menu as he kept that grin aimed squarely at you.

You nodded a little, lips pursed, pen scratching across your notepad with more force than strictly necessary. "Two black coffees. Coming right up." You turned to go, but the short one leaned forward, holding his menu back out to you.

"And uh—" he tapped it against his palm, "—you guys have pie here?"

Maybe if you read the damn menu.

"Mhhm. Today we have," you glanced back at the case, "pecan, cherry, blueberry—" Your gaze flickered between the two of them. The short one just seemed to be enjoying you standing there, that grin doing absolutely nothing to help. The tall one looked faintly annoyed at him, fingers tightening on the menu like this was a scene he'd sat through more times than he cared to count. "...Apple."

"Cherry," the shorter one said. The taller one added, "Please," for him and handed you his menu on top of the other.

You nodded, gave a soft but polite smile, and started back toward the counter — catching Sloane's face peeking through the kitchen window the second you turned around. You slipped behind the counter, flipped the coffee pot on, and heard her shoes squeak across the tile a second later.

"So." She whispered low enough for you to hear.

"So?"

"There's two." She propped her elbows on the counter, chin in her hands. "Can I have the tall one? He’s got those…sad little puppy dog eyes."

"You can have both." Your gaze fixated on the coffee pot gurgling through its cycle, anything to avoid looking at Sloane's smug little grin.

"Can you stop? You'll never see them again, live a little." She reached up and pulled down two mugs, setting them beside you a little harder than necessary. You were already off fetching the slice of pie, huffing a loose strand of hair out of your face as you bent for the case.

"Yeah. That's the point. Why waste my time?” The coffee pot sputtered out its last few drips, filling the silence just long enough for Sloane to give you a look.

"You're boring." She shook her head slowly, like it pained her. "You're really boring, you know that?"

"Uh huh." You picked up the pot and both mugs, fingers looped through the handles of one hand, the plate of cherry pie balanced in the other. "I hope you're the next bear victim."

You rounded the counter to the table. They'd clearly been talking about something before you came over — voices low — fading the second you came into view. A little odd, but okay, nothing to call the cops about.

"For you," you said, setting down the pie, "and for you." Then the mugs, one after the other, clinking softly against the formica. You started pouring the dark liquid, steam curling up between you. "Is there anything else I can get you two?" Your gaze flickered between them.

"No, that'll be all—" The taller one began.

"You live around here?"

Jesus. That was direct, if you'd ever heard it. You blinked, coffee pot hovering mid-pour.

"Dean." The tall one said it low, almost a warning, rubbing at his brow like he already regretted whatever came next.

"What? I'm just asking." The short one — Dean, apparently — leaned back into the booth, entirely unbothered. "All these, uh, missing people in the area. What's the deal? Locals with bad luck, or just some dumb tourists?" He grinned, finishing the question with a bite of pie like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You set the pot down on the table, if only to buy yourself a second. "Uh. The news said it was bears." Your gaze flickered to the taller one, hoping the answer had been good enough to end this. "Last I heard."

"Bears?" Dean’s eyebrow cocked, and there was something in his voice — not disbelief exactly, more like he was testing the word, seeing if it held any weight. Like he'd heard better excuses.

"The people d—" Dying felt strange to say out loud to a customer, over pie, on a Tuesday. "The people getting, um—" Mauled was worse. You settled for, "The ones on the news. Yeah.”

"Bears," Dean repeated, turning it toward the tall one this time, something unreadable passing between them. The tall one just exhaled through his nose, looking thoroughly done with the conversation. "Thanks." He flashed you a smile, easy and closed, like a door shutting.

“Mhm.” You walked away feeling stupid, beelining straight for the kitchen without looking back.

"Did they say anything about me?" Sloane was already waiting, leaning against the prep counter and twiddling the ends of her hair.

"Sloane, I’ll kill you myself."

"You know that's really morbid to joke about in a time like this."

You didn't bother responding, just ripped the latest notesheet off your pad and tossed it toward the trash, missing by a foot. Neither of you moved to pick it up.

“What’d they ask you about?”

“What?” You picked up the paper, tossing it in the bin.

“You were having a conversation?”

“The pie?”

“No, after that.”

"Oh, uh." You hesitated, not sure why. "They asked about the local deaths."

Sloane's brows pinched, peeking out the kitchen window as inconspicuously as she could — though from where you stood watching, she looked anything but. "You think they're cops?"

“Why would they be cops?”

“It was just a question.”

“A stupid one.”

“Be nice.”

You couldn't help but wonder why did they ask? It wasn't a strange question, not really — small towns loved a rumor, and everyone had an opinion on the deaths by now — but something about the way Dean had asked it, too easy, too rehearsed, sat wrong with you. Like he already had an answer and was just checking if yours matched.

You glanced through the kitchen window, and that feeling sharpened. A laptop was open now, and the table between them was covered in newspaper clippings, loose pages, something that looked almost like a case file. Not exactly light reading for two guys just passing through.

“PIs?” Sloane was basically breathing down your neck now. “You know, private investigators?”

“I know what a PI is. Did you ever consider they’re just, like, weirdos?”

“Too hot for that.” Sloane shrugged. “You should probably ask.”

“Ask what?”

“What they’re doing.”

“That’s not invasive at all.”

“Just make it casual.”

“I’m not going to interrogate them. I want a decent tip, okay?”

“With the way that one in that leather jacket was looking at you, oh you’ll get some sort of t-”

You pushed through the kitchen doors before she could finish her lewd sentence. Fishing the half-full pot from the burner, you headed back to their table, catching the taller one's attention before you'd even made it halfway there. He didn't slam the laptop shut, just eased the screen down, slow enough to look casual and failing at it anyway. What could they possibly be doing? Watching porn?

“Are we still doing good over here?” That practiced smile back on your lips. “Or do we need any refills?” You could feel Sloane’s eyes burrowing into the back of your head through that grimy kitchen window.

“I’m all good, thank you.” The taller one said, giving his own polite smile in return.

Dean tapped the edge of his cup. “I wouldn’t mind a refill.” His eyes did their usual slow drag as you leaned in to pour, unbothered about being caught doing it.

"Coming right up." Your eyes drifted to the newspapers spread across the table, trying to catch as much as you could before the cup overflowed. Headlines about the disappearances, half-overlapping each other. A printed map of the area, red circles marking spots you didn't recognize, and a couple you did. You wanted to let your gaze linger a little longer but the taller one cleared his throat again, and seemingly Dean caught on fast, elbow sliding over to cover the worst of it — the map, mostly — like it was nothing, like he was just getting comfortable. He flashed you a smile, easy as anything. "Thanks."

“Mmhm.”

You didn't even realize your pace had quickened until you nearly knocked the pot off the burner setting it back down, then shoved the kitchen door open once more, nearly walking straight into Sloane.

“What did you say?”

“Do you want a refill.”

“You’re like, actually blowing this.”

“What exactly do you want from me?”

Sloane went back to the window, looking out. That damn thumb between her teeth again. “What was with the papers?”

“They were all uh, like from the disappearances. About them.” There was a beat of silence as you watched her gnaw away at her polish.

“What if they killed those people?”

“Sloane.” You scolded her like a child.

"You know, a few months ago I was visiting my sister — the one that lives in Saint Louis, not Utah — and when I was there I saw on the news, there was this whole like, murder-home invasion situation thing. The guy with the leather jacket, you know, he kind of looks like—"

“They’re curious, not psychotic.”

“That’s what they all say.”

You didn't dignify that with a response.

“What photo?” she said abruptly, like there had been some second conversation going on you’d forgotten about.

“What?”

“What photo? Which one do you want me to pick when they find your body in the woods next week?”

You could hear her rattling off options as you headed back out, swinging door still rocking behind you. Behind the counter you made yourself busy — well, pretended to, anyway. Polishing silverware that was already gleaming, straightening napkins that were already orderly, restacking sugar packets that were already stacked. You kept your head down and ears perked, trying to eavesdrop over the radio crackling somewhere behind the counter.

"...four now," the tall one was saying, voice low, pushed just under the noise of the radio. "Same pattern as the last town. Torso mostly intact, everything else—"

"I read the file, Sammy." Dean cut him off, but there was no bite in it, just tired. He tapped his fork against the side of his already-cleared plate. "Coroner's still saying it was an animal attack."

"Coroner's an idiot, or he's covering something, take your pick." Sam’s voice dropped even lower, and you had to stop wiping the same spot on the counter to catch it. "Claw spacing's wrong for a bear anyway. Too narrow. And bears don't drag their kills a quarter mile uphill."

"So what, we're thinking—"

"I don't know yet. Wendigo, maybe. Skinwalker. Something that wants people thinking bear." A pause, the clink of a fork set down. "We should talk to whoever found the last one."

"Sheriff's not gonna hand that over easy."

"Didn't say the sheriff."

You realized you'd been standing there with the same fork in your hand for almost a full minute.

Oh my god. They were psycho. Maybe not killers psycho, but — Wendigo? Skinwalker? You know what? You’d give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe just druggies. Weed was legal here, that tracked. Yeah. Yeah, they were probably just high. Except even true-crime-forum logic couldn't stretch that far. I mean Skinwalker? What the fuck was even a Wendigo? You felt like pocketing a butter knife right now just in case one of them jumped the counter and attacked.

"Miss?" You almost jumped out of your skin at the sound of his voice. Sammy — well, no, it was Sam probably. He was standing at the counter now, and your breath hitched despite yourself. When he wasn't across from his... friend? Lover? Brother? You weren't sure of the dynamic between the two just yet — but when he wasn't across from Dean antagonizing him, he seemed to let some sort of guard down. Or maybe he was just playing an act? You had no clue. You don’t even know these randos.

“Yes?” Smiling like you hadn’t just thought about shanking him.

“Could we get the bill, please?”

You swallowed, nodded, and quickly fetched the check for them. The walk to the table felt like you were walking to an untimely death. If Sloane did have to pick a photo, you hoped it'd be the one from your family vacation to Florida six years back. Yes, it was dated — but your tan was flawless and your boobs looked great, and it was your death photo, so no one could complain about the choice.

"Here's that for you two, no rush." You set it down with probably your biggest don't-kill-me-later-in-the-parking-lot smile and turned to go. You'd almost made it out alive. Unfortunately, you were never that lucky.

“Miss?” God it was Sam again.

You turned slowly, like something in you already knew what was coming. “Yes?”

"Sorry if this is like," he glanced at Dean, an apologetic sort of smile on his face, like he already regretted asking, "a strange question, but uh — we're criminology students at UDub, and we were just wondering if you know where we could get some more information on all these disappearances and such? We're supposed to be doing a project on local crime patterns."

“Oh." All that tension drained out of you at once. Students. Of course. Of course there was a logical explanation. "Um. There's, uh, a police station on 4th — they might be able to help. And the, uh, the last girl—" you hesitated, trying to pull up anything you could remember , "—I feel like I've seen her working at the grocery store on Amherst, I think. Maybe ask around there?"

“4th,” he repeated in a mutter, scribbling it down on a napkin, “and grocery store on Amherst, you said?”

“Mmhm.”

"Thanks." He smiled. Dean gave you a wink over his coffee as you took the empty pie plate — his way of saying thank you, you could only assume.

“Found it.” Back in the kitchen, Sloane was on her phone, thumb swiping over the keypad.

“Found what?”

The picture to use." She held up some shitty camera pic from the last time you went out — you, hammered, passed out on a bar bathroom floor. You swatted the phone away.

"Don't you have customers?"

"They're fine. So," she was already scrolling to a different photo, "what were you and your little threesome talking about out there?"

"You're awful, you know that?" Sloane just rolled her eyes and grinned, waiting for an answer. You licked your lips, huffing a small exhale. "They're criminology students. Over at Washington. Researching the case for school." You felt a little proud you'd one-upped her on something. Her eyes narrowed at you curiously.

"You know they could just be lying."

"Can you not do this."

"What! I'm just saying."

"Oh my god," you dropped the pie plate into the sink with a clatter, "do you know how crazy you sound? And I mean, come on, why make up such an elaborate lie? They didn't have to tell me shit in the first place. It's not like they're—" you turned on the sink, "—whipping out fake badges and doing credit card scams like some professional con artists."

"Wait till you see what they tipped to make you say that."

"Wait till you see what they tipped — you're gonna eat those words."

playlist: I use music a lot to inspire a scene so I made a playlist of the songs mentioned in the fic! They don’t line up perfectly so you kinda have to work it out yourself (oops…) but they’re there at least.

The trellis groaned under his weight, wood biting into his palms as he hauled himself up past the first-floor windows, boots finding the gaps between the lattice. He'd parked a block away, out of habit more than necessity, and walked the rest — past identical houses with identical shutters, mailboxes standing at attention like little soldiers, basketball hoops bolted over identical garage doors. Somewhere a dog was barking at nothing, the sound bouncing thin and tinny between the houses. The streetlights had come on an hour ago, throwing orange pools across lawns so green and even they looked painted on.

Yours was no different from the rest — white picket fence, flower beds edged with brick, a porch swing that probably never got used. Dean had been here enough times now that he didn't have to guess which window was yours. Second floor, third from the corner, the only one with a light on at this hour.

Back at the motel, he'd left Sam dead asleep on the bed farthest from the door, one arm flung over his face, the TV still murmuring low with some infomercial neither of them had bothered to turn off. Dad was out — had been since the night before, some lead on a case two counties over, no word on when he'd be back. Which meant Dean had a window of his own, a few hours where nobody would notice if he wasn't where he was supposed to be.

So he'd come here instead.

The trellis held, barely, and he climbed until he was level with your window, knuckles rapping soft against the glass. "Hey," he whispered, voice pitched low enough not to carry. "Hey — open up."

Nothing.

Inside, you were slumped at your desk, chin propped in one hand, radio turned up just loud enough that Jimmy Osmond's “After All” crooning filled the room and drowned out everything else — including, apparently, the idiot currently balanced on your trellis outside your window. Unfortunately for him, your attention was fixed on the homework in front of you, pen scratching notes onto the page while the corresponding textbook lay open beside it. Truthfully, though, your mind was somewhere else entirely, and as much as you hated to admit it, you were thinking about Dean Winchester.

The kid had moved to your school about a month and a week ago — the longest the Winchesters had ever stayed in one place, though of course you hadn't known that at the time. The girls had been curious the second he showed up, all leather jacket and cocky smile, and the boys were, well, either pissed at him for flirting with their girlfriends or only interested shiny car of his. You knew the type easily though. Bad boy who wouldn't stick around long, probably drop out like the burnouts who cycled through every year or two. Sure, you'd been friendly — you were running for reelection, after all, and every vote counted, even his — but friendly was all it was. Big smile, a button with your name printed on it pinned to whatever he was wearing that week, and nothing more.

That had been the plan, anyway.

Though you were thinking about him, your thoughts weren't exactly kind at the moment. Mostly you were replaying the sight from earlier — his arm braced on the locker above Cindy Cameron's head, her strawberry-blonde hair wound around her finger as she stared up at him like he'd personally hung the moon, and that stupid grin on his face like he knew it too.

You knew how he operated. How much of a flirt he was. Usually you ignored it — ignored him, honestly. You didn't talk at school. At most you traded a glance in the hallway, both your faces carefully blank, like strangers who'd simply never been introduced. The only reason you'd gotten tangled up with the school flirt in the first place was the tutoring assignment — extra credit, something to pad the transcript, anything to get into a good college and out of this town before it swallowed you whole along with the other hundred-something people who populated it.

Dean had been reluctant at first. You'd actually watched him walk past the classroom door he was supposed to come through for the after-school session — until he caught sight of you through the window, and that was that. He'd doubled back, dropped into the seat across from you, and made some smart comment about hating chemistry that you were fairly sure was a lie.

Now it was makeouts in the back of his dad's car after dark, notes slipped into your locker between classes and folded too many times, like he wasn't sure he should be leaving them at all — like the two of you existed in some separate world that had nothing to do with lockers and Cindy Cameron and the version of him everyone else got to see. You still weren't sure exactly when it happened. If you had to point to one night — one moment where the careful line you'd drawn between tutoring and something else went blurry — it'd be the night your car wouldn't start.

It was late October, session running longer than usual because you'd actually gotten through a whole unit without him making a single joke about covalent bonds. He only went so he could flirt with you, and you knew he was never actually paying attention to what you were saying, but you didn’t have it in your heart to fake the lessons. (You were Student Body President after all, and you had to set an example.) You'd walked out to the parking lot together, out of habit more than anything, him saying something a few steps behind you that you chose to ignore, and your key turned in the ignition to nothing. Not even a click. Just dead silence and the dashboard lights flickering once before giving up entirely.

"Great," you'd muttered, forehead against the steering wheel. "Perfect. Awesome."

You hadn't expected him to do anything about it — figured he'd offer you a ride, maybe make some crack about how daddy buys you a car that nice and it still can't be bothered to start, and that would be that. Instead you heard his car door open behind you, the radio inside still playing something soft and low — “Crazy” by Aerosmith if you knew it right, left open behind him as he came around toward your hood. He popped it without asking, disappeared behind it for a good ten minutes while you sat there feeling useless and curious, and when he finally straightened up he had grease on his hands and a look on his face you'd never seen on him before. Focused. Quiet. Nothing like the version of him that watched the way girls hips moved when they walked down the halls and grinned at like the world owed him nothing but attention.

"Corroded battery terminal," he'd said, like that explained anything to you. "Give it a try now."

It started on the first turn.

You'd gotten out and stood next to him at the hood in the orange wash of the one parking lot light that worked, attempting to look cool for some unnatural reason as you leaned one hand on the open rim, ignoring the fact that you knew there was now grease on your palm. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

He shrugged, the answer already halfway to a joke — you could see it forming, some easy line about being a natural with anything that had an engine — but it didn't quite make it out. Instead he just said, "My dad taught me. Or — I taught myself, mostly, and he didn't stop me." A pause. "We move around a lot. Cars break down a lot. Nobody else was gonna fix 'em."

Your brows pinched in curiosity. So your suspicions had been right, then. Easy burnout, gone within the — what, semester? Month, if you were being honest with yourself about how these things usually went.

"How much do you move around?"

He picked at a spot of grease on his knuckle instead of answering right away, like he was deciding how much of an answer you actually got. "Enough that I stopped bothering to learn where the bathroom is till the second week." He looked up with a slight grin, waiting for the laugh.

It didn't come. All you felt was, well, a little bad. There was something underneath it that stopped you — the joke doing the same job the shrug had tried to do a second ago. Covering something.

"That's not really an answer."

"No," he agreed. "It's not." He leaned back against the car, arms crossed, looking out at the empty lot instead of at you. "Honestly, I lost count around town eleven. My little brother keeps a tally in the back of one of his notebooks. Draws a little line for every school." He huffed something that wasn't quite a laugh. "Kid's thirteen. Already better at math than I'll ever be, and that's what he's using it for."

You didn't say anything, sensing there was more underneath it than the words themselves. He wasn't looking at you when he said it, like he'd surprised himself by saying it at all — like it had slipped out sideways, the way true things do when you're not trying to say them.

You'd heard about the kid — Sam, or Sammy — in slip-ups over chemistry notes, half-sentences that never quite finished themselves. You weren't getting extra credit to talk about backstories, though, and you knew that if you pried too hard he'd probably shut the hood and be on his way. So you played it smooth instead. "You don't talk about him at school," you said.

"Nothing to talk about. Sammy's not really a hallway topic." He glanced at you sideways, and something in his face shifted — checking, maybe, whether he'd said too much. "He's the only reason half of this doesn't suck, though. Wherever we end up."

It wasn't the kind of thing you'd expect from him — not from the guy you'd seen ducking under the bleachers with Rachel Hoft not two days ago, not from the guy every teacher had already half-written off. There was nothing performed about it.

"That sounds like a lot," you said, because it was the only true thing you had. You wanted to slam the hood on your own fingers for that lame-ass, apathetic response your brain had cooked up.

He glanced over then, and for a second the easy, careless mask was gone completely — just a kid standing in a parking lot in the cold, looking older than seventeen and younger than seventeen at the same time. "Yeah, well." He pushed off the car, shutting the hood the rest of the way, like he was shutting something else too. "Don't go telling anyone I said that."

You didn't push. But you thought about it the whole drive home — the flicker of him underneath the flicker everyone else got. And that was the first crack. The first time you thought: maybe he's not who everyone thinks he is.

The second thing happened a week later, and it had nothing to do with Dean at all — not at first.

Your brother called from Harvard to tell your parents he'd gotten into law school. Early admission, full scholarship talk, the whole thing. Your mother cried on the phone. Your father wanted to take the whole family to dinner to celebrate, and you sat there smiling and saying “That's amazing, Danny! through a mouth that felt like it was full of sand, because you were happy for him — you were — but somewhere underneath that was this ugly, small thing that felt a lot like, “When is it going to be my turn to matter that much?”

You were valedictorian material. Student council president. Every box checked, every button pinned, every smile performed on schedule. And it still felt like nobody was going to throw you a dinner for it. Like the only thing anyone noticed was whether you kept doing it right. You'd spent the night punching your pillow and scribbling your notes so hard you went through four pencils before you finally gave up and turned in.

You were still turning all of it over, restless and a little reckless with it, the next afternoon when Dean walked through the library doors for another session. You barely registered him dropping into the seat across from you, going on about something stupid that had happened in one of his classes, or the way his hands moved without him even thinking about it — folding a page of his notes into a paper airplane instead of opening the chemistry guide to the unit you were supposed to be reviewing. You just sat there, replaying your mother's voice on the phone, the sound of her crying over Danny's acceptance letter like it was the best news she'd heard in years, and you couldn't shake the feeling that if it had been you calling, she'd have said, “That's nice, honey,” and gone back to the dishes.

The session went the way it always did — him half paying attention, you correcting his work anyway, some argument about balancing equations that turned into him leaning back in his chair looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who'd gotten the answer wrong. Normal. Easy. The kind of hour you'd started looking forward to more than you wanted to admit.

When the librarian flicked the lights to signal closing, you packed up together and walked out to the lot like always, except this time when he peeled off toward the Impala, you didn't head for your own car. You just kept walking with him, like your feet had made the decision before the rest of you caught up.

He noticed before you said anything, slowing by the driver's door, one eyebrow up. "You lost?"

"Can you just drive somewhere? Anywhere." It came out sharper than you meant it to, more raw, like something you'd been holding shut had come loose. "I just, I don't want to go home yet." Exhaling a loud sigh you didn't fully realize you’d been holding in.

He didn't ask why. Just looked at you a second — really looked, the way he had at the hood of your car weeks ago — and then reached over and pushed the passenger door open from the inside.

You didn't talk much on the drive, just let the radio fill the space while he took the long way out past the edge of town, streetlights thinning out into dark road. When he finally pulled off onto the shoulder by the old grain elevator and cut the engine, the quiet felt different than it had in the parking lot. Bigger. Like something was about to happen and you'd already decided to let it.

"You good?" he asked, watching you instead of the windshield now. You didn't answer with words. You reached over and kissed him first, before you could think better of it, before the part of you that ran on schedules and extra credit and every vote counts could catch up and talk you out of it.

He'd gone still for half a second — genuinely caught off guard, which almost never happened to Dean Winchester — before he kissed you back, one hand finding your jaw like he needed something to steady himself against. The radio kept playing “Love Bites” by Def Leppard to no one. The windows fogged slow at the edges, and neither of you reached over to crack one open. It was a long time before either of you came up for air, longer still before you made it home that night, and you had to smooth your hair twice in the visor mirror before you trusted yourself to walk through your own front door like nothing had happened.

That nagging feeling was still sitting in your chest when you heard Dean's second round of knocking at your window. You turned the radio down hastily, brows pinching as your gaze snapped to the curtains drawn tightly shut. Your pulse spiked before your brain even caught up with why — Scream had come out a few weeks back, and you and half the girls in your grade had gone together opening weekend, and ever since then every creak in the house at night made you jumpy in a way you refused to admit out loud. So when a second round of knocking rattled the glass, you didn't think, you just reacted — yanking open the nearest drawer and grabbing the first thing your hand landed on. A pair of scissors. Not exactly a weapon, but it was something, and you crept toward the window with them held behind your back like you would ever really use them.

You pulled back the curtain just slightly to peek.

Then you saw that stupid grin of his, mixed with a slight struggle to keep his grip on the trellis, and you dropped the scissors on the floor without a second thought — equal parts relief and irritation flooding in at once. You shoved the curtain the rest of the way open, unlocked the window, and shoved it up. "Dean?!" You hissed, leaning out just enough to keep your voice from carrying. "What are you doing here?!"

"We had a tutor session," he said, like that explained anything at eleven at night. "Don't you remember?"

Before you could get a single word of protest out, he was hauling himself over the sill, one hand braced on the frame, boots scraping the wall — and then he was in, landing on your bedroom floor with a thud that made you wince and glance at the door, praying it hadn't carried. He was a little too good at that really, the whole climb-through-the-window thing, smooth in a way that made you want to ask exactly how much practice he'd had. You filed the question away for later, the way you'd started filing away a lot of things about him lately.

His eyes caught on the scissors still lying on the floor where you'd dropped them, and his grin widened, entirely too pleased with himself. "What exactly were you going to do with those? Cut me a nice bang trim before you called the cops?"

"Shut up." Except it kind of was, and you hated that you had to fight to keep your mouth flat. You scooped them up quickly and walked over to your desk, tucking them back into the drawer. "It's not funny."

"It kind of is, though.”

"Are you insane?" You whispered, ignoring his baiting bit as your arms crossed, doing your best to look annoyed and not like your heart had just done something stupid at the sight of him. "It's eleven o'clock, Dean. My parents are down the hall." You brushed past him to the window, glancing out at the street. "Did you park nearby?"

"Yeah. Right in your driveway, actually."

You shot him a look before pulling the window shut and yanking the curtain closed. "You're not funny."

"I'm not trying to be." He gave you a cocky grin, easy and unbothered, the kind that made it obvious he knew exactly how little trouble he was actually in.

While you dealt with the window, he'd already wandered over to your desk, flipping idly through your notes like he had any intention of reading them. His attention snagged on the radio next, one finger tapping the dial like he was trying to place the song. "Is this Spandau Ballet? ‘True’?" He glanced back at you, eyebrows raised. "Way to set the mood."

"Stop." You went over and turned the dial back down, telling him off like he was a toddler for the way he was wandering around the room touching things.

He put his hands up in mock surrender, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Bossy," he mumbled, like it was a compliment.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" You finally stopped pacing, looking up at him with that annoyed expression he seemed to love pulling out of you.

"Tutoring. Remember?"

"Dean."

"What, I can't just stop by and see you?"

"No, you can't. You want something."

"Maybe." His hands dropped to your hips, easy, like they belonged there.

"Dean."

"Come on." His nose was already brushing against yours.

"I’ll get the scissors again," you muttered.

"And do what exactly?”

Lips brushed, and you pushed him off — even though your breath hitched, even though you really did want it. "You need to go, Dean," you said, backing toward the window, looking at him the way a mother looks at a kid who knows exactly what he's doing wrong.

"Come on." He followed anyway, closing the distance you'd just put between you. "I climbed the wall for you and you won't even let me stay a little while?"

"You can stay.” You looked at him adamantly. “You can also have your head blown off by my dad when he walks in and finds some hoodlum in leather in my bedroom at midnight."

His smile twitched before he brought a hand up to your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw. "I've faced worse."

You blinked. "What?"

"Nothing." He grinned, leaning in before you could ask again, and kissed you.

"Dean—" The rest of it got lost somewhere between his mouth and yours, and then his hands were at your hips again, walking you backward until the back of your thighs hit the edge of the bed and you went down onto it, legs tangling with his as he followed after. Your hands found their way to the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair as his fingers and their cold touch slipped beneath the hem of your shirt.

You were still kissing, breath uneven, one of his hands braced by your head — when a knock landed on your bedroom door.

"Hun, you okay in there?" your mother's voice carried from the other side of the door.

You'd never moved so fast in your life. Dean got the wind half-knocked out of him as you pushed him off, sending him stumbling back into the nightstand with a mumble of Jesus under his breath as he went, and you scrambled over the bed to get to the door before she tried the handle.

"Yeah, Mom — just headed to bed. Just uh, finished up my studying." You said it low, trying to catch your breath as one hand was already turning the lock as quietly as you could manage.

"Alright, sweetheart. Well, goodnight. I love you."

"Love you too." You leaned back against the door, breathing shakily as you pushed your hair from your face like a tired toddler. Dean was peeking over the other side of the bed, arms folded on the covers and chin propped on top, looking up at you with zero urgency whatsoever.

"So," he said.

"Out."

"Come on—"

"Now."

You crossed the room in a few quick steps and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him up like he was a lost puppy who didn't know any better.

"Hey, hey — sweetheart, please."

"I will push you out myself." You threw the curtain open, then the window. "Get."

He just looked up at you with those eyes. You didn't budge. He scoffed a little when he realized it wasn't working, almost rolling his eyes as he pushed himself up off the floor.

"Fine, fine. I'm going, I'm going."

He swung a leg over the sill, then paused, glancing back at you with the curtain half-open in his hand. "Just thought, you know..” He gave you a look, fake-pouting shamelessly for pity points, “..You'd missed me or something."

A beat of silence.

"You are awful, you know that?" You crossed your arms, staring him down.

"So I've heard." He said it with a grin, entirely too proud of himself.

Another beat. You glanced back at the locked door, weighing something. His brow cocked, watching you think it over.

"So..."

"Be quiet." You grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him back in — off the window ledge, back onto the bed, you the one on top this time.

"Yes, Madam President." he grinned, already pulling you with him as he dropped his head to your pillow.

"Do you ever shut up?" You mumbled into his lips as his grip on your hips tightened — not rough enough to leave any bruises, just firm enough to keep you there. Your legs straddled his lap, hands at his jaw before your fingers began to slowly wander down - grazing a path over his collarbones. He grinned against your lips at your comment, one hand sliding down to playfully squeeze your ass. You’d have pinched him at that, but the involuntary moan that escaped his lips as you shifted slightly against him was good enough punishment.

“Shh.” Your hands drifted under the hem of his worn-out tshirt, and he didn’t flinch. What he actually did was hastily pull the fabric over his head in one quick motion — a move you didn’t want to know how or why he had mastered — and tossed it somewhere beside the bed. “Someone’s eager.” You said sitting up, a little peeved but feeling more perverted so you let the questionable action go.

“It’s you.” He countered, a strange look of sincerity in his eyes you didn’t expect.

Your heart spiked, but you would never admit that. Instead you licked your lips, staring at him with an expression you hoped was unreadable despite the growing flush you could feel on your cheeks. You settled for rolling your eyes and leaning back in.

It wasn't the first time you'd noticed the scars on him — you'd felt them before, plenty of times, little raised lines under your fingertips in the dark of his car, illuminated by nothing but the light of a parking lot bulb. But with the warm glow of your desk lamp still on, it was different. Clearer. You could actually see them now — here and there, soft white lines scattered across skin that shouldn't have had any business being on a teenager.

You'd asked once, weeks ago, fingers tracing one along his ribs before you'd really thought about it. He'd made a joke first — something about him and Sam settling arguments with kitchen knives — and when you didn't laugh, he'd shrugged and said it was from being stupid. Jumping a fence. Falling out of a tree.

You believed a few of them. Maybe. Not all of them, though — not the way his voice had flattened out slightly on the last one, like he'd said it enough times that it barely counted as a lie anymore. But what were you supposed to do with that? Not like you could pry it out of him. Not like he'd let you, even if you tried.

Enough of the sappy shit, you thought. This was just some messy romance between your classic upper-class-prom-queen-candidate-straight-A's-and-student-council type and a school-hopping-probably-pill-popping-leather-fitted-bad-boy type. The kind of thing that got written into a bad movie starring Molly Ringwald alongside Christian Slater and forgotten about by graduation.

You knew the ending already — you'd probably write it yourself, if you had to. He'd leave. Towns like this one were never anything more than a pit stop for people like him, and you already knew better than to mistake what was going on for something that came with a warranty. Simple as that. You wanted that too, at least that’s what you thought, because someone like this would only hold you back and that was simply not an option.

Except your hand was still resting flat against one of those scars, thumb moving slow without you telling it to, like it hadn't gotten the memo that this wasn't supposed to mean anything. And you were still thinking about the way he'd said it's you — not like a line, not like something he'd used on Cindy Cameron or Rachel Hoft or whoever else, but like it had cost him something to say it out loud.

You weren't exactly sure why the class flirt had chosen you, of all people. Didn't really want to sit with the answer, either, in case it turned out to be one you weren't ready to hear back to yourself.

So you didn't. You just leaned back in, let him pull you down again, and told yourself — one more time, for good measure — that this was nothing. Dumb teen love. Nothing that needed a label. You stripped your own shirt off and watched as his pupils dilated when you grabbed his hands, guiding them to your chest. His palms were warm against your skin, a sharp contrast to the cold lie you’d just told yourself. You leaned down, lips brushing against his in a tease before you finally closed the distance.

It didn’t take long before things got heated. He rolled you off him with a swift shift of his weight, your head sinking into the plush bedding as his hands never left your skin. The kisses dragged, turning deeper, more desperate, before he broke from your lips to trail a path of hot kisses down your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin in a way that forced you to bite your bottom lip just to stay quiet. By the time his fingers found the edge of your waistband, thumbing slowly at the tension there, your own hands were already fumbling impatiently with the buckle of his belt.

“And I’m eager?” He grinned easily, looking up at you.

Okay I’m awful and just gave up maybe I’ll finish love you!