we're just bathing in the starlight

The lights in the briefing room are too bright.

They buzz overhead like an accusation and spill white over tired faces and blood-stiff uniforms.

The table is long and cold and metal. You sit at the far end, spine rigid, eyes forward, your body still echoing with the aftershocks of the mission.

Nobody is talking about what went wrong. No one ever does.

Steve says something about containment protocols. Natasha nods. Sam makes a clipped joke no one laughs at.

You stare at the holographic blueprint glowing in the center of the table and pretend you don’t feel the heat of Bucky’s eyes boring into the side of your skull like a warning shot that hasn’t fired yet.

You don’t look at him. But that doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s been watching you since you stepped back onto the quinjet right after the failed mission. Hasn’t said a word.

Your side throbs and you try not to flinch when you shift your shoulder and it sings agony down your spine. You keep your arms folded, elbows tight to your ribs in the hopes of keeping them together.

But you’re fine. Or at least you are supposed to be. The mission is over - failed, but over. The explosions have stopped. The sky is not on fire anymore. So you must be fine.

You stepped onto the quinjet earlier, zipped up your tactical suit, and ignored the crimson that stained the inside like rusted guilt. You stood tall beside your team, among the living legends who don’t bleed and don’t fall and don’t feel like failures. You walked into the compound pretending the floor wasn’t swaying and that you didn’t see stars glow behind your eyelids.

And now, in the debrief of said failed mission, you don’t really say anything. Just low responses when prompted, clipped and tactical.

Bucky hasn’t said a damn thing for the entire hour. Not to Steve. Not to you. Not even when Sam mentions a breach in the lower wing and looks toward Bucky with the expectation of a rundown. Bucky says nothing. Just leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

Because every time someone talks, every time the screen flickers with mission footage, every time you glance down at your trembling hand and will it still, he’s looking at you.

His gaze scrapes across your skin like sandpaper, cataloging your movements like a file being updated in real time.

You feel it like a fingerprint pressed to your skin. Heavy. Heated. He’s not subtle when it comes to you.

Bucky stares as if he’s reading the parts of you you’ve never let anyone see. As if he knows things you haven’t said out loud. As if he’s trying to find a reason not to say them first.

You shift in your seat. And the world tips. Not far, just a breath, but it’s enough for you to clench your jaw so hard it stings.

He sees it.

His eyes snap down. You wonder if he’s tallying up your mistakes, your imperfections, the way he always used to.

Your skin pulses hot and slick, a slow-drum ache that’s spreading its limbs now. You’re pretty sure something inside you shifted wrong, but it doesn’t matter. You can’t say that. Not here. Not with him looking at you like that.

As though he already knows.

As though he’s angry about it.

You push up from your chair before they’ve dismissed you. You move fast. Too fast. The movement sends pain ricocheting through your side and you bite down on it, hard enough to taste metal.

You don’t limp, this time. The last time you limped off the quinjet, he made sure to point it out with narrowed eyes. But your steps are too careful, your gait off-balance, your body feels misaligned with the floor.

Your blood is still warm where it shouldn’t be. Your shoulder is soaked through, the pain urgent.

You reach your door.

And you don’t hear him until he’s behind you.

“Didn’t look too good in there.”

You freeze, fingers still pressed to the panel. His voice is low, but not quiet. There’s is something resembling rust in it. Wear.

You don’t turn. “Pretty sure that applies to half the team.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one still bleeding,” he says, flat.

You don’t say anything.

He waits.

And you hate how he does that. Just stands there. Just waits. As if he’s not going to speak again until you do.

“I’m not going to the med bay.” The words are sharper than you mean them to be. Or maybe you don’t care how sharp they are.

“Didn’t say you have to,” he answers gruffly.

You swipe your door open, slip inside, and it almost closes, but his hand is there.

He stops the door and pushes it open again, steps in, and lets it seal behind him without asking, without invitation, without hesitation.

You don’t turn around. You don’t want to see his face. Don’t want to know what his mouth is doing or what his eyes are trying to say.

Instead, you sit down on the edge of your bed because standing is no longer an option. Your shoulder screams when you start peeling back the sleeve of your suit. You hiss and your hand falls away.

In the mirror on the wall, you catch Bucky’s hands curl into fists.

He doesn’t say anything, just moves, and you hear him pull something from the med kit on your desk - gauze, antiseptic, quiet clicks and snaps. You stare at the wall, refusing to meet his eyes in the reflection.

Still, without a word, he comes kneeling in front of you. His hand hovers for a second too long before brushing yours away. There is blood on his knuckles still.

“I’ve got it,” you mutter weakly.

He ignores you.

Cool metal fingers tug the fabric down and you flinch without meaning to.

“Stop moving,” he instructs, though his hands still for a second, his words come through gritted teeth and he says it with a voice too soft.

Slow and controlled, he peels the suit back further.

Your breath is uneven. You think of all the times he’s looked at you as if you’re a mistake waiting to happen. All the clipped comments, the tension, the cold.

And now he’s here, in your room, on his knees in front of you.

The antiseptic burns and your breath catches. His hand steadies your arm. Not tight. Almost soothing.

You hate that it helps.

“I didn’t ask you for this,” you clarify, barely in a whisper.

“No,” he states evenly. “You didn’t.”

The gash on your shoulder is deep. Ugly. Stitched with shrapnel. His fingers smear salve across the worst of it.

You glance down and see his brow tight, jaw flexed, mouth tugged in a frown. He looks as if he’s trying to keep something down. Something sharp.

He doesn’t say why he’s doing this. Doesn’t ask if it hurts. He cleans the wound in silence. You flinch again. He pauses. Not a word. Just eases his hand back, slows his movements, rolls his tense shoulders.

You don’t know what to do with him acting this way. With his hands being so gentle with you.

But his voice still isn’t.

“Shouldn’t have ignored this.” His eyes flick to yours, then away again.

You press your lips together and watch the way his hands move. Experienced. Unshaking.

“You always think you can do everything alone,” he says after a long pause. “You think that’s strength.”

Your mouth fills with copper. “You get that from reading my mind?” you ask rather unkindly.

His eyes fly up and catch yours like glass catching sun. They hold this time, just long enough to knock the breath sideways in your chest.

“No,” he says, calm and low. “I get it from watching you limp off the quinjet and pretend your ribs weren’t giving out.”

That lands too close. You look away.

His hands keep moving. He’s pressing a fresh wrap into place now, pulling it snug. Not too tight, but enough to hold. His fingers brush your skin and they are cool where you are fever-warm.

“You favor your left when you’re exhausted,” he adds, voice quieter now, talking as if this is a passive observation. A note. “You’ve been doing that since Moscow.”

You blink. Moscow was months ago.

It was the first week-long mission you ever had with the man in front of you. It went sideways. You took a pretty big hit.

You didn’t expect him to still think about this.

“You take notes on everyone like that?” you ask dryly.

He shrugs. “Not everyone’s got your talent for pretending they’re inscrutable.”

The silence is filled with things neither of you are going to say.

You press the heel of your hand against your brow. Breathe through your teeth. “I’m not pretending to be anything, Barnes.”

“And yet, you said nothing.” He doesn’t say it as a reprimand. He says it as a fact he’s disappointed to keep collecting.

You breathe out sharply.

You’ve never made it easy between you two. You know that. Ever since they threw you on the same team, there’s been some friction. He’s quiet and disciplined and splits the world into useful and not. You are stubborn and made of sharp turns.

You bicker a lot. Get under each other’s skin.

He doesn’t trust easily. You don’t like being watched.

You told yourself he doesn’t like you. It was simpler that way. Now he is fixing what you won’t admit is broken. Not exactly looking at you as if he hates you.

And somehow that’s worse.

Bucky tapes the last piece of gauze down with the same careful pressure. Then he sits back on his heels, metal hand flexing at his side.

You pull your arm back, testing the tension. It’s tight. Secure. You flex your fingers to prove something, even if you’re not sure what.

Bucky keeps sitting there, keeps watching you.

“I’m fine,” you say. Uselessly. But it’s easier than saying thank you and it’s the most practiced lie in your arsenal anyway.

His brow lifts, faint. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stands with a grunt, packing the things he used together. He moves slow.

You watch the way his shoulders move. Still coiled. Still prepared. As if his body doesn’t know the mission is over.

You take a moment to breathe in. Breathe out. Then you open your mouth to say the words that will most likely burn on your tongue. “Thank you.” It comes out quieter than intended, but you know he picks it up.

He doesn’t respond, but the mirror shows you the way he stills in his movements for a moment.

Then he heads to the door without a glance back.

“You walk as if it’s the shoulder, but you’re guarding your ribs.” His voice is a low earthquake. Not loud, but enough to crack you open if you’re not careful.

You freeze.

“Next time,” he says, voice rough, pausing at the threshold, “at least lie better.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’d like to curse him out.

He has no idea how to help her, and it’s frustrating. He and Sam have faced nearly every scenario in hunting - ghosts, vampires, angels… but this? She’s not a spirit with unfinished business. She’s a time traveler. An important one, from what he can gather.

In the morning, he goes straight to the library where Sam is waiting, a cup of coffee steaming on the table. He’s frowning.

“What?”

Sam glances up. “I’m– having a hard time finding anything out about Eva.”

Dean takes a sip of the coffee. “So? It was a long time ago. Technically.” 

Sam shakes his head. “No, like– I can’t even find a record of her. Her family, her ancestry… I can’t even find any record of her enlistment.”

Dean frowns, leaning over Sam’s shoulder so he can see the screen. 

“There should be some record of this - it’s a public database.” 

Right away, Dean’s spidey senses start tingling. “I knew it.” Dean says, voice pitched low. “This hasn’t been right from the start.” 

“Before you jump to conclusions–” 

“Already jumped.”

“Dean–” Sam stands, trying to ward off his brother’s temper.

“She’s in our home, Sam. We drove for hours to help her.” 

“Dean, you’re overreacting. We didn’t even think she was real. We had no idea any of this was going to happen, and she didn’t either.”

“Or that’s what she wants us to think.” 

Sam shakes his head, but he doesn’t reply.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knows he’s being reactive. It’s in his DNA. He has this fierce, innate need to protect his brother, to protect anyone who is important to him. But – this is all too convenient. The entire thing is batshit crazy to begin with. They’re so quick to believe a story after everything they’ve seen, but what if she’s lying?

Sam basically reads his mind. “What reason would she have to pretend she’s from the 1940s?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”

Sam sighs, but doesn’t bother to stop Dean. He knows that there’s nothing he can say to change his brother’s mind.

Almost as if on cue, Eva comes in, looking tired and wary.

“Sorry…” she says hesitantly, “I was looking for the kitchen.” 

“I can show you–” Sam says, standing.

“Sam, wait.” Dean says firmly, hands on his hips. “We need to talk to you, Eva.”

She looks like a deer in the headlights, and Dean feels his protective instinct kick in, though not for her, for his brother. For Jody, for anyone in his orbit that this woman might have it out for. 

“Who are you?” Dean cuts right to the chase, his voice hard. “Really. Who are you really?”

Sam looks down, jaw clenched, but he doesn’t try to stop the interrogation this time. 

Eva looks shell-shocked. “I’ve told you–” 

“You’ve told us some bullshit story that isn’t adding up. So unless you want to figure out the hard way what it really is my brother and I do, you need to start talking.” 

“I told you who I am. I told you my story, and I know it’s insane, but it’s the truth.” Her voice cracks, and Dean feels a small shred of empathy. A tiny part of him wants to back down, but he doesn’t think he can, not now.

“We’ve been doing research–”

“I’ve been researching.” Sam interrupts, muttering. 

Dean glares at him. “Sam did some research, and he can’t find any record of you. It’s like you don’t exist.” 

He expects her face to harden. He expects something – some kind of maniacal, evil laughter. Something to prove that he’s right, that she’s really a demon out to get them. It doesn’t happen. Her face goes blank. Carefully blank. Practiced.

Something clicks in his brain. “It’s not your real name.” 

Just there - a small tick on the left side of her jaw.

Understanding dawns on Sam’s face. “You’re– undercover?” 

“Intelligence.” She says quietly. 

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “You have to tell us who you really are or we can’t help you.” 

She straightens. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that before?” 

Dean looks at her, mouth falling open in anger. “It’s not 1940 anymore! We can’t help you if we can’t figure out where you’re supposed to be–”

“It’s not happening.” Her voice is firm and sharp. “Do you have any idea what I’ve given up–” She stops herself, arms banded tight around her middle, as though she’s trying to keep herself together. “I have given up everything the last few years, my name being one of the things I threw away when I enlisted. It’s not for you to know.” 

Something in her eyes has Dean reeling. She’s serious, deadly serious. He can only imagine how it felt to be told you couldn’t see anyone, talk to anyone, even use your own name. All for the sake of your life and your country. 

There’s something else Dean feels that he didn’t expect. He wants to know her real name. He wants to know her. 

“You can trust us,” Sam says. 

“You say that, but I don’t know that for sure.” She says, shrugging. “I’m Eva. To you, I’m Eva, and to them–” She gestures broadly, “To my unit, to my friends… I’m Eva Simmons. And Eva Simmons has to find her way back. I’m going to do that without being compromised.” 

Dean shakes his head. “We don’t even know where to begin.”

“I’ll tell you as much as I can remember before I was here.”

Sam shrugs. “That’s a good enough place to start.”

Hours go by. Eva feels like she’s being debriefed. She paces, Dean paces, and Sam takes a turn pacing. Jody pops in and offers to help, but Sam and Dean instead offer to drive her home. 

Eva is relieved that she’ll have some time alone. She can’t make sense of this, and she desperately wants some rest.

She finds the kitchen, and begins to help herself, all the while wondering if she’s doing the right thing. Does it matter anymore? If she tells them who she is, who she really is, will that help? Or will it make everything worse? 

She’s in the middle of an unfinished sci-fi novel, and she has no idea how to get her life back on track. 

Keeping secrets and hiding things has become so ingrained in who she is, she’s not sure she remembers how to be herself anymore. She told herself a long time ago that it didn’t matter what she lost, as long as she helped win the war.

She doesn’t know how to let people in, not anymore. 

1942

She does her best not to fidget in her uncomfortable chair in front of the Director, but it’s no use. Her left hand tightens around her right hand in her lap, idly spinning the ring on her right hand around and around. 

The man in front of her hasn’t said a word, not even when she was introduced. He had gestured wordlessly for her to sit down as he read through her file, and that was nearly five minutes ago. 

“Why did you enlist?” He asks, blunt. He doesn’t use her name, he doesn’t use her rank, he doesn’t do anything except stare at her, face blank.

She’s prepared for this. “My brother was at Pearl Harbor.” 

Again, his face gives nothing away. “Dead?” 

“Wounded, sir. I wanted to do my bit.”

He stares at her again, not breaking his gaze even a little. “Are you married?” 

She feels herself flush. “No, sir.”

He closes her file with an audible snap, “Good.” He says. He leans forward on his elbows. “You’re certainly qualified.”

“Sir–” She stops herself, unsure. “I beg your pardon, but qualified for what?” 

“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. You can’t tell anyone, not even your parents, not your best friend, not a boyfriend.”

She wants to scowl, but she doesn’t. “Understood, sir.” 

“The United States is launching a special operation that will specialize in intelligence, espionage, and code breaking. You were recommended to me after you enlisted and took your aptitude tests. We’re looking for someone with experience in languages, and high scores in math and science. But we also need someone who can keep cool under pressure.” 

She doesn’t know what to say, so she stays silent. 

“Your work here would be invaluable to the war effort. Anything you do here could have far-reaching consequences, for us, and for the enemy.” 

“I accept.” She says quickly. In the end, there was no choice. She would do what she could to help.

“This would mean you’re giving up life as you know it.” He says, leaning forward again to make his point. “You’ll get a series of aliases to use in case of trouble, and you’re going to have to lie to everyone you know about what you’re working on. And if it comes to it, there’s a chance you’ll be sent overseas.” 

“I’m ready.” She says, her words ringing clear and true in the quiet room. 

.

Present Day

Eva looks exhausted. She’s cross legged in the chair across from Dean, rifling through a set of record books they dug up from the archive. 

She’s in a pair of borrowed sweats and a t-shirt, and for a minute, he can almost pretend that she’s a normal girl that they met working on any other case. But it’s almost June 6th, and Dean’s not an idiot. 

Nothing happens randomly. He’s learned that the hard way. There’s a reason Eva Simmons is here, days before the anniversary of D-Day. 

“Tell me again,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What you were doing the day you– left.” 

She sighs. 

“I know–” He sits forward, elbows on his knees. “I just… there’s got to be something we’re missing.” 

“I dropped with the Pathfinders. My objective was to make contact with a member of the French Resistance. I landed fine, alone. I don’t remember anything–” She stops. 

“What?” Dean leans forward. “What?” 

“I ran into some trouble on my way. Nothing I couldn’t handle, but I– I was trying to stick to the woods and only move around at night. I was almost made, and I ran. I fell.” 

Dean makes a face. “And?” 

“I hit my head, I think.” 

Dean sits up, rifling through the book in front of him. “Any chance you remember where you were? Any landmarks…”

Her eyes light up. “A church. I was supposed to meet my contact at this church–”

Dean shoves the book under her nose. He’s pointing to a grainy photo of a church and steeple. The roof looks nearly blown off, and there’s rubble surrounding the grounds. 

“This place was a key resistance hideout during the early days of the war, before America even joined the fight,” he says, shifting so he’s facing her. “The nuns hid people and helped downed airmen. They were bombed right around the time you may have been there.”

Something flashes through her mind, a memory of a distant rumble, and then an explosion. A bright light.

“Jesus Christ.” 

“What?” Dean is leaning forward, eyes focused on her. “Did you remember something?” 

“I know where I was.” 

They stay up all night. Sam finally skids into the room in sock-clad feet, a book that looks like it’s a hundred years old. “I have something.” 

“Wait–” Dean says, holding up his hand. He wants Eva to continue, wants her to get that look on her face that he’s beginning to recognize means she’s putting puzzle pieces together in her mind. 

“Let me see.” She demands, thrusting her hand towards Sam. He comes closer, handing her the book, the pages yellowed and spine soft with age. “That’s it.” She breathes. “Look.” 

She turns the pages towards Dean. There, a description in French, and one in English underneath. “These churches. They’re sister parishes.” She reads aloud the name of the church in French, her accent impeccable. “This one here, it’s in Virginia. Isn’t that near where you found me?” 

Dean feels the breath whoosh out of him when he recognizes the smaller, less clear photo of a church steeple through the trees. It’s not far from where they had parked the Impala the night they found Eva.

Sam frowns. “So…. what? It’s a wormhole or something?” 

She lets out a hysterical laugh. “Or something.” She stands, raking her fingers through her hair. “It’s the best we’ve got, though.”

“We’ll go in the morning.” Sam says, “We don’t have much time.”

The day is spent preparing - Dean has no idea what they’re in for, and yet again, he feels the weight of the world on their shoulders. Why is it always them? He feels a calling to help people, but he wishes sometimes that the burden wasn’t always on him and his brother. 

He’s tired.

“Want some company?” Eva asks from the doorway, and Dean jumps, startled. “Sorry - I’ve gotten used to moving around without making much noise.”

Dean smiles. “I guess you have.” He waves her closer. “Come here for a second, let me show you this stuff.” 

He surprises himself by telling her what he feels he can about hunting. He’s not sure if telling her any of this is going to change things in the present day, but at this point he’s too tired to care. 

Hell, she might not even survive the war, he thinks, and the thought makes his blood feel cold in his veins. He watches her as she runs her fingers over the various weapons - mostly the guns are what catch her attention - and feels a pang deep in his chest at the thought that in a few days they’ll never see her again. 

Not like this, anyway. He shakes the thought away, feeling foolish and sentimental. “Can you tell me anything about what you do? Why’d you enlist?” 

She pauses, meeting his gaze quickly before she takes one of his pistols from the case and begins the familiar motions of stripping it and cleaning it. “My brother was at Pearl Harbor.”

Dean frowns, but doesn’t interrupt. He watches her hands work with careful, precise motions. 

“He was pretty badly wounded, and I was… I was so furious. I wanted to do something to help. Truthfully… I wanted revenge.” She meets his eyes, and though he expected to see regret in her face, it’s not there. Her eyes are clear.

“I went to every women’s recruitment event I could get to in a day’s train ride. Nursing was out of the question - I’d only end up making it worse–” She says, her nose scrunching up when Dean laughs. “I had half a mind to join the Red Cross and become a Clubmobile girl.” 

When he shakes his head, she explains.

“A lot of them are attached to the field hospitals and air bases. They’re going to do a lot of good work - it’s not just coffee and donuts, no matter what men back home say.” She looks up, meeting his gaze once more. “I just don’t have the temperament for it… I was– am– too angry.” 

“That sounds like a normal reaction.” Dean muses. 

He’s fascinated by the way she’s going about her work with the gun, her hands sure and steady as they move over the pieces and clean each one thoroughly. He pictures her a few years younger and wonders if it always came so easily. 

“I was recruited, basically. I still hadn’t found a unit and I was telling someone at a party about it. Two days later, I got a letter telling me to show up to this building in Washington DC – no name, no office name, just an address.”

“The spooks.” Dean jokes.

She laughs. “Yes. Apparently the guy I talked to at the party was actually some junior agent with the OSS–” she stops, “do you still have that?”

Dean shrugs. “Not sure.”

“Well – it was a completely new, secret organization. Focused on espionage and intelligence. I was athletic, spoke French and German, and could do math. That’s really all it took. Whatever else I didn’t know, they taught me.”

“And you ended up in Europe.”

Dean can’t really fathom what she’s telling him. He can’t imagine setting off to do something so monumental at her age. He pauses, wondering if he’s going to get smacked for it. 

“How old are you? I’m not– I just wonder, how old were you when you–”

She grins. “Relax. I’m twenty-seven.”

He whistles. “I– I just can’t believe you had the guts, really.” He stops, watches as she looks at him questioningly. “I’m sorry I was so… I’m used to people lying to me.” He doesn’t quite know why he’s telling her this, but something about her makes him trust her. He feels like he can tell her things he hasn’t told anyone in a long time.

“In your defense, it must seem insane. It still seems that way, to me.” She finishes her task, and hands him his pistol. “For your inspection.” Her voice is light, teasing.

Dean takes it, their hands brushing lightly. “Looks good to me, Private.” His voice is nearly a croak, the quiet moment feeling too soft, too intimate.

“That’s Lieutenant to you, Winchester.” 

Dean’s eyebrows rise, a surprised laugh escaping him. “No shit?”

Eva chuckles. “My college degree had some perks, after all.”

It takes longer for Dean to work up the courage to look her in her eyes. He feels-- he feels ashamed somehow, that he let her go that rainy Sunday morning.

There was never an argument or anything. They both just knew it was time. She had said she had to catch a flight and get back to work, and he lied and told her he had to do the same thing.

They had two nights of connection, of passion, but also of affection. He told her things he never told anyone. They spent a Saturday night fully clothed, eating take out straight from the containers in a hotel's king-sized bed. He felt comfortable with her like he hadn't felt with anyone in years.

And yeah, it sucked when she left. He sort of hoped there'd be a knock on the door saying she missed her flight, but he wasn't sad. They both knew what they were signing up for when they met at the bar that Friday night, eyes only for each other.

Still, he thinks he's remembered her kiss every day since.

He still thinks no one has ever touched him like she did.

So, yeah, he's a little angry and flustered when he sees her here, because she said she worked in marketing or some bullshit, and while he didn't expect her to be totally truthful with a stranger, this is a little too coincidental to be believed.

She bats his hands away when he offers to help her bandage a big scrape on her leg, and he tries not to make a face at the rejection. He's very aware of Sam watching him closely, but he has no idea what to say.

There's no point in lying about knowing her. He told Sam that he had spent a weekend with a woman the day he came home from his impromptu trip, but that it was nothing special, nothing but some no strings attached fun.

Turns out Dean might be the one who had a few strings.

.

Her face feels like it's on fire. Her game plan so far is just to refuse to speak to him, but that feels a bit stupid given the situation they just found themselves in.

Jesus Christ, but he couldn't have said he was Dean Winchester when they met? To be fair - she didn't give a lot of details about herself either. They didn't even really talk about work except when she said there was no way she could stretch her trip into one more day. She had to work.

(She lied about work just like he did, but that's neither here nor there)

She just never thought she'd still be thinking about him months later, much less seeing him in person. In the middle of a hunt.

She did have a real job. She wasn't lying about that. Her work for the FBI is very, very, VERY top secret. Fringe Division has been practically dead for years, but ever since the almost-apocalypse (she supposes she has Dean to thank for that, too), their work is more important than ever.

She was just supposed to be doing field work. Recon. She was never supposed to get involved, but here she is, trying to put a bandage on herself in the middle of the woods.

She can’t stop herself from watching his hands, remembering when they traced every inch of her skin and made her gasp and writhe and the way in the next breath they’d find a ticklish spot and make her laugh.

It’s just all so unbelievable.

Sam is the one to break the ice, which feels inevitable. “So. Anyone want to explain this?” He gestures between her and Dean.

Dean’s jaw clenches. For a moment she feels frustrated because why is he angry? They parted mutually. They both told lies and half truths and let themselves escape in high thread count sheets and each other.

She thrusts out her hand. The one not currently covered in blood. “Avery Harper.”

“Avery.” Sam repeats.

“Technically it’s Special Agent Avery Harper, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Dean chokes out a laugh, but it’s a little bitter. Avery’s smile doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I think we have a lot of catching up to do,” she suggests. “Food?”

She turns and heads toward her car before anyone says anything else. She hears a whispered argument, an exasperated sigh, and then finally the sound of footsteps on the crushed gravel. A hand grabs her elbow a moment later, then releases her like she’s on fire.

“We look like shit.” Dean’s voice is gruff. “Pizza at our place instead.”

The drive to their place is pleasant, at least. She struggles to keep up with Dean’s car, but she suspects he’s doing it on purpose so she lets him. He’s never truly out of her sight. She uses the time to try to work her way out of this, but decides there’s no point.

The only thing she needs to do is make them understand she’s not trying to take over their turf and that she has no interest in arresting them, and hope that they hear her out.

She follows along a long dirt driveway. The building looks rundown from the outside, but she trusts them. Trusts Dean.

Inside, she’s not ashamed of the way her mouth falls open as she takes in the gleaming tiles and smooth wood. The place is incredible.

“The inner sanctum?”

“Something like that.” Dean mutters, brushing past her. They both pause at the contact.

“I’m going to…. order pizza”. Sam says, quickly making himself scarce.

She and Dean stand there in the fading sunlight streaming in through a nearby window, and the light catches on his eyes. He’s hurt. She can see that, and she does feel guilty. Even though they were both doing the same thing, she’s realizing now that he probably would have loved to know he was completely understood.

That night, even though she didn’t know who he was, she felt a connection that was deeper than attraction. Now she knows why.

“I didn’t know who you were.” She says, hands tightening at her sides.

“How is that possible?”

“Not every agent is out to get you.”

He smirks. “Most of my interactions with the feds say the opposite.”

She exhales.

He rubs a hand over his face. The sound of his stubble scratching against weathered palms takes her back to a warm bed, a feeling of being so cocooned with someone else she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

“Is Avery even your real name?” He asks, voice rough.

“Yes.”

A beat. “Marketing?”

She can’t help but laugh. “I didn’t know what to say!”

“You could have bragged about having a badass job.”

She’s surprised, but tries not to show it. “So could you.”

He shrugs. “Wanted to… shed it.”

“Me too.” She admits softly.

This time when he meets her eyes, his are vulnerable, a dark green that leaves goosebumps on her arms. “I—“ he stops himself. She wishes he wouldn’t. He changes tactics. “Let me take a look at that arm.”

“It’s alright-“

“Ave. Let me.”

A shortened version of her name hits her right in the gut. It’s familiar, intimate in a way she hadn’t been expecting. “Okay.” She relents.

.

He can’t take his eyes off her.

He was angry for a minute, he felt off guard, off kilter, but now that she’s in front of him he can’t bring himself to hold a grudge. He’s just happy to see her.

The FBI.

What a fucking day.

She doesn’t tell him much about why she was hunting, how she knew about the fight he and Sam were in on, how she showed up right when they did and where any of her intel came from.

They’ve always known that someone somewhere in the feds had an inside track, and it always bothered him. But because it’s her, he can’t find it in himself to be angry.

He thinks of the way she didn’t hesitate, just set up shoulder to shoulder with him and aimed her weapon like she’d be damned if anyone or anything tried to get close to the Winchesters.

He’s pretty amazed by her, he’s got to admit. She’s everything he’s ever wanted wrapped up in the most beautiful package, and that’s what makes him pause. Because he’s never allowed to have good things for long.

In his bathroom he inspects her wounds, uses the excuse to crowd her a little bit, inhales the familiar scent of citrus and vanilla that follows her like a cloud.

If she notices she doesn’t say anything and he’s grateful.

Her hand fits just so in his.

“Thank you.” She says eventually.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Dean—“

He looks up, sees her eyes uncertain, a little wild.

She kisses him before he can take his next breath. It sends heat sizzling up his spine, electricity crackling in the space between them.

It’s exactly how he remembers it, and somehow more. More because they’re truly themselves now, no secrets between them.

His hands are in her hair. Hers are tight on his hips, digging in, a desperation in her touch that he's relieved to feel, proof that he isn't the only one feeling this way.

When the need for air is too much, they wrench apart, gasping. Her mouth goes to his neck, and his lips find her forehead, and he can't do this again. He can't pretend.

"Wait. Avery, wait."

Her eyes are unfocused when she looks at him. "Sorry--"

He shakes his head. "Don't be. I-- god, I wanted that. I just... it's too much. I can't."

"I've thought about this for months." She admits, and his eyes slide shut.

"Don't tell me that."

"It's the truth." When he opens his eyes again, her smile is sad, but there's a bit of hope there too, and it makes his heart pick up speed. "I didn't want to go, that morning. I wanted to give you my number, I wanted to see you again."

"I did too. I wanted you to come back."

"It feels cursed, Dean." She says quietly. "This-- this is all too much of a coincidence."

He nods. "I know. But-- is that so bad?" He leans close, lips at her temple. Can't stop touching her. "Can't we just give ourselves something to be happy about?"

"We do have a lot to fill each other in about." She agrees, words sounding more like a moan in the quiet room.

"Stay." His voice is hoarse. "Stay with me. We'll figure it all out after."

He's tired of denying himself things he wants, things that make him happy. And if all the decisions he's made over the last few months, every thought and every choice have lead him right back here to her, then who is he to question it?