#angst warning

Joseph based on the comic Joseph, and i noticed the little plane so had to add it ahahaha *cries* we love angst in this household 🫠

He didn’t hear a single word the professor said. Not one.

He sat in the middle row of his lecture hall, surrounded by the low him of laptops and whispered conversations, but all he could focus on was the folded scrap of paper burning a hole in his pocket.

Your number, your handwriting, your choice.

He kept his hand pressed against the pocket like he was afraid it might vanish if he didn’t physically hold it there, every few minutes, his fingers brushed the edge of the paper and his pulse kicked up like he’d been shocked.

He shouldn’t text you, he knew that he’d told you he’d leave you alone. Hed meant it, he meant every word, even if saying them had felt like ripping something out of his chest. But then you slipped him your number.

But then a piece of paper with your number on fluttered to the floor. Not handing it to him, not saying anything. It could have been an accident, or it could have been a maybe.

Like a don’t go too far.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the blank notes page on his laptop, the cursor blinked at him, impatient, judgemental. His knee bounced under the desk. He shouldn’t text you.

He should respect your space, respect your silence. But the note was still there. He pulled it out, just for a second, keeping it hidden under the desk. The paper was soft at the edges from how many times he’d unfolded and refolded it in the last hour.

Your handwriting stared back at him Simple, unassuming, devastating. He traced the numbers with his thumb, heart thudding painfully.

He swallowed hard. What if you gave it him out of pity? what if you regretted it?

The professor called his name, he didn’t respond.

A few people turned to look at him. He blinked, forcing himself to sit up straighter, to pretend he was present, to pretend he wasn’t unravelling over a piece of paper the size of a fortune cookie.

“Barnes.” The professor repeated, irritation creeping in. “Are you with us?” Bucky nodded stiffly, “Yeah. Sorry.” He wasn’t, not even close.

With his attention drawn away from the note and to his professor, he didn’t notice walker approaching until a hand snatched the paper right out of his grip. Bucky froze.

Walker held the note between two fingers, eyebrow shooting up. “Well, well, well. What’s this?”

Bucky stomach dropped. “Give it back.”

Walker unfolded it, eyes scanning the digits. “Whose number is this?”

“Walker.” Bucky warned, voice low.

Walker grinned, leaning back against the desk in front of him. “Dude, you’ve been weird all week. Now your hiding mystery numbers in class? Who is she?”

“It’s none of your business.” He practically growled. The bell signalled for the end of class, everyone began packing up their belongings, including walker, his grip still sight on the piece of paper.

“Oh, so it is a she.” Walkers grin widened. “Is it Larissa. She’s been all over you.”

“no.”

“Then who?” Walker dangled the paper just out of reach. “Come on, man. You don’t get secret admirers. That’s not your thing.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. Hard. And that was enough. Walkers grin vanished. “Holy shit. She did.” Bucky reached for the note, but walker pulled it back again. “You’re actually into her? Like, for real?”

“Walker.” Bucky said, voice low and dangerous. “Give me the paper.”

Walker stared at him, something ugly flickering behind his eyes. “You’re seriously choosing her? Over- I don’t know- literally anyone else?”

Bucky didn’t blink, “Give. It. Back.” For a moment, walker looked like he might push further, like a light bulb went off, bucky saw him open the note and then hand it back.

But walker didn’t leave it alone. Of course he didn’t.

Bucky should have known the second walker walked away muttering under his breath that something was wrong. But he was too busy securing the note back in his pocket.

He didn’t notice walker lingering by the door. Didn’t notice him smirking. Not until it was too late.

Your phone buzzed during your walk back to your dorm. You didn’t expect anything. Probably Yelena sending you a meme of something stupid.

But when you glanced at the screen, your heart stopped.

Unknown Number: Hey. It’s bucky

Your breath caught, you slowed your steps, thumb hovering over the screen. You shouldn’t feel this much at one, relief, panic, hope, dread. But you did. Quickly adding his number as a contact, you typed back carefully.

You:  Hi. Didn’t think you’d text.

Your pulse thumped as you waited for a reply.

Bucky: Yeah well. Been thinking about you.

Your stomach flipped. That was too fast, too forward, too…not him. But maybe he was nervous, or maybe he was trying. Another message came through before you could finish the thought.

Bucky: You free tonight? Wanna come over?

You stopped walking,that wasn’t him, it couldn’t be…could it?

Your fingers trembled as you typed back.

You: Is everything okay? You don’t sound like yourself.

The reply came instantly.

Bucky: Lol what does that mean. I’m literally just asking you to hang out.

Your chest tightened, something was off, very off. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. But you phone buzzed again.

Bucky: Come on, don’t make this weird.

Shaking your head, you closed your phone shoving it away in your bag.

Across campus, bucky sat alone on a bench outside the gym, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your number. He hadn’t texted, he hadn’t worked up the courage. He hadn’t even opened a new message thread.

He didn’t know that walker had memorized your number, didn’t know walker had typed it into his phone the second he walked out of class. Didn’t know that walker was laughing with his friends right now, showing them the messages, he was sending you or that you were staring at your phone, heart sinking, wondering why bucky sounded like someone else.

Your phone buzzed again, you tried to ignore it, but you couldn’t.

Bucky: Wow. Didn’t think you’d be this uptight.

Your breath stuttered. That couldn’t be him surely. But you gave him your number and only him. Your fingers hovered over the screen, cold creeping up your spine.

You: I think you have the wrong idea.

Another buzz.

Bucky: Nah. I know exactly what I’m doing.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t reply, shoving your phone back into your pack and continued walking, heart pounding throat tight, you didn’t know what hurt more. The possibility that he meant it or the possibility that he didn’t care enough to notice how much it hurt you.

Across campus bucky was still sitting on the bench, staring at your number like it was a live wire. He still hadn’t texted. But then his phone buzzed, he pulled it out quickly, hoping It was you that somehow you got his number instead.

It wasn’t, it was walker. He sent just a photo, Bucky’s stomach dropped when he saw it, it was screenshot of a text thread, with your number at the top.

Walker’s messages, sent from walker’s phone, pretending to be him. Bucky’s blood ran cold, walker had memorized the number, walker had texted you. Another message from walker came through.

Walker: bro she’s so sensitive lol, didn’t take too much to freak her out.

Bucky’s vision tunnelled, his hands shook, he stood so fast the bench scraped against the pavement, he didn’t even text walker back. He didn’t trust himself to.

He just started walking, fast, furious and towards the dorms, toward anywhere he might find you, toward anywhere he could fix this before it shattered completely.

 You reached your dorm room with your chest tight and your eyes burning, Yelena looked up from her bed instantly. “What happened?” You shook your head, trying to breathe. “I think…I think bucky texted me.”  

Her eyebrows shot up. “And?”

You swallowed hard. “And he isn’t who I though he was.” Yelena sat up straighter. “What did he say?”

You handed her your phone. Her face darkened. “This isn’t him.”

“How do you know?” Your voice soft, your arm rubbing up and down your other one, trying to provide yourself with a small comfort. “Because bucky Barnes can barely look at you without short circuiting. He wouldn’t send this.”

You wanted to believe her, God you really wanted to. But the messages were right there, from him number. From him.

You sank onto your bed, burying your face in your hands. “I shouldn’t have given him my number.” Yelena opened her mouth to respond-

But a loud nock rattled the door. Both of your froze.

Yelena stood, crossing the room in three strides. She opened the door a crack.

And bucky was standing there. Breathless, wild eyes and terrified. “Is she here?” He asked. Voice raw. Yelena didn’t move. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” He said quickly. “I didn’t text her. Walker- he- he saw her number and I don’t know fuckin remember it or some shit. But he pretended to be me, I swear, I didn’t- I would never- “

Your heart stopped. You stood slowly, Bucky’s eyes snapped to you instantly. And the look on his face was devastated. “You think I said those things” He whispered.

You didn’t answer, couldn’t, just shrugged your shoulders slightly. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he couldn’t get enough air. “I didn’t. I swear to you. I didn’t text you. I didn’t say any of that. I wouldn’t never talk to you like that.”

He ran a hand though his hair, pacing once like he was unravelling. “I was going to text you. I was trying to figure out what to say, I didn’t want it to screw it up. And then he- “He stopped, looked at you, really looked.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and fragile. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to feel. But you knew he wasn’t lying.

And with that he disappeared into the hallway and out you’re building. You couldn’t move, Yelena closed the door and guided you back to your bed and laying with you.

Walker didn’t even make it across the parking lot before bucky found him, he didn’t shout his name, didn’t warn him just stepped directly into walkers path, forcing him to stop short.

Walker blinked, annoyed.  “Dude, what- “Bucky grabbed the front of his hoodie and slammed him back against the nearest brick wall. Walkers eyes went wide. “Woah what the hell- “

“You texted her.” Bucky’s voice was low, steady, terrifyingly calm. “Pretending to be me.” Walker scoffed, trying to play it off. “Relax. It was a joke.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “You think humiliating her is a joke.” His fist pulling tighter against walkers hoodie. “I didn’t humiliate her.” Walker said, rolling his eyes. “I just- pushed a little, wanted to see how far shed go.”

Bucky slammed his against the wall again. Walker winced. “Jesus, Barnes chill.”

“You don’t get to talk about her.” Bucky said, pulling his fist back and slamming it into johns jaw, voice dropping even lower. “You don’t get to look at her.” His fist pulled back again. “You don’t get to say her name.” Fist slamming against his cheek bone.

Walker coughed, “You’re seriously this pressed over some freak wh- “Bucky’s fist collided with his face again, this time walkers breath caught, blood pouring down his face from his nose.

Bucky leaned in, eyes burning. “You don’t know her and you sure as hell don’t get to mess with her because you’re bored.”

He let go abruptly, stepping back like walker disgusted him, Walker wiped his nose and straightened his hoodie. Trying to recover his ego. “You’re overreacting. She probably didn’t even care.” Bucky’s eyes flashed with rage. “She obviously thought it was me.” Walker paused. Bucky’s voice broke, just slightly. “She thought I said those things.” Walker opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

For once, he had no joke, no smirk, no comeback. Bucky shook his head, breath unsteady. “You don’t get to do that, not to her.” Walker scoffed weakly. “You’re acting like you’re in love with her or something.” Bucky didn’t answer, he didn’t deny it, he didn’t have to.

Walker’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re serious.”

Bucky stepped closer again, voice quiet but lethal. “If you ever text her again, or even go near her again, I won’t stop at a bloody nose.” He threatened. Walker swallowed hard. “Okay. Fine. Whatever I won’t.”

Bucky didn’t move. Walker lifted his hands in surrender. “I said I won’t. Chill.”

Bucky stared at him for a long moment, making sure the message landed. Then he turned and walked away, fists clenched, chest tight his heart pounding.

Bucky took the stairs two at a time, he could barely feel his legs, he just moved, fuelled by adrenaline and the sick twist in his stomach that hadn’t eased.

As he pushed open the door to his dorm, he froze. You were there.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, hands wrapped around a mug Sam must’ve shoved at you, Steve sat across from you, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, listening intently as you spoke. Your voice was quiet. Shaky. You were explaining something, Explaining him.

Sam noticed bucky first. His eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Look who finally decided to show up.” Steve followed next, expression softening with something like sympathy. “Buck.” You looked last, and the moment your eyes met his, bucky forgot how to breathe.

You weren’t angry, weren’t crying. But you looked hurt, guarded. Like you’d built a wall in the last hour and didn’t know if he was allowed past it.

Bucky stepped inside slowly, shutting the door behind himself. “You’re here.” You nodded once. “Sam let me in…I came to find you.”

Steve spoke “but when she got here you were out looking for walker.” Bucky’s jaw tightened at the mention of him, turning to meet your gaze “He won’t bother you. Not after- “He cut himself off, glancing down at his now bloody knuckles, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Not after I talked to him.”

You looked down at your mug about to speak when Sam shot up saying he was going to get food, Steve followed, clapping buckys shoulder as he passed. “Don’t screw this up.” The door closed behind them.

Leaving bucky and you alone. He took a hesitant step closer. “I didn’t text you.” You nodded. “I know.” He sighed with relief grateful that you believe him. “I’m so sorry.” He moved closer, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted. You didn’t.

“I would never talk to you like that.” He said, voice low, rough.” Not even on my worst day.”

You looked up at him then, eyes searching his face “Why didn’t you text me first.” He exhaled shakily. “Because I didn’t want to mess it up.” You blinked. “You didn’t.”

“I almost did.” He spoke. “I keep almost doing it, every time I get close to you, I feel like I’m gonna ruin something.” Your breath caught. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing before stopping in front of you again.

“I wanted to text you. I wanted to say something that didn’t sound stupid or desperate or- “

“Bucky” You murmured. He stopped talking instantly. You set the mug down and stood, facing him fully. “You could’ve said anything.” His throat bobbed “I didn’t know that.”

You took a small step closer “You do now.” He stared at you like he was memorizing every detail, like he was terrified to move. Like one wrong breath would shatter the moment.

Bucky didn’t move when you fingers brushed his, he barely breathed. It was like the whole room held still, waiting to see what you would do next. Then your eyes flicked down. His knuckles, split, swollen bruised in ugly shades of red and purple. The skin torn in places. Fresh enough that the blood hadn’t fully dried.

“Sit down.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Sit” You repeated, pointing to the couch. He hesitated, not because he didn’t want to listen, but because he didn’t know how to be taken care of. Not by you. Not by anyone. But he sat, slowly.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved it. “Where do you keep your first aid kit.” You spoke softly. He pointed, you quickly crossed the room to collect it. When you returned, bucky watched you with something raw in his eyes, something that made your stomach twist.

You knelt in front of him. He immediately tried to pull his hand away. “You don’t have to- “

“Give me your hand.” His breath stuttered. He gave it to you. Carefully, you took his injured hand in both of yours, his skin was warm, rough, trembling just slightly. You could feel the tension running through him.

You cleaned the cuts gently, your touch feather light, he hissed once when the antiseptic stung, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t even flinch, he just watched you, like he couldn’t look anywhere else. “You shouldn’t have fought him.” You murmured. “He deserved it.” Bucky said quietly.

“That doesn’t mean you should’ve done it.” He swallowed. “He hurt you.” Your hands paused, you looked up. His eyes were dark, stormy, full of something fierce and unspoken. “He made you think I said those things, he made you look at me like I was someone you needed to protect yourself from.”

Your chest tightened painfully. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“I know” He whispered. “And that’s what killed me.” You wrapped his knuckles gently, your fingers brushing his skin with every pass of the bandage. His breath hitched each time, not from the pain but the intimacy.

When you finished, you held his hand a moment longer than necessary. Neither of you move or spoke, the air between you felt electric and impossibly warm. Finally, bucky exhaled, voice barely audible “Thank you.”

You nodded, your thumb brushing the edge of the bandage. “Don’t make me do it again.”

He gave a soft, humourless laugh. “Ill try.” You looked up at him for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you. His hands in yours, his heartbeat loud in the quiet room, his eyes searching your face.

The moment hands between you like a held breath. “Don’t look at me like that.” You whisper, he swallows. “Like what.”

“Like I’m- “You stopped, because you didn’t know the word, or maybe you do and your too scared to say it. Bucky’s voice was barely audible “I can’t help it.” Your heart stutters. He lifts his uninjured hand slowly, giving you every change to pull away. His fingers hover near your cheek, trembling just slightly. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t, you lean into his touch instead. His breath catches, quiet and that’s all it takes, he leans forward, closing the space between you inch by agonising inch. His forehead brushes yours first, tentative, like he’s asking permission without words. You tilt your chin up and he kissed you.

Softly at first, barely there. Like he’s terrified of hurting you even now. But when you exhale against his mouth, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, something in him gives way.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, gentle but sure, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss just enough to let you feel everything he’s been holding back. You kiss him back and he makes a sound like he’s been drowning and finally surfaced. When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm on your lips.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He whispers. Your voice is barely steady. Then why didn’t you?” He lets out a shaky laugh. “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You lifted you hand, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You do.” His eyes closed, like the word physically hit him. Surging forward you caught his lips again.

His hands slide through you hair as he pulls you closer, putting his all into this kiss.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: AHHHHHH thank you all so much for the amount of love this series has gotten!!

Tag list for this series- @dpr-teag @mfstargirlsworld @avatarofthetimelords @vicmc624 @anddiesworld @chonkybonky @kileyking @nameless-ken

Even Satoru, his oldest friend, watched him walk away. Shoko, too, did not follow because she was far too aware of the consequences that came from choosing sides. Even Kento, who understood the weight of what Haibara’s passing had left behind—what a drain sorcery alone was—did not follow suit—leaving you as the only one foolish enough to do so.

You didn’t care, though. Not back then. Suguru was someone who you thought you loved, so the decision made sense at the time.

He called you strong for it, praising you for surviving a system that broke people down without apology and for deciding on your own to leave that awful system, even if, deeper down, you knew that it was never that simple. Maybe he knew it too, because if he had to admit it, there was always something about your insistent presence that unsettled him deeply: you were too precise about him—too keen to learn about what he liked or didn’t—too mindful to react in a certain way to win his approval. Even if, over time, you did manage to soften your affection into something manageable, that uneasy feeling never went away.

He ignored it back then, using your unwavering devotion to aid him, because charisma was how you built up a cult, and for that brief time, you were useful.

And because he never told you to leave, even when your crush spiralled off into full-blown limerence, you allowed yourself to have that sliver of hope. Not in the sense that he might one day return the love that you had invested in him, but because your presence was needed, even if it were just to help him feel better. If your role was to witness him and affirm his choices through your unwavering loyalty, then that was something you could both accept for the time being.

But then, when the cult began to grow and expand in his vision, you learned just how dangerous misplaced devotion could be on a grander scale. It changed him and gave him energy, transforming him from the once-sad man who you wanted to comfort into someone who never came down from the high of his own self-inflated mania. He spoke more freely, and he laughed, but it wasn’t as genuine as it was episodic. When the others joined him—likely just as fooled by what he orchestrated as sound knowledge when it was all elevated delusion—the burden started to lift from your shoulders. All of the trauma, his thoughts and ideals were spread out, which was only then when he began to feel closer to the Suguru you once knew, feeling familiar, just like he did when you were both young.

That was right about when you tried to start to put some distance between the two of you, because you realised that all he wanted was a sense of belonging. It was enough to snap you out of the idea that there was ever something there, but you quickly came to find out that Suguru did not like it when you drifted. It was as though he thrived on the confidence that came from your blind commitment, and he only ever started to see your potential once you both had time to grow together, even going as far as telling you that one night, you were different because you always understood him from the start, unlike the rest.

That was when you started to feel suffocated by his reciprocation, ironically enough.

It was either self-realisation that did it, or perhaps your mind was just desperate to detach and heal.

You wanted to become someone new who was unbound by symbiotic misery.

Perhaps that was when Suguru felt the shift, too, because there were moments when he started to look at you in the same way that you once looked at him, and when you recognised such a thing, it felt terrifying. You began to withdraw quietly, just as he once had, but even when the tables were flipped, he kept you controlled and steady.

He told you not be afraid as his thumbs would brush over your knuckles, his voice ever so calm and indulgent from the way he spoke. He’d promise you safety and love and everything else that you might have dreamed about having those many years ago, but only conditionally, because he liked you best when you were a certain way.

What might have been a dream come true to you when you were just seventeen sounded terrifying to you now, six years later, settling into you with a weight that was somehow difficult to resist. His promise was heavy and enveloping—warm but only from proximity—cold if you were to consider the clarity. Whatever Suguru saw when he looked into your eyes was already something that he understood too well, because he knew exactly how he could keep you broken.

Or, as he tried to convince himself—

Dependent?

Loyal?

His perfect follower.

When you gave in to it—more out of curiosity than anything else—it was right about when you understood the consequences of your own emotions.

You told yourself that this awful, dreadful feeling that you felt whenever you were with him was just what love was.

Even if you were starting to understand that it was never meant to be that at all.

~~~

When things had gotten complicated, resulting in Suguru’s death, you expected grief to tear you apart the very same way that it had done so years before—back when you first understood that there was no saving him—when he became someone you couldn’t stand. You braced yourself for the devastation, for the familiar ache to surface, only to find what took root in your chest was lighter, feeling almost… relieved instead.

You initially hated yourself for it, but you came to appreciate the sense of freedom that came with it, when you realised that there was no more weighing out every word before you had to say it, nor did you have to erase parts of yourself to become the person that he wanted you to be.

The funeral in itself was small, but you weren’t there for the bulk of it, unable to stand hearing all about how great of a person he was when he was still alive. It was only after everyone already left that you could bring yourself to visit him, and only after he had already been buried.

And when you approached his grave at long last, you found that you couldn’t even conjure a single tear because what overwhelmed you instead was a profound sensation of utter resentment. You found yourself laughing instead of crying, which the cover of the darkness masked quite well.

“Fuck you,” you confessed to the ground. “You stole my youth, you knew that? I built my whole life around you, Suguru. I followed you. I defended you at the cost of my dignity, all because I thought that loving you meant enduring you.”

Then, after a pause, you added almost bitterly—

“I should have stayed with the rest, because then maybe I might have been happier.”

You turned to leave after that note, but under the moonlight, basking in the cold light offered by the moon and the stars, you saw him.

An all too familiar figure that stood a short distance away, half lost to the darkness and the fog that rose from the grass—tall and familiar and jarring—though undeniably there.

You could make out blood dripping down his face as the distance between you both was gradually eaten away, with him approaching you closer, noticing a clean cut line that traced a red path across his forehead. His look was intense, as though it had belonged to Suguru indeed, but there was something older and less than familiar glinting in the depths of his eyes.

There was no mania—no spark—no egotistic spirit—

Just something… cold.

On pure instinct alone, you stumbled back from the sight. Your foot caught and tripped over the grave marker, which caused you to fall with a heavy thud that absorbed into the grass.

You could not help but stare ahead at the approaching figure with pure disbelief.

Suguru was supposed to be dead.

Was this a ghost? A cursed spirit? A vengeful spirit?

No, it didn’t look like it, or at the very least, whoever was before you seemed to be alive, albeit in the wrongest sense. It couldn’t have been the Suguru you once knew, because the look in his eyes wasn’t something you recognised.

Then, he extended his hand out to you, as if expecting you to take it.

Not even the new occupant of the body considered this to be unusual at first, especially since a freshly occupied vessel would typically act more on instinct at first, and this body was drawn to a person first and foremost. In Suguru’s form—Kenjaku merely followed the body’s impulse without resistance, because that’s what infiltration was most of the time—assumption from assimilation, and you were just a mere curiosity that had crossed his path. You clung to the vessel’s memories, not as something major, but as something recurring that refused to settle, which ignited his curiosity.

If it were resentment or regret, then he could make use of such an early revelation and get rid of you before you became a problem later on, or if it were something harmless, then perhaps your presence could be ignored altogether.

But then a sound escaped from your lips that gave him pause on the whole matter.

“N-no way,” you gasped, shaking your head. “Don’t—don’t do this to me—”

Kenjaku watched as your fingers curled into the soil, observing the refusal without provoking it further. He expected the fear, because yes, people were entitled to their reactions, especially when his own existence was invasive by nature, maybe even parasitic to an extent. Even when he had learned of his own technique, many, many years ago—centuries by now if not more—his response was quiet disbelief at first, which only then later spanned into morbid curiosity.

He expected awe, or devotion to Suguru’s comeback, or maybe even horror. Rejection, perhaps.

But you didn’t give him anything other than simple exhaustion; grief that tangled with something older and sharper.

Ah. He slowly started to understand.

Suguru Geto had not only destroyed whoever you once were, but he had eroded you in the process—and when your knees had buckled, and you pressed your mouth to stifle yet another unwelcome sound—his perception sharpened, forcing something long untouched to wake up within him.

“You’re dead, aren’t you?” you asked after a considerable amount of time had passed. “I saw your body—I watched you die—” you added, trying hard to continue, but your words kept breaking off.

Kenjaku hesitated, which in itself felt foreign to him. Typically, reactions like this passed through him without much thought. Grief, horror and denial were all very normal reactions to be expected, but even so, the way you had delivered your feelings on the matter stirred something else within him.

Then, you spoke again, your voice becoming almost demanding and accusatory.

“Why are you even here?”

Kenjaku considered the truth, but saw no urgency to reveal it to you, at least not so early on, when he wasn’t sure what your role would be in the upcoming future. He could, however, offer comfort in the way he perceived your predicament to be. He never had any issue in doing that, regardless of the body he took on.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he admitted carefully, mirroring Suguru’s old cadence even if the alignment felt off-key. “If that makes it any better.”

You swallowed hard. “Better?” you spat. “How is that better? That’s worse. I accepted his death. I made peace with him being gone—”

Kenjaku made no effort to interrupt you.

“And now I have to be haunted by his face anyway?”

He considered replying to you then, but he held himself back, for now, instead letting you go.

Somewhere inside him, he came to understand a new revelation, of perhaps loss that had been experienced indirectly.

A breathless laugh left his lips at the thought, and then, almost like an afterthought, he said to himself, “So… this is what you left behind.”

The first meet with you clung to his skin in a way that he could not shake off, bleeding into him in a way that irritated him. But then the annoyance drifted and gave way into curiosity, because even if he didn’t usually care for the baggage left behind from the lives he took over, there was just something… left unresolved here.

Inviting an idea that came to mind:

Of what it could mean to undo the damage that Suguru had inflicted.

(…Or how he could potentially deepen it.)

~~~

Come the next time he encountered you—it was completely accidental—finding you sitting all alone somewhere staring at an empty wall. It could almost be mistaken for meditation, but Kenjaku recognised it for the dissociation that it truly was.

He found himself pausing in the doorway and once again, found himself surprised by the way you left him hesitating. It was a strange feeling because he had never been careful with people. Human emotions were predictable, after all. Patterns within others were easy to recognise and manipulate, and even now, wearing Suguru’s face, was just another mask to him. He could move through the remnants of the life that man had left behind without much resistance, even if that bothered him, too.

Just earlier in the day, Manami had pressed herself into him; her voice low and alluring, her hands mapping over his vessel like the permission was freely assumed. He shrugged her off without comment, even if he could get away with indulging himself then. Something in the body’s reaction refused the interaction before he could properly digest it, but it seemed to be what he needed to do to convince her that he wasn’t the same Suguru she once knew.

And even aside from her, he found a certain sort of unease wash over him when the rest of his supposed found family seemed to accept him. He was expecting maybe hostility or suspicion, because that would have made sense.

Acceptance, however, did not.

Though once, long ago, he indulged in something similar.

When he played into the domestic bliss with a life by Jin Itadori’s side in Kaori’s body. It felt somehow right then to ease into her life. It felt natural to be loved by that man, and even to welcome and accept the child born out of that relationship, loving it without condition.

Even so, Kenjaku understood love to be inefficient and persistent, and therefore not for him in that sense alone.

But this was not that. Suguru’s followers did not need him, and yet, they followed after the vessel anyway because of what the body represented. Their devotion and their grief combined needed a shape, so that’s why he was accepted, even if he did not agree with the principle.

The only people who had demonstrated what he thought to be a normal reaction were maybe Suguru Geto’s two adopted daughters: Nanoko and Mimiko. They had confronted him a bit earlier ago, demanding that he return their father’s body. He got it, because there was something clean about their anger, direct in a way that he could almost; they just wanted the person they loved more than anything in the world to rest.

However, Suguru was still needed. Rest was not a right in Kenjaku’s eyes, but a condition that could be met only after the vessel’s purpose had been exhausted. He had been honest enough with them both about that much, but they did not forgive him, not that he expected them to.

Then there was you.

Someone who seemed to be the closest to Suguru, and yet, withdrew themselves so completely from everyone else. Even Manami—the woman from before—who he deduced to be sharper than he let on, tried to coax a reaction from you. Kenjaku observed this from a distance, watching her as she spoke far too brightly, the way her body trembled betraying the nerves that addled her mind. Even she was concerned about you.

But of course, you gave her nothing.

Such a brief interaction led Kenjaku to wonder just what sort of relationship you must have had with her back when Suguru was still alive, or rather, why his rejection had redirected her attention to you.

He tried hard to search the borrowed memories for answers, but Suguru’s vessel—as stubborn as ever—resisted.

Anything that involved you had turned up as messy; affection that existed, yes, but it was so deeply muddled with irritation that the lines were messy. There was fondness, but only barely, as the desire to control pushed right past it. No such clear narrative emerged beyond what were mere impressions. He could grasp that you were always a step behind him and that your voice offered praise and agreement when it shouldn’t have, which was an observation that bothered him when he realised it, and yet—

Seeing you now had unsettled something much deeper. There was something obscene about devastation this quiet; about a life that had been reduced to stillness after having revolved so closely around a man who didn’t even make use of what he had around him.

If anything, you were wasted potential: you could have been sculpted into being someone useful, using your feelings to guide you to wherever Suguru needed you to go, but that wasn’t something he ever invested in.

Kenjaku found himself taking a step inside, expecting you to flinch, but you didn’t as much as look up.

That alone should have been enough. He could leave. He could discard any further engagement. The choice in itself already felt clinical and right, because the observation had been concluded. Whatever you were—or rather, whatever Suguru had embedded within you—no longer warranted continued interest.

It was then that you spoke, however, unintentionally reeling him back in.

“Are you a ghost?” you called out, your voice soft but broken.

Kenjaku shook his head. “No,” he replied, considering his next words carefully.

As much as he wanted to move on, he wanted to understand this part of Suguru that he intentionally kept locked away from him.

“I’m an… inconvenience,” he continued, “both tend to linger.”

You scoffed at his words. “But inconveniences can be fixed. They can go away when they’re no longer relevant. I… I let Suguru leave my mind when he died. I made room for that.”

Silence followed, and then quietly—

You looked at him, but you didn’t say anything else.

The sensation felt sharp and misplaced, and Kenjaku tried to dismiss it immediately, only to fail in doing so. The spitefulness of it all lingered deep somewhere in the vessel’s chest in a way that made his head hurt.

That was already rare.

He should have turned around and left and not continued to engage in whatever this was any further, but Suguru was already a complicated body to inhabit. He ended up closing the distance between you and where he stood, unaware as to why he was even humouring himself, let alone you, when you wanted nothing more to do with his face.

“I understand,” he allowed himself to agree, “but I am not the man who harmed you, so therefore I won’t repeat his mistakes, as long as you do not interfere. That’s what I’m after,” he explained, adding the last part as his cover.

You laughed. “Why even warn me at all? I can already tell that you’re not him. Suguru wouldn’t have even spoken to me first about anything at all. He acted first and then dealt with the consequences later. You’re delusional if you think you’re alike.”

Kenjaku smiled softly at that. “Funny,” he said, “because you’re the only person I’m being this way around, because his body is uneasy around you, as if it remembers something left unresolved.”

Something lit up in your eyes.

“Good,” you spat. “I hope that he doesn’t rest in peace.”

Kenjaku did not reply to you right away, thinking that the sentiment did not disgust him. If anything, it pleased him in a way that felt oddly refreshing: hatred that refused to settle into begrudging nostalgia as it often did with the dead—grief that sharpened rather than dulled—you were not succumbing to anything mournful, which was both amusing to him, as well as something that he could respect.

He studied you again, more carefully that time, thinking that—deciding, even—that yes, you could be someone worth monitoring.

However, after you got what you needed off your chest, you grew distant after that.

Less present overall—less reachable—as though you were finally allowing yourself to move on.

Kenjaku tried to not be unsettled by the gap that this left behind, especially when it didn’t seem to be coming from Suguru’s unease, but his own. He couldn’t afford to be set back any further, after all: there were plans to finalise, timelines to align and people to observe that were far greater in importance than someone who was grappling with unresolved feelings. The acquisition of the prison realm loomed over him, let alone its usage, because that tool already required just as much patience as it did precision.

Satoru Gojo was the axis around everything that would turn, and Kenjaku had never been careless with the inevitability of what he had otherwise been planning for centuries: his plans would conclude, and he would see the world succumb to a curiosity that had long haunted his mind, and only then could he rest easy. It was about time.

Though in the distance that you had created, he ended up feeling somehow suffocated, as though he were letting something dire slip from his hands, like he was making a mistake in letting someone intriguing go when he shouldn’t.

He was not interested in anything else—not in the way Manami hovered, even now, persistent and familiar in a way that assumed permanence—nor with the girls who lingered in the background: it was all just noise to him. Everyone who clung to Suguru pressed too close to him, leaving him unable to think, let alone do anything else.

That much couldn’t have been why he felt this way, though.

Then, one day, the grounds emptied which allowed him to be able to breathe again.

You seemed to be the only person that remained, which was something that he found both unsettling, as well as somehow strangely comforting. You were sitting right at the entrance with a packed bag at your feet, perhaps ready to leave this broken place for good.

When Kenjaku approached you then, you didn’t stiffen that time, but you didn’t make an effort to acknowledge him either.

He looked around the empty space, his mind briefly alight with what could have cleared the area. He considered that there might have been a remembrance or a memorial happening, but he wasn’t too sure. Whatever had drained the vicinity of the overwhelming company was something he ultimately felt thankful for, because now he could explore his unwelcome feelings in peace and potentially resolve them.

Finally, you said something, more to give him context than anything else. “It’s his birthday,” you revealed bitterly. “So… happy birthday,” you added, looking right through him.

Kenjaku nodded just once.

He felt almost relieved that no one had attempted to include him in that farce, not only because he didn’t care for what went on beyond the vessel he stole, but because birthdays were a long and meaningless concept by now. No matter what age he’d come to celebrate wouldn’t have any weight anymore, because his original body had long turned to dust by now.

“He was the first person to ever speak to me,” you said suddenly.

Kenjaku blinked, but listened, finding that maybe there would be answers to what you had to say.

“When I first joined Jujutsu High, I was expecting to—maybe hoping to—stay somewhere in the background, but…” you started, seemingly admitting something, even if it didn’t feel directly aimed at him. Kenjaku listened anyway. “Satoru scared the hell out of me, and probably everyone else. He was just… so in my face and I called it then, that I was definitely going to get bullied, but then Suguru assured me that Satoru was just like that… and… everyone, including him, was happy to get to know me, which was how it started.”

Kenjaku nodded once, seeming to finally understand.

“I just had such low self esteem that one kind face was all it took for me to look at him in a different way.”

You sighed then pressed on.

“He let me do this, too,” you scoffed under your breath. “I hate him for allowing it to happen for so long. For letting me follow… but… more than anything, I hate that I wasted so much time on something that wasn’t even real. That I’m not even telling him this right now, but some stranger who just happens to be wearing his face.”

Kenjaku listened, and he didn’t interrupt nor did he interject to correct you. He didn’t offer any comfort, and instead, catalogued internally, making up his mind about you from the cadence of your voice to the way your grief resolved into something lucid.

For that brief moment, you ended up fascinating him, and he found himself drawn to your vulnerability, or no, maybe it was something that, for once, went deeper than that.

He leaned closer without meaning to, and you ended up flinching that time.

Kenjaku paused but was quick to remedy himself. “Just a reflex. I can’t always keep this thing in control.”

You frowned at him. “That doesn’t make any sense. Suguru never cared about me like that. There’s nothing to react to—”

“I suppose not,” Kenjaku considered. “Maybe it was just curiosity then from my end then, but nothing more.”

Something in your body went rigid at his personal admission, however, and you ended up pushing him back, placing your hand firmly against his shoulder to will him apart—not violently—rather decisively, followed with a firm and heavy shake from your head.

“No, no way,” you said. “Don’t you dare. I don’t want whatever you are—I don’t want to be studied. Shit. I don’t even want to be remembered. All I want to do is leave this place and start over and—”

You took a deep breath, grabbing your bag as you started in the opposite direction, continuing to reject him as you walked. For a while, he watched you go, only to have yet another unwelcome thought surface in his mind: realistically, letting you go should have been ideal, he always—happily even—let go of things from the second they stopped being useful, and yet—the way you were determined—the way you were keen on leaving this place behind before he had the chance to potentially sculpt you into a better follower—someone he could truly control, had him react instinctively.

A cold, almost cruel awareness snapped into place that forced him to follow after you slowly, keen on confronting a thought that he didn’t want to bury away for once, especially not when he found someone as interesting as they were malleable.

For that reason, you did not have the right to reject his curiosity, for if you were capable of surviving someone who ripped out your very soul and thrive after, then he could devastate you twice as hard if he needed to, knowing that you could handle it.

“You don’t need to run from me – I’m not pursuing you as much as I am correcting a mistake,” he called out calmly, even if his tone felt tight.

You paused as his words hit you, feeling panic flaring up from within, so sharp and familiar, and just as he had you momentarily frozen in place, he ended up pulling you back in, deciding for once to listen to what the vessel commanded as it mixed in with his own thoughts, feeling as you went rigid, then, as you reluctantly softened.

All of the memories you tried so hard to tear yourself away from came flooding back, and your breath loosened, your shoulders sagged—any residual tension bled away from your body and didn’t return—realising that he didn’t smell like Suguru, despite your nose pressing right against his clothes.

That did it for you.

Maybe you could afford to indulge in facing the ghost of your past.

For the while that it was not him.

~~~

Time had passed by strangely after that.

All of the days blurred together into weeks and then into what felt like months, and for the most part, you ended up staying near him without ever quite being with him, as he’d allow you to hover nearby, never quite pushing you away.

It was surely messy, though, to navigate grief in that way. You learned how to process your emotions slowly as you started to grasp the idea of routine, as well as what it meant to break yourself out of the mundane. Kenjaku, in the process, dismantled the lies that Suguru had fed you without ever calling them that, not out of goodwill, but out of curiosity: he let you rage without consequence and withdraw whenever you pleased, teaching you indirectly what it was like to exist without needing for something to always be there.

Or someone.

A shame, because he liked the attention.

Even if he did call it nothing more than data collection and observation, refusing to acknowledge the truth of what he felt, even though his interactions were clear as to what they truly were.

Then, at some point, you were ready to admit something.

He steeled himself for it, thinking that it was a confession. He’d already fantasised about all of the ways to reject the notion or how to turn it into something useful.

“I think I needed someone like this,” you started.

Kenjaku waited for the punchline.

“It’s kind of like… I feel like I’ve grown,” you continued. “Like you were the father I probably always needed.”

He froze.

Father?

Father?

His breath hitched, albeit not audibly, nor did his heart break; it ceased altogether. The concept itself locked into his chest as his eyes gradually widened, and they remained fixed on you as you spoke, continuing to torment him further.

“I guess it sounds silly since you’re wearing his face, but someone guiding me through this bullshit back then might have kept me on the right track,” you added, seeming almost relieved.

He kept his voice steady as he replied to you, although he couldn’t quite hide the strain entirely. “Of course,” he said. “I suppose that… I have been… that way.”

Though just as he said those words, something within him snapped and refused to settle. The lack of confession that he was expecting, the misplaced sentiment, the control he had but not in the way he planned for it—forced him to break through with an understanding of his own—born from a feeling that he did not know he could still feel.

“But,” he caught himself before you allowed yourself to retreat, “I don’t see you the way you see me,” he admitted, not quite saying it outright, but being clear enough that this wasn’t the vessel speaking.

You tried to refuse him again. “Please don’t—“

He continued regardless, “If we’re both parasites in our nature—”

You stopped him. “I’m not a parasite—”

“Oh?” Kenjaku mused. “You latched yourself to a man who could not accept devotion if it came without conditions,” he was quick to correct you. “Limerence, given enough time, becomes obsession and that overtime becomes dependence, which is parasitic by definition.”

You opened your mouth to argue back, but found yourself unable to.

“I would know, because I too, am a parasite,” he admitted with a breathless laugh. “I attach myself to people to further my ends, becoming someone else after someone else, to the point where I don’t even remember what my original self must have been like,” he said, his words resonating with you just a little, “so parasite to parasite, why not for once focus on something real?”

You hesitated at first, but tried to lean into him to test the feeling. In a way, you did not want Suguru to win this either, realising that you could punish him by loving him as someone who he never was.

He allowed it, but the body reacted before he could stop it—the fragments of who Suguru was, or must have felt back then, bleeding through and tightening the hold around you almost instinctively. The response was familiar and warm, but Kenjaku disliked the idea that even now, the hug felt more as though it belonged to Suguru, not him, because whatever this was—from the confession to the gesture it ended up in—was not something meant for someone that you had indeed, buried away in your mind.

Still, he allowed Suguru’s body to feel it, and in doing so, he could rob him of it, because it was only an afterthought and not something that Suguru could ever experience directly.

And whatever else came next, he would continue to steal from him, reminding the vessel—or the lingering soul that remained—of what it could have had, only for the affection you’d give back not to be directed towards him, but the parasite inside.

Kenjaku allowed this for the time being, for what was a life lived, he thought, if he never stopped to hang onto the things that felt right?

He had spent a millennium shaping the futures of others.

In different bodies, pretending all this time to be someone else for the sake of something greater—

So why not now, make a few memories of his own?

the answer (a bit of a cop out) is both. i think at first they're INCREDIBLY suspicious of each other. they run through all of the tests and then some extra ones, and at one point, sam seriously considers taking this dean to get DNA tested, because he's spent so long so catatonic from grief that having dean again is too good to be true.

dean assumes he isn't quite dead, but he's somewhere else, like weirdo-purgatory. he even thinks this might be a djinn dream, but his efforts to "get out" are haphazard at best. he eventually reaches the conclusion, while watching this other sam sort through books in the library with an exhausted, listless air, that he's okay to die here. he'll tell sam when he gets to heaven that it was unavoidable, that he tried really hard to get out, but he was outmatched. sam'll believe him. probably. at the very least, sam won't blame him for too long.

sam tries very hard at first to get him back, but when dean clarifies that there is no sam for him to go back to, sam freezes. he doesn't say, "i'm sorry," or any other useless platitudes, just says, "oh god" on a long breath because he knows the soul-crushing despair behind those words.

dean tries going to his room in the bunker to sleep, but sam gets all wide-eyed and snarly and shoves dean way from the door. he looks a little embarrassed after the fact, but he asks that dean not go in that room. the room is locked, and dean wonders what he's keeping in there. did he get rid of all dean's stuff immediately? is he keeping dean's dead body in there? did he turn it into a BDSM chamber?

(eventually, dean'll find out that sam locked that room so he could keep himself out and open it on special occasions, meting out dean's scent and presence like hits of a dwindling drug supply.)

dean sleeps in one of the other rooms for a few days. for a week. for a month. he and sam are pulled together like magnets. in tighter and tighter orbits as the gravity between them get stronger. the bunker is almost exactly the same, minus a few artifacts they'd brought back from hunts, and a few of dean's harder-won rare DVDs.

sam'll wake up one day and realize he hasn't looked for a way to send dean back in weeks. he feels so guilty with it, but dean doesn't ask about it. he doesn't help, either. just sits in the library with his weapons and watches sam like he's addicted to it.

they sit up together and drink in the library almost nightly, and dean asks sam, a couple of drinks in, if they had that one ghoul case in delaware. they're in two overstuffed chairs off to the side, a dark little corner that smells like old books and home. sam huffs a laugh, shaking his head. they talk about the past, some of it shared, some of it not, and dean finally asks, leaning in a bit too close,

"so am i close? to your dean? do i look like 'im?"

sam just blinks at him for long, long moments, lashes trembling as his mouth thins into a hard line. he nods, and a tear flicks onto his cheek, which he wipes away quickly.

"yeah, man." he clears his throat. "you look exactly like him."

he raises a hand between them, and hesitates. something on dean's face must encourage him to reach back out, because he continues the movement, placing a heavy, cool thumb just to the left of dean's left eye.

"you even have his crow's feet, right here. from smiling." his voice gets tight, strained. "when you smile, sometimes i forget--"

and his throat completely closes, a bark of a sob that sounds like it hurts punching out of his throat. his whiskey sloshes, and dean grabs the glass out of his hand, putting it on the end table and moving his glass to join it. he coos, pulling sam into an aborted half-hug, risen partially out of his chair.

sam collapses forward into him, and dean moves completely out of his chair into the space between them, kneeling on the floor in front of sam and pulling his hunched-over form into a hug. he pets through sam's hair like he's done since sam was a baby and barely had anything to pet, a strong hand threading through his hair.

"shh, sammy, baby," he murmurs, his own voice uncomfortably shaky. he doesn't say 'it's okay,' because it isn't. sam sobs, sobs, sobs like the world is ending, hands in tight fists in dean's flannel between his shoulder blades, face tucked into his neck.

"how are we s'pposed to live like this?" sam begs. "how could they ask us to live like this?" and dean can't give him an answer. he has no idea. he was never built to live without sam, and the nine months without him has been mostly a liquor-fuelled blur of bad decisions.

dean pulls his face back a little, and sam is all ruddy-cheeked little brother, deep worry lines in his face and eyes a devastating hazel. dean thumbs at the little mark on his left cheek, and can't help himself from pressing a kiss to it.

his sam had the exact same mark, and the one underneath his eyebrow, and the one on his chin, and dean is finding himself moving silently to each one, a little kiss pressed to each mark that makes him sam, even if he's not dean's. he says "i'm sorry," after each one, a barely audible murmur. he's not quite sure what he's apologizing for--the kisses, the situation, his loss?

but just as dean is about to press his lips to the mark underneath sam's chin, tilting his face up to access it, sam intercepts him with his lips. he slams their faces together, desperate little kisses smeared on dean's bottom lip, his top lip, the corners of his mouth.

"were you two--" sam asks, a plea, and dean nods wildly, a sob finally whining out behind his teeth because yes, yes, yes.

dean wonders, distantly, as sam helps him rise, if all versions of themselves are like this. if a million sams and deans exist in the notches underneath each other's ribs. if a million sams and deans fought against these feelings and lost, or if somewhere out there, there's a pair of them that love each other normally.

dean can only be grateful, as they stumble blindly through the bunker and land on sam's bed in a sobbing, wet heap, that he found a sam that loved his dean wrong, too.

dean takes sam apart that night, slow and sobbing and aching. he can barely stay hard, only the feeling of sam's familiar hands where dean thought he'd never feel anyone again keeping him present. dean tries to pull out but sam stops him, begging him to stay inside of him after they're finished, and dean obliges, falling asleep behind sam with their bodies entwined.

dean wakes up to sam nudging at his hole with wet fingers, and he throws his head back and nods, whimpering. sam fucks him like he has something to prove, like he's trying to crawl inside dean dick first, like he's never needing anything in his life more.

they spend the next few days in bed, barely bothering to eat or drink or sleep. guilt eats them both alive, deep in the furrowed lines of sam's brow, in the tight set of dean's mouth, in the greedy way their hands rove familiar-unfamiliar skin. when he's sucking sam's dick, sam'll sob dean dean dean dean and dean isn't sure which one of them he's talking to. when sam is thrusting deeply into him, dean'll close his eyes and think, i'm sorry sammy, i'm sorry, i'm sorry, because even though it's not infidelity--sam is dead, sam has been dead for almost a year now--it feels like it.

dean had been preparing himself to die a slow cirrhotic death in nowhere, indiana, and now he has sam-but-not-sam, and feels so guilty it makes him nauseous.

they come to their own new dynamic. it's not like being with their own sam and dean--nothing could be. but it feels close.

it's definitely love--they are A Sam and A Dean, after all--but it's constantly tinged with a little sadness. dean asks sam if he dies here, he'll go to his own heaven, and be with his own sam. sam chokes up about it, and dean can hear him praying to jack off and on when he thinks dean somewhere else, to let dean go back to his own sam when it's his time, that he deserves it.

it's sam-and-dean on loan. they're just borrowing each other for a while, they agree. they take good care of each other so that way when they finally reunite with each other, they're in good shape. sam slowly coaxes dean down from his liver-melting amount of alcohol, and dean slowly coaxes sam into more than two hours of sleep a night. they move out of the bunker and into an above-ground house. it's easier to laugh and smile and forget for a few minutes at a time when they're not constantly surrounded by ghosts.

they get jobs doing whatever, anything to get them out of the house. they visit each other on lunch breaks and go get dinner every night and fall asleep practically in each other's skin.

sam almost gets in a car accident one night coming home from work and dean goes complete shut-down, having a panic attack he won't name as such for over an hour, clutching at sam like sam'll disappear. they both quit their jobs and don't leave the house for a few months.

they get back out, eventually, but drive together everywhere, so if something kills one of them, it'll kill both of them.

time passes. a lot of time.

and eventually, when dean is old and cranky and grumpy and so, so tired, sam kisses dean on the mouth one last time, and says, "it has been such an honor to grow old with you. tell sam i said hey, alright? i love you," and dean nods and smiles and wakes up in a sun-warm bed with sam--his sam--who just smiles and pulls him closer and closer and closer.

and dean's finally, finally home.

~~~

anywayyyyy. i hope i did your prompt justice, anon! thank you so much for the ask. :) mwah~!